Three weeks passed in relative peace. Summer reached its peak in Jackson, gardens flourishing under careful tending, hunting parties returning with consistent success. For once, the community's concerns centered on ordinary matters—preserving the season's abundance for the coming winter, repairing buildings damaged during spring storms, training the newest residents in essential survival skills.
For Arthur and Ellie, these weeks brought a settling into their new relationship. Each night, they gravitated toward each other without discussion, sometimes at Ellie's cabin, sometimes at Joel's house where Arthur had claimed a room of his own. Their connection deepened through shared patrols, quiet evenings with Joel, and moments stolen between responsibilities—a relationship building itself naturally into the fabric of Jackson's daily rhythms.
On this particular morning, Arthur woke alone in Ellie's cabin, the first light of dawn filtering through worn curtains. He reached instinctively for her before registering the sounds of retching coming from the small attached bathroom—Ellie's third consecutive morning of illness.
"Ellie?" he called, concern overriding any attempt at giving her privacy.
"I'm fine," came her automatic response, followed immediately by more retching.
Arthur rose, crossing to the bathroom door. "That doesn't sound fine."
When no answer followed except harsh breathing, he pushed the door open gently. Ellie knelt on the cold floor, hair clinging damply to her forehead, complexion ashen in the dim light. She glared up at him with reflexive defiance despite her obvious misery.
"Just something I ate," she insisted weakly. "I told you that stew at Tommy's tasted off."
Arthur dampened a cloth in the basin, kneeling beside her to offer it. "You said that yesterday. And the day before."
Ellie pressed the cool cloth to her face, momentarily closing her eyes. When she opened them again, something vulnerable had replaced her usual defiance. "It'll pass. Everything passes eventually."
The fatalism in her tone concerned Arthur more than the physical symptoms. Ellie rarely acknowledged weakness, typically pushing through discomfort with stubborn determination. This momentary surrender suggested something beyond ordinary illness.
"Let's get Doc Matthews to check you out," he suggested, helping her to her feet when the nausea seemed to recede temporarily.
"No," Ellie responded immediately, her stubbornness reasserting itself. "I've got patrol with Dina in an hour. Can't miss another one."
Arthur studied her face, torn between respecting her autonomy and pressing the issue. "At least tell Dina how you're feeling. If it gets worse, come back early."
"Fine," Ellie agreed, though her tone suggested compliance was unlikely. She moved to the sink, splashing water on her face and rinsing her mouth. When she straightened, their eyes met in the small mirror. "Stop looking at me like I'm dying. It's just a stomach bug."
Arthur raised his hands in surrender, though concern remained evident in his expression. "Just be careful out there."
Her features softened slightly. "I'm always careful."
The familiar exchange—his concern, her confident reassurance—had become their ritual before separating for daily duties. Arthur pulled her gently against him, pressing a kiss to her temple before releasing her to prepare for patrol.
As they parted ways outside the cabin, Arthur heading toward the armory for his own assignments while Ellie moved toward the stables to meet Dina, he couldn't shake a sense of unease. Something felt off-balance, though he couldn't identify what specifically triggered the feeling.
"She'll be fine," Joel's voice came from nearby, the older man apparently reading Arthur's expression as he watched Ellie walk away. "Probably just one of those summer bugs going around."
Arthur nodded, accepting both the practical explanation and the subtle reminder that worry wouldn't change anything. "Probably."
Joel studied his son with the perceptiveness that occasionally emerged from beneath his typically stoic exterior. "Tommy and Jesse are heading out this morning too. Long-range reconnaissance to check those reports about WLF movement near the eastern ridge."
The casual mention of WLF activity—their first confirmed sighting since the infected horde had decimated their forward outpost—sharpened Arthur's attention immediately. "Reliable reports?"
"Trader passing through mentioned increased activity," Joel replied, his tone deliberately measured. "Could be nothing. Could be something. Tommy wanted to check it out."
"Two-person team for potential WLF contact seems light," Arthur observed, tactical assessment automatic despite months of relative peace.
Joel shrugged. "Reconnaissance only. If they spot anything significant, they'll report back before engaging." His eyes held Arthur's pointedly. "Tommy knows the protocols."
The statement carried multiple layers—reassurance about Tommy's experience, reminder of Jackson's established procedures, subtle acknowledgment of Arthur's concern. After months of integration into the community, Arthur had learned to read these nuances in Joel's typically minimal communication.
"I'm scheduled for the western perimeter today," Arthur said, adjusting mentally to this new information. "If anything comes in from Tommy's team, I can redirect."
Joel nodded, apparently satisfied with this response. "They'll check in by radio every three hours. Standard procedure."
With that, they separated, each to their assigned duties—the daily rhythm of Jackson continuing despite new potential threats on the horizon. Arthur found himself glancing toward the eastern gate as he passed, catching a glimpse of Tommy and Jesse preparing their horses for departure, their expressions serious but not alarmed.
Routine, Arthur reminded himself. Reconnaissance was standard procedure, part of how Jackson had survived this long—constant vigilance without unnecessary panic. Still, the mention of WLF activity after months of silence stirred old instincts, sharpening his awareness as he took up his position on the western wall.
By mid-afternoon, Arthur had completed his perimeter check and joined a team repairing sections of the outer fence. The physical labor provided welcome distraction from lingering concerns about both Ellie's health and Tommy's reconnaissance mission. Three radio check-ins had come through as scheduled, each reporting no unusual activity—just standard surveillance of territory Jackson considered within its security zone.
Movement at the eastern gate caught his attention—Dina returning from patrol, alone. Arthur set down his tools, making his way across the compound with measured steps that deliberately avoided appearing hurried. Concern sharpened when he registered Dina's tight expression, the tension evident in her posture despite her attempt at casual demeanor.
"Where's Ellie?" he asked without preamble when they met near the stables.
Dina sighed, resignation replacing her attempt at nonchalance. "Doc Matthews. She nearly passed out during patrol. Insisted it was nothing, but I wasn't taking chances."
Arthur's jaw tightened, worry mingling with frustration at Ellie's characteristic stubbornness. "She's been sick for days. Wouldn't listen when I suggested getting checked."
"That sounds like Ellie," Dina agreed, her expression softening slightly. "She did mention feeling off before we left, but you know how she is—admitting weakness isn't exactly her strong suit."
"Thanks for making her go to Doc," Arthur said sincerely. "She listens to you."
Dina snorted. "She doesn't listen to anyone. I just threatened to tell Joel if she didn't go voluntarily." Her eyes met his directly. "But she might listen to you more than you realize. At least, more than she ever has to anyone else."
The observation hung between them, acknowledged but not examined further. Their relationship had evolved into something approaching friendship since the hunting expedition, mutual concern for Ellie creating common ground that transcended their initial wariness of each other.
"I should go check on her," Arthur decided.
Dina nodded, hesitating before adding, "Don't tell her I told you, but... she threw up twice more during patrol. Before the near-fainting. Whatever this is, it's not just a stomach bug."
The additional information heightened Arthur's concern, hastening his steps toward the clinic. Jackson's medical facility was modest by pre-outbreak standards but impressive for a survivor settlement—a converted house with examination rooms, basic surgical capabilities, and a small pharmacy stocked through scavenging and trade.
Arthur found Ellie sitting on an examination table, her expression thunderous as Doc Matthews noted something on a clipboard. She looked up when Arthur entered, surprise momentarily replacing annoyance before both emotions were subsumed by something more complex—apprehension, perhaps, or uncertainty he couldn't quite identify.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, though the question lacked her usual edge.
"Dina mentioned you weren't feeling well," Arthur replied, deliberately understating to avoid triggering her defenses. "Thought I'd check in."
Doc Matthews glanced between them, professional discretion warring visibly with medical practicality. "Actually, your timing's good," he said finally, addressing Arthur. "Just finished the examination. Ellie might want to discuss the results with you."
Ellie's face paled further, if that was possible. "Doc—"
"Your choice," Matthews assured her, patting her shoulder with unexpected gentleness before heading toward the door. "I'll give you two a minute. Come find me when you're ready to talk options."
As the door closed behind him, silence filled the small examination room. Arthur moved closer to Ellie, concern mounting at her uncharacteristic stillness, the way she seemed unable to meet his eyes directly.
"What did he find?" Arthur asked quietly when the silence stretched too long. "Is it serious?"
A sound escaped Ellie—not quite a laugh, too brittle for humor. "Depends on your definition of serious."
"Ellie," Arthur said, more firmly this time. "What is it?"
She finally looked up, her expression a complex mixture of vulnerability, defiance, and something else he couldn't immediately identify. "I'm pregnant."
The words hung in the air between them, simple yet world-altering. Arthur felt as if the floor had shifted beneath his feet, reality rearranging itself around this new, unexpected fact.
"You're sure?" he managed finally, mind struggling to process the implications.
"Doc's sure," Ellie confirmed, her hands twisting together in her lap. "About three weeks along, he thinks. Which means..."
"The celebration," Arthur completed the thought, memories of that night—Tommy's moonshine, dancing under stars, returning to Ellie's cabin—suddenly cast in new light. "The night after the hunt."
Ellie nodded, watching his face with unusual caution, as if trying to read his reaction through the shock. "I didn't think... I mean, one night without being careful. What are the odds?"
"Higher than we thought, apparently," Arthur replied, the automatic response masking his tumultuous thoughts.
A child. His child. Their child. The concept seemed simultaneously impossible and inevitable—a natural progression neither had anticipated but perhaps should have. In their world, life asserted itself with stubborn persistence despite all logic suggesting it shouldn't.
"Say something real," Ellie requested, her voice smaller than he'd ever heard it. "Not just... observations."
Arthur moved forward then, closing the distance between them. His hands came up to frame her face with gentle certainty, eyes meeting hers directly. "I'm here," he said simply. "Whatever you decide, whatever you need. I'm here."
The statement contained multitudes—acknowledgment that the choice was ultimately hers, promise that he wouldn't disappear regardless of that choice, commitment beyond what either had verbalized during their weeks together. Ellie's eyes searched his, finding whatever reassurance she needed in his steady gaze.
"I don't know what I want to do," she admitted, vulnerability breaking through her usual defenses. "I never thought... never planned..."
"We don't have to decide everything this minute," Arthur assured her, thumbs gently stroking her cheekbones. "We have time to think. To talk."
Ellie nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders at this reprieve from immediate decisions. She leaned forward, forehead resting against his chest as his arms came around her—a moment of shared shock gradually transforming into something approaching acceptance.
Their quiet connection was interrupted by commotion outside—shouting, running footsteps, the unmistakable sounds of alarm spreading through the settlement. Arthur tensed immediately, protective instincts heightened by Ellie's newly vulnerable state.
"Stay here," he instructed, moving toward the door.
"Like hell," Ellie countered, sliding off the examination table to follow him. Some things never changed, pregnancy notwithstanding.
They emerged from the clinic into organized chaos—residents moving with purpose toward defensive positions, Maria shouting orders from the central yard. Joel spotted them immediately, breaking away from a conversation with sentries to approach with rapid strides.
"What's happening?" Arthur demanded, reading serious concern in his father's expression.
"Horse approached the eastern gate," Joel replied grimly. "Single rider, badly injured. It's Tommy."
Ice formed in Arthur's veins. "Jesse?"
Joel's expression darkened further. "Not with him. Tommy's barely conscious, but what he managed to say before they took him to surgery..." He hesitated, glancing at Ellie before continuing. "WLF ambush. Professional hit, not random encounter. Tommy took a shotgun blast to the leg, managed to mount up during the chaos."
"And Jesse?" Ellie pressed, her face pale but composed despite the clinic's revelation minutes earlier.
Joel met her eyes directly, never one to soften harsh realities. "Tommy says he took a shot to the head. Clean, professional. No chance."
The information landed like physical blows. Jesse—steady, reliable, kind-hearted Jesse who had welcomed Arthur despite initial suspicions, who had supported Ellie through countless patrols, who had become an integral part of Jackson's next generation of leadership—gone in an instant. And Tommy grievously wounded, his survival uncertain.
"Dina," Ellie breathed, the implication hitting her immediately. "Does she know?"
"Maria's with her now," Joel confirmed, his expression grave. "It's bad."
Arthur's tactical mind engaged automatically, processing implications while compartmentalizing the emotional impact. "If this was a professional hit, not random contact, it means they knew exactly who they were targeting. This wasn't opportunity—it was planned."
Joel nodded, having clearly reached the same conclusion. "Tommy said something else before they took him into surgery. The woman leading the squad—he recognized her from Joel's description. Blonde, muscular, focused."
"Abby," Arthur confirmed grimly. "She's back."
The confirmation shifted everything—what had seemed like possible resurgence of WLF interest in the territory now revealed as something more targeted, more personal. Abby's vendetta against Joel for destroying the Firefly operation in Salt Lake City hadn't diminished with time or setbacks. If anything, it had sharpened into something more dangerous—patient, calculated, willing to target those connected to Joel rather than just Joel himself.
"They'll come for Jackson next," Arthur assessed, mind racing through tactical implications. "This was a statement—showing they can reach us even during routine patrols, that nowhere is truly safe."
"That's my read too," Joel agreed, the two men aligned in their strategic thinking despite their different backgrounds. "Maria's already ordered increased security, double patrols, limited excursions."
Ellie had gone eerily still beside them, her expression shifting from shock to something harder, more focused. Arthur recognized the transformation with concern—grief crystallizing into anger, pain hardening into purpose. He'd seen it in Firefly soldiers, in survivors pushed beyond endurance. It rarely led to sound decision-making.
"Ellie," he said quietly, trying to draw her back from wherever her mind was taking her.
She looked at him then, her eyes over-bright with unshed tears and banked rage. "He's dead because of her. Because of what Joel did. Because of what I am."
The connections she drew—linking Jesse's death to the Firefly hospital, to her immunity, to Joel's choice to save her—made a terrible kind of sense. Arthur reached for her, but she stepped back, arms wrapping around herself protectively.
"I need to see Dina," she said, voice flat with suppressed emotion. "She needs... someone should be with her."
Before either man could respond, Ellie was moving away, heading toward the small house Dina shared with other young adults at Jackson's southern edge. Arthur watched her go, torn between following and respecting her need for space, her desire to support her grieving friend.
"Let her go," Joel advised quietly. "She needs time to process."
Arthur nodded reluctantly, refocusing on the immediate security concerns. "What do we know about the WLF presence? Numbers, equipment, positions?"
"Tommy couldn't give details before surgery, but the fact he made it back means they weren't set up for extended operations. Hit and run, most likely." Joel's expression was grim but focused, years of survival experience informing his assessment. "Maria's organizing a recovery team for Jesse's body once we confirm the area is clear. Can't leave him out there."
The practical horror of their world—the necessity of retrieving fallen comrades, of confirming deaths rather than merely accepting reports, of weighing risk against the basic human dignity of proper burial—hit Arthur anew. Despite months in Jackson, moments like this reminded him how thin the veneer of civilization remained, how quickly their existence could revert to its most brutal truths.
"I'll join the recovery team," Arthur decided. "Tommy would have noted landmarks, even in his condition. I can help retrace their route."
Joel looked like he might argue, then nodded instead. "I'll come too. Maria's coordinating from here, but she'll want experienced eyes on the ground."
As they moved toward the planning room where Maria was organizing the response, Arthur glanced back toward where Ellie had disappeared. The timing felt cruelly synchronized—new life discovered minutes before learning of death, potential family forming even as existing connections were violently severed. Their world had never allowed for simple joys, always balancing moments of grace with harsher realities.
And now Abby had returned, her vendetta apparently undiminished by previous failures. The relative peace of recent weeks revealed as merely an intermission, not resolution. Jackson would need to prepare for what came next—whether defense against direct assault or protection against the more insidious targeting of community members when vulnerable.
Later, Arthur would process the news of Ellie's pregnancy, would consider what it meant for them both, for any possible future they might build together. Now, though, security took precedence—protecting what remained, honoring what was lost, preparing for what would inevitably come.
Jesse deserved nothing less. And perhaps, Arthur reflected as he followed Joel into Maria's tactical briefing, the best service they could offer to the child Ellie now carried was ensuring their community survived whatever Abby planned next.
The recovery team departed at dusk, using the fading light to approach the ambush site while minimizing their own visibility. Six experienced fighters, all veterans of pre-Jackson survival, moved through the forest with practiced silence. Arthur took point, his Firefly training in stealth operations proving valuable as they followed Tommy's blood trail backward toward where Jesse had fallen.
Joel and Maria had disagreed about the mission's timing—she advocating for dawn approach, he insisting that nightfall offered better cover given the WLF's demonstrated willingness to target specific individuals. Arthur had sided with Joel, his assessment of WLF tactics suggesting they wouldn't expect immediate counteraction, particularly not under cover of darkness.
The ambush site, when they located it, told a grim story to experienced eyes. Shell casings from multiple weapons, blood soaking into forest undergrowth, the signs of bodies being dragged some distance before being left. Tommy's escape route was evident—chaotic path through dense brush, blood trail indicating serious injury, signs of pursuit abandoned after several hundred yards.
And Jesse's body, positioned almost deliberately against the base of a large oak, a single bullet wound centered precisely in his forehead. Professional. Efficient. Unmistakably intentional.
"This wasn't opportunity," Arthur observed quietly as the team secured the perimeter. "This was an execution."
Joel knelt beside Jesse's body, his expression unreadable in the gathering darkness. "They wanted us to find him like this. To send a message."
Arthur nodded, tactical assessment aligning with Joel's. "Psychological warfare. Demonstrating capability while ensuring we'd recover enough to understand what happened."
The clinical analysis helped maintain distance from the emotional reality—that this was Jesse, not an abstract casualty. Jesse who had welcomed Arthur eventually despite initial suspicion. Jesse who had backed Ellie's plays without question. Jesse who had celebrated when Arthur recovered from infection, who had danced at the community gathering, who had embodied Jackson's next generation of leadership.
Jesse who had no idea Dina was carrying his child.
The brutal irony of it—one life beginning as another ended, the father never knowing he would have been a parent—felt emblematic of their broken world. Creation and destruction perpetually intertwined, hope and loss inseparable.
The team worked efficiently, wrapping Jesse's body with dignity before securing it to a stretcher designed for such grim transport. Arthur and another fighter took first carrying duty, beginning the solemn journey back to Jackson where Dina and others waited for final confirmation of what Tommy's report had already told them.
They traveled in silence, alert for potential threats but encountering none. The WLF team had accomplished their objective and withdrawn, apparently confident that the message had been delivered effectively. By the time Jackson's walls appeared ahead, the weight of Jesse's body felt like more than physical burden—it carried the weight of accountability, of vulnerability, of renewed awareness that peace had always been temporary.
Maria met them at the gates, her expression a mask of control that couldn't quite conceal her grief and fury. "Tommy's out of surgery," she reported as they entered. "Doc says he'll live, but the leg..." She paused, composing herself. "It's bad. Won't walk right again, if at all."
Another cost tallied against Abby's vendetta. Another life fundamentally altered because of decisions made years ago in a Firefly hospital, ripples expanding outward to touch lives far removed from the original conflict.
"Where's Dina?" Joel asked, his concern practical rather than merely sympathetic.
"Clinic. Collapsed when I told her. Ellie's with her." Maria's gaze moved to Jesse's covered form. "We'll hold service tomorrow. People need the chance to say goodbye properly."
The necessity of ritual, of honoring the dead while acknowledging the living—another aspect of Jackson that distinguished it from mere survival camps. Arthur had witnessed countless deaths during his Firefly years, most marked with nothing more than tactical reassessment and resource redistribution. The humanity in Jackson's approach still occasionally surprised him, even after months of integration.
"I need to check on Ellie," Arthur said once Jesse's body had been transferred to those who would prepare it for burial.
Joel nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "I'll join the security briefing with Maria. We need to adjust patrol protocols immediately, establish new defensive positions."
The practical response to tragedy—action rather than mere grief—felt familiar to them both. Doing something, anything, to prevent further loss, to protect what remained. It had always been Joel's way of processing emotion, Arthur had learned. Perhaps it was his own as well, this similarity between them more evident in crisis than in peace.
The clinic was quiet when Arthur arrived, most of the staff focused on Tommy's recovery in the surgical wing. He found Ellie in a small side room, sitting beside a sleeping Dina whose face bore the ravages of recent crying even in unconsciousness.
"Doc gave her something to help her sleep," Ellie explained softly when Arthur entered. "She was... it was bad."
Arthur nodded, pulling a chair close to sit beside Ellie. "We found him," he confirmed, not needing to elaborate further. "Maria's organizing the service for tomorrow."
Ellie's hand found his in the dim light, fingers intertwining with desperate strength. "Did he suffer?"
"No," Arthur assured her, the mercy of truth in this case. "It was quick. Professional. He wouldn't have felt anything."
The clinical description might have seemed cold to others, but he knew Ellie would find comfort in the specifics, in knowing exactly what had happened rather than being left with imagination's crueler possibilities.
"Dina told me something, before Doc gave her the sedative," Ellie said after a long silence. "She's pregnant too. About two months along."
The revelation struck Arthur with physical force, the parallel to their own situation too precise to be coincidence, too painful to be ironic. Dina carrying Jesse's child, never having told him. Jesse dying without knowing he would have been a father. The pattern repeating with brutal symmetry.
"Does she know about you?" Arthur asked quietly.
Ellie shook her head. "Didn't seem like the right time to share that particular news."
They sat in silence for a while, holding hands beside Dina's sleeping form, the weight of multiple revelations settling around them. Eventually, Ellie spoke again, her voice different—harder, more focused.
"This has to end," she said, the flatness in her tone concerning Arthur more than overt emotion would have. "Abby. The WLF. The vendetta. All of it."
"It will," Arthur assured her, though he knew military realities made such promises tenuous at best. "We'll strengthen Jackson's defenses, adjust patrol protocols, ensure they can't pick off individuals so easily again."
"That's not what I mean," Ellie replied, her eyes meeting his with disturbing intensity. "Defensive measures won't stop her. She'll keep coming, keep taking people we care about, unless someone stops her permanently."
The implication was clear, and deeply concerning. "Ellie," Arthur began carefully, "revenge missions are exactly what she wants. Drawing us out, separating us from Jackson's security, making us vulnerable."
"I know how she thinks," Ellie countered. "I know because I'd think the same way in her position. This isn't about random violence or territory. It's personal. She blames Joel for destroying the chance at a cure. Blames me for being the cure that got away. She won't stop until that debt is paid."
The assessment was coldly accurate, aligning with Arthur's own understanding of Abby's motivations based on his Firefly background. But the conclusion Ellie seemed to be drawing—that offensive action rather than defensive preparation was necessary—rang alarm bells in his tactical assessment.
"We need to be smart about this," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Especially now, with..." He glanced meaningfully at her midsection, the unspoken reference to her pregnancy hanging between them.
Ellie's free hand moved unconsciously to her stomach, the protective gesture at odds with the hardness in her expression. "All the more reason to end this decisively. I won't raise a child under constant threat, always wondering when Abby will strike next, who she'll take from us next time."
The determination in her voice was absolute, a side of Ellie that Arthur had glimpsed during their most dangerous missions but rarely in the relative peace of recent weeks. It reminded him of Joel, of the implacable resolve he'd demonstrated when Arthur first arrived in Jackson. The similarity between them—genetic connection replaced by something forged through shared survival—had never been more evident.
"We'll discuss options with Joel and Maria," Arthur said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing directly. "Tactical assessment, resource allocation, intelligence gathering. Proper planning."
Ellie studied him, clearly gauging whether he was merely placating her or genuinely considering offensive options. Whatever she saw in his expression apparently satisfied her, because she nodded once, some of the terrible tension leaving her posture.
"Okay," she agreed. "Planning first."
It was a reprieve rather than resolution, Arthur knew. The conversation wasn't finished, merely postponed. But it gave time—time for Ellie to process Jesse's death less reactively, time for proper assessment of WLF capabilities, time for consideration of what their child's existence meant for any decisions they might make.
Time for Arthur to reconcile his Firefly-trained tactical thinking with his newfound connection to Jackson, to Joel, to Ellie, to the future their child represented.
For now, they sat together in the quiet clinic room, hands joined as Dina slept the dreamless sleep of heavy sedation. Outside, Jackson prepared—additional guards posted, weapons distributed, defensive positions reinforced. The community responded to loss with increased vigilance, with practical action rather than panic.
Whatever came next—Abby's next move, their own response, the complicated future their unborn children would inherit—they would face it together. Not just Arthur and Ellie, but Jackson as a whole. The strength of community, Arthur had learned during his months here, often proved more durable than the isolated survival he'd known before.
He could only hope that strength would be enough against an enemy as focused, as personally motivated, as Abby had proven herself to be. Because Ellie was right about one thing—this wouldn't end with Jesse. The attack had been a statement, a declaration of continued intent.
The opening move in what promised to be a longer, deadlier game than any of them had anticipated.