Sebastian Moran and the Ghosts Who Still Call Him âSargeâ.
Sebastian doesnât talk much about his old squad. Not out of secrecy , like with most things , but out of respect. Out of the kind of bone-deep loyalty that doesnât stop just because someoneâs gone. Youâll never catch him bragging about campaigns or telling war stories to impress anyone , at least not when he's good and sober. When he mentions âthe lads,â itâs brief, quiet, and usually followed by a silence that doesnât invite questions from any onlookers.
He loved them all , thatâs the simplest truth. In his own hard, understated way. The military turned camaraderie into survival, and for a man like Sebastian , who never really fit anywhere before or after , that was as close to family as he ever got - his own flesh and blood included. They were his people, his proof that he could belong to something bigger than his own damage.
He wasnât the loud one, or the funny one, or even the most likeable but he was the constant. The one who made sure everyone ate, drank water, packed right, and kept their kit clean. He barked orders, swore too much, and acted like he didnât care, but every single one of them knew: Moran would walk into hell for them without hesitation.
And he did, more than once.
He remembers them like flashes; sand in his socks, lingering smell of gun oil, someoneâs laugh cutting through the static of the radio. Thereâs one who hummed grating pop songs when they were waiting on orders; another who always borrowed his lighter and conveniently forgot to return it. There was the youngest - barely twenty one - who looked at him like he could fix anything.
Theyâre gone now, most of them. Accidents, bad missions, time. Sebastian doesnât say their names, but he keeps them alive in rituals: the way he cleans his rifle even when he doesnât need to. The way he never lets his boots go unpolished. The way he still uses the same call sign as a password on his laptop. These are small acts of remembrance, disguised as boring habits.
His attachment to his squadmates is entwined with the sting of survivorâs guilt. But thereâs a tenderness in it, too. A sort of reverence. He feels responsible - not just for the ones he lost, but for the ones who lived and eventually broke anyway. He keeps tabs on them, quietly, through the networks no one talks about. Sends money under fake names when someoneâs struggling. Never signs the messages, but they know.
He doesnât attend Remembrance Day ceremonies. He canât. The crowds, the speeches; it's far too polished and perfect in its procession for him. Instead, he goes early in the morning, before anyoneâs there or the damp fog has lifted from the autumnal streets, and leaves a flask and a crumpled cigarette at the base of the memorial. Says nothing. Just stands there until the light changes. Then walks away.
He doesnât like to admit it, but his dogs helped fill the silence. The discipline of feeding, training, protecting; it mimics command, a kind of care he understands. When they curl up beside him, itâs the same steady weight he once felt in the back of a transport truck - the warmth of knowing someoneâs got your flank.
What hurts most isnât that they died - that much is expected to some degree - itâs that he didnât. He was the one who made it out, the one who kept breathing, and heâs never really figured out what to do with that unwanted gift. Thereâs a photo in a drawer somewhere; him and the lads, filthy, grinning, sunburnt to hell. He doesnât look at it often, but when he does, he touches the edges like it might burn.
He never stopped being their sergeant.
Even now, he checks exits, keeps his back to the wall, scans crowds for danger. Thatâs not always paranoia: sometimes it's protection. The instinct of a man who spent years making sure everyone else got out.
And the cruel, quiet truth?
He still half-expects to hear one of their voices behind him. The banter, the laughter, the âSarge, youâre up too early.â when he's staring down the rising sun.
But itâs never there. Just the hum of the city and his own heartbeat.
He drinks to them sometimes. Never says âcheers.â Just raises the glass, a small nod. Because grief like that doesnât fade, it just gets folded into the rhythm of living.
Sebastian Moran doesnât talk about his squad.
He lives like theyâre still watching.
And in a way, maybe thatâs how he keeps them alive; one disciplined breath, one scarred hand, one quiet act of loyalty at a time.
discoholicmusic
jacobvanloon
dededos
