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"Men die, but legends live." His voice echoed and lingered in the darkness. The room closed in, at once claustrophobic and cavernous. Restless hands fussed and twisted the well-worn fabric between them. -Men die - Trembling fingers traced along the material; following the painted lines that contrasted with the rougher fabric. Here, a scar of delicate stitching. There, the rough scab of a hurried field repair. - legends -. His footsteps had long since vanished from the hallway. His duty was done. The 141 had been left battered and shaken, anchorless and bloodied. A last rough breath was taken in; phantom iron laced the familiar dust in the air. Then they made a choice, and exhaled slowly, in control once again. Their shaky hands stilled and raw nerves steeled. The material when donned felt awkward; its negligible weight burdened with history. A couple of soft tugs adjusted the fit where it was needed over their features. The scent of gunpowder still clung to the fabric of the mask. They cracked their knuckles as they rose from the mattress, confidence slowly building with each stride toward the door. Left behind was a past, a name, both willingly sacrificed. Steady hands pushed open the door before they vanished into the quiet halls. The 141 was built on legends, and legends, lived on.