The blades of the helicopter were a constant, soft, thwack, interrupting even quiet conversation. Lieutenant Valte felt the need to hush himself, though he knew his raised voice couldn't be heard over the chopper's rotors.

"When we get to the DZ, silent comms. The cave we think he's in will be marked on your helmet displays. You all know the drill. Stay quiet, stay calm."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt ridiculous. To most of these men, he was just a naval officer, in way over his head. He supposed that was only half-false. He had no business lecturing veteran soldiers on how to conduct their job, anyway.

His team was a strange combination. Master Gunnery Sergeant Ortiz, his old instructor from his academy days, was the only one he knew personally. Three SEALs, Kelle's friends, his squadmates. Two SAS guys, apparently friends from the skirmishes in Jammu and Kashmir. Two French RDP paratroopers, both of whom were quiet and grim as the grave. Valte wasn't even sure of their names, but they were welcome nonetheless. The oddest addition was the two Brazilian BOPE officers, an elite force of police responsible for maintaining order in the vast favelas of Rio. One of them had explained to Valte that Kelle had saved their lives during the brutal narcowars that had almost ripped the Brazilian Directorate apart a few years back. Valte didn't even know Kelle had been to Brazil - in fact, the more he learned about his oldest friend, the less he thought he knew him. The only thing any of these men had in common was the debt they owed to Kelle. Valte wasn't sure there was any tighter bond, among soldiers.

The pilot raised his fist, a single finger sticking up - one minute. Valte actioned the charging handle on his rifle and screwed the suppressor onto the barrel. He'd been into combat like this many times, at this point, but he never felt completely comfortable. Despite all the training - standard and covert - he'd received, Valte knew that, at the end of the day, a single bullet was all it took to kill the most dedicated and skilled man.

The chopper hit the ground, and almost automatically, Valte slipped off the side and into the damp dirt of western Ukraine. The foothills of the Carpathians loomed ahead, riddled with caves and insurgents. The team proceeded entirely silently from here, moving up both sides of a dirt road that had obviously been used recently. The hills grew larger, and the scattered forests and shrublands around the road seemed to grow quieter. Valte knew it wasn't actually the case - it always just felt like that.

A heavily accented French voice broke comms silence.

"Two bogies, up ahead."

The team immediately knelt, practically in unison. Valte flipped on his night vision, and saw the faint outlines of two figures standing at the front of what looked to be a concrete-reinforced cave entrance. Their weapons were lowered, casually, not that they would be much of a threat - old Russian stuff, from the looks of it.

Single Bullet. Don't forget that.

"On three, take the shot. One, two, three." Two muffled thumps confirmed that the men were indeed dead. Valte found himself marveling at how efficiently the team worked together, despite their lack of group training. They were all professionals doing a job they were quite good at, which helped alleviate the pangs of fear he felt for what might lie ahead. The cave entrance was now clear in Valte's vision, a gaping hole in the base of the hill. He doubted this was natural, likely blasted into the Carpathians decades before by Ukrainian insurgents and now connected to much deeper caves.

The tunnel just beyond the entrance was surprisingly dry, dryness which continued as they descended, confirming Valte's hypothesis. They came across little resistance; a single guard half-asleep at a bend in the tunnel, before the team reached a solid concrete wall with a single iron door set within it.

"This is real shit," Master Gunnery Sergeant Ortiz mused. "Way above the level of your average insurgent."

Valte nodded. One of the BOPE officers spoke up, with practically no trace of a Brazilian accent. "Common in gang hideouts. Usually drugs, money, or the local boss behind it."

"Any suggestions?"

"We usually just blow it up."

The door flew off its hinges, and the team quickly filed into the room, guns held ready - but no responding fire greeted the team. Just the settling residue of the twisted iron and the empty echoes of the explosion. Valte swiveled his rifle left and then right, finger clasped firmly above the trigger, and…

"A step further and he dies." A deep voice, resonating from a masked face. In the flickering dust, Valte could see him now - a brute of a man wearing fatigues and a balaclava, standing over a chair occupied by a figure...a pistol levelled at...Kelle! He felt a mix of emotion, joy, rage, and...upon seeing the dry blood that had soaked through his friend's filthy garments, and the sallow, corpselike pallor of his face, pure fear.

"Lower your weapons, now." In the man's other hand was a knife; the dried blood on it must've been Kelle's. At least, that's what Valte told himself. He had to be quick about this.

"Alright. I'm going to put my rifle on the ground."

He crouched slowly, sliding his hand down the stock of his rifle, letting it brush past the buckle on his drop leg holster. He could almost feel the stare of Gunney Ortiz drilling into the back of his head; no way the veteran soldier would miss something like that. He could hear his voice now - 'Are you high, Valte? What in the sam hell were you thinking? You could've gotten us all killed….' Gunney, as usual, would be right, too. But Valte didn't care. This was his friend - his best friend in the whole world. And neither Neo-Luddite terrorists nor Navy regulations would stop him from doing what he thought was right. He took a deep breath. The Neo-Luddite's grip on his pistol had relaxed. His arm was lowering away from Kelle's head…

In a single swift motion, Valte's hand flew to his holster, drew his S&W M34, and pulled the trigger.

There were two gunshots.

The terrorist fell, blood seeping quickly through his fatigues, his torso quickly turning a bright red. Kelle slumped forward noiselessly. Valte sprinted forward, catching his friend before he fell. The silence that followed the two gunshots was deafening. Kelle was unconscious - but breathing. From what Valte could tell, the bullet had passed right through his shoulder and above his lung. At least he hoped that was the case.

"Come on buddy. Stay with me."

With no small effort, Valte heaved his friend over his shoulders, his rifle dangling from its sling. He looked up at Gunney Ortiz and his makeshift squadmates.

"Let's go. He doesn't have much time."

Valte chose not to acknowledge the pained look Ortiz had on his face as he grimly nodded and turned around.

The helicopter was too loud for Valte to think. He was covered in something wet and hot - Kelle's blood, he knew. He had tried to stop the bleeding as best he could, but Kelle's breathing sounded worse and worse. He could barely hear him as he sputtered awake in the cramped cabin of the chopper.

"Kelle?"

His friend smiled, in a brutally pained way. He wanted to cringe, but kept his eyes locked on him.

"Valte-..."

His words were barely a rasp, a death rattle. Kelle clenched his jaw.

"I'm going to die, Valte."

He wished he had something to say, something to comfort the man who'd been by his side for most of the last decade. Instead, he stayed silent.

"Valte. The Neo-Luds-..." A sickening, wet cough briefly overtook the helicopter rotors' constant roar. Fresh, new blood shot onto Valte's plate carrier as he cradled his friend. The bullet had pierced his lung, he thought, with a frankness that shocked himself.

"The Neo-Luds are on to something. Something is coming. Something bad. Look-..."

Another fit of wracking coughs.

" ...the Cosmodrome…"

Kelle fell silent. Valte waited for something else, but felt the shallowness of his breath. In the din of the helicopter cabin, he was glad no one could hear him cry.

Orron woke with a start. There was something warm on his shoulder- he could feel it. Blood. Kelle's blood.

He twisted violently, his hand rising to his pauldron, to wipe it off him. But it wasn't blood. It was Ana Bray. She woke too, jerking her head up. The confusion of sleep muddled her eyes.

"Orron-...what? I…"

The Titan barely even registered that his companion's head had been resting on his shoulder. He still felt the warm blood, dripping down his body. It was so real, so there... except it wasn't. His heart pounded in his chest, and he didn't hear Ana's questions and protestations. His eyes swam, but he felt clarity as he spoke, a surety about something he didn't know but felt.

"I know my name. I am Orron Valte...and I just watched my best friend die."

Whew, this one took forever. COVID has led to some frankly crazy changes in my personal life but I'm at my own place now and have taken up writing again as a hobby to help kill some time. As always, reviews and criticism are welcome!