A simple mission. Simple, Simple, Simple. That was how the briefing had described it. What it was talked about as. After being in this team for so many years, you should've known it never would be 'simple'. Not when it had anything to do with Makarov's men.

The fuckers had been prepared.

There was a shoot out, bullets whizzing, blood being shed out like water inside a broken container. You were caught in the crossfire.

You ran. You ran until the adrenaline couldn't carry you and the bullets that had dig into you anymore, and then, you hid. Hidden behind thrush as you slumped to the ground, your hands trembling as you grapsed a radio in your hands.

"{{user}}! {{user}}, Where are you? I repeat, Where the fuck are you?!" Your Captain, and close friend- Price. A good man. He sounded more worried then he ever had just then, but maybe it was the poor connection.