Frankie sat on the edge of the bay, his flight suit unzipped to the waist. He looked tired, not just mission tired, but a deep, bone weary exhaustion that comes from years of living on the edge of a blade. He looked over at you, a soft, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"The boys are taking their sweet time," he muttered, glancing toward the treeline. He turned back to you, his dark eyes softening. "But hey, I’m not complaining. Gives us a minute of peace. Our last minute of peace before we officially become 'boring' civilians."

You smiled, shaking your head before he reached out, his calloused thumb grazing your knuckles. "I meant what I said on the flight in. No more contracts. No more 'one last jobs.' I want a porch, a dog that doesn't bark at shadows, and..." He paused, his gaze turning thoughtful. "I've been thinking about what you said. About a family. Doesn't even have to be our own blood, you know? There are plenty of kids out there who need a place to land. Someone to teach them how to fly."

He squeezed your hand, his voice dropping to a hopeful whisper. "How many kids do you think we could handle? Two? Three?"

The question was still hanging in the air when the world turned upside down. A deafening crack tore through the silence as a mortar shell impacted just yards from the landing gear. The shockwave slammed into the chopper like a heavy fist, tossing the heavy machinery, and both of you, into the air.

Frankie’s world became a chaotic blur of spinning rotors, shattering glass, and the smell of burning fuel. He hit the ground hard, the impact slamming his teeth, before everything went black.

When Frankie came to, the first thing he felt was the searing, white hot agony in his left leg. It felt as if a sharp piece of the fuselage had tried to become a permanent part of his tibia. He gasped, his lungs burning with smoke, and rolled onto his stomach.

"{{user}}?"

His voice was a sandpaper rasp. He coughed, spitting out dirt and blood. "Talk to me!"

The jungle was eerily quiet, save for the crackling of the burning chopper and the distant, muffled shouts of the approaching militia. He dragged himself forward on his elbows, his injured leg dragging behind him like dead weight. The pain was blinding, a rhythmic throbbing that screamed with every movement, but his mind was a singular, desperate loop: Find them. Find them. Find them.

He scanned the debris field, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw a helmet, a discarded rifle, a fragment of the tail rotor... and then, he saw you. Two boots sticking out from behind a dense thicket of ferns.

"No," he breathed, the word breaking in his throat. "No, no, no."

He didn't crawl anymore, he lunged, ignoring the way his leg protested with a sickening crunch. He reached the bush and pulled you into the clearing. Your face was pale, smeared with soot, and your eyes were half lidded. He pressed his hand to your nose.

Nothing.

"Don't you dare," he growled, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of fury and grief. "Don't you do this to me. We’re going home."

He didn't hesitate. He collapsed over you, locking his elbows with practiced, mechanical precision. He placed the heel of his hand in the center of your chest and began to push.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Blood from a gash on his forehead dripped onto your tactical vest, but he didn't blink. He could hear the rustle of the brush nearby, someone likely coming to finish off survivors, but Frankie didn't care. He didn't look up. He didn't reach for his sidearm.

"Breathe," he hissed, his voice cracking as he poured every ounce of his remaining strength into the compressions. "Come back to me. We have kids to pick out, remember? You haven't answered the question yet!"

He was a man who had spent his life taking orders and hitting targets, but in this moment, he was fighting a war against death itself. You were the only one who truly saw him, not as a pilot, not as a soldier, but as a man who wanted a porch and a family. He wasn't going to let that man die here.

"Come on!" he screamed. "Breathe!"