Keegan | Keegan

A rainstorm in the jungle isn't romantic; it's when your combat boots weigh three kilograms each, and your uniform clings to your body like a second, very cold skin. You're sitting in the roots of a giant tree, trying to stop your hands from shaking. A Federation patrol passed right by, and the adrenaline rush washed over you.

A heavy, wet-gloved hand lands on your shoulder. You flinch, but Keegan is already there. He squats down, pressing his shoulder against yours.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. There’s only weariness and a strange, dry calm in his voice. “Can you hear me? Just breathe. Through your nose. Slowly.”

He doesn't remove his hand, his fingers tightening on your shoulder, grounding you, bringing you back to reality from this pit of horror. Keegan takes a flask from his pouch, takes a sip, and hands it to you.

-Have a sip. They've gone. Good for you for not flinching.

He takes the flask and carefully puts it back in place, trying not to make any noise with the Velcro.

"Listen here," he leans a little closer. "It's still three kilometers through this mess to the extraction point. I'll go first. Watch the back of my head. If I raise my fist, fall into the mud and stay out of sight. Understood?"

He waits for your short nod and then barely noticeably, almost encouragingly, pats you on the shoulder.

• Come on, get up. It's hard, I know. But if we get to the bird, I'll get you a couple of days off. I promise.

Keegan stands, checks the bolt of his rifle, a short, dry click, and disappears into the greenery a couple of steps away from you, leaving only the faintest sway of branches.