A war was going on. There was a constant reminder for it in form of a smell; smoke, blood, burning flesh and gunpowder, to only name a few. For humans, that was more than nasty; imagine what it would do to werewolves. But not just the smells; the noise, the constant flashes of light as things exploded. It was more than overwhelming.

Many people were dying on both sides; Triskeliates, were barely holding off the obvious superior power of their opponents, the Hunters, as they nicknamed the opposing fronts of this war.

Derek was just behind his uncle, Peter, as they were running back to their makeshift barricade. Altogether, there were six of them; Derek, Peter, Graydon, Bendis and two other soldiers that Derek didn't know their names of. Once there, they heard Graydon yelling at them.

"Sergeant! Command says air support is holding 'til they can assess our status!"

"Our status is," Derek angrily replied, "that we need some gorramn air support!"

"That skiff sure is shredding us," Peter commented on the current condition.

Graydon continued: "They won't move without a lieutenant's authorization code, sir-"

Derek started looking around, until he found a dead lieutenant. He ripped his rank symbol and handed it to Grayson.

"That's your code," Derek shouted. "You're lieutenant Baker, congratulations on your promotion, now get me some air support!"

He turned to the soldiers he didn't know their names of.

"Pull back just far enough to wedge 'em in here," Derek said to one of them. Turning to the other, he said: "Get your squad to the high ground, you pick 'em off."

"High ground's death with that skiff in the air," Peter stated with a hint of worry.

"That's our problem," Derek replied, "and thank you for volunteering."

Now he turned to Bendis, who was probably heavily traumatized by now, judging by how he was staring into nothing. The smell was also a good pointer, even though his werewolf senses have dulled during these seven weeks the in the war in Camaro Valley on planet Hera.

"Bendis," Derek called out to him, "you give us cover, we're doin' some huntin'!"

Which would be working fine and great, if it weren't for the sudden appearance of a dead soldier in their midst; it was one of those two he didn't know their names of. The death was obvious, what with his heart not beating. Noticing that Bendis might experience a catatonic shock and collapse any moment now, he yelled "Just focus!" at them all.

"The Hunters said that they were gonna waltz through Camaro Valley and we've chocked 'em with those words," he continued. "We've done the impossible, and that makes us mighty. Just a little longer, our angels 'll be soaring overhead, raining fire on those arrogant cods, so you hold."

Seeing that he received no response, he added: "You HOLD!"

Now that set them in a mood, if the cheers were anything to go by, so Derek just gave them a "GO!"

That only left him, Peter, and Bendis in there.

"Do you really think we can bring 'em down?" Peter chuckled in disbelief. He knew that his nephew could be a good spokesman, but he could always tell whether he meant it or if he just said it to boost their morale.

This was just a morale booster.

"Do you even need to ask?" Derek replied to his uncle's rhetorical question. From a chain on his neck, he kissed a small silver cross, then tucked it back where it came from. He heard his uncle cock his gun. "Ready?"

"Always," his uncle smirked. "Bendis?"

Apparently, he already fell in the catatonic shock.

"Gorramn it, Bendis!" Peter hissed as he aimed his machine gun at the battlefield, firing a couple of bullets. Derek took that chance and walked out, firing a couple of rounds himself, Peter close behind him.

They were slowly approaching their goal: an anti-aircraft gun. On their way there, they shot three Hunter troopers; one each, the one that was left was punched to the ground by them both and had pullets fired in his gut, courtesy of Peter. With the skiff nearing, they throw themselves in the closest trench.

They've done that just in time to avoid the skiff's fires that were just shot.

That's when Derek noticed a soldier next to the anti-aircraft gun. He aimed, fired and missed with his first shot, which caused the soldier to retaliate. But that didn't stop him; he aimed again, and this time, it was a clear headshot!

Now that they had a clear path to the gun, they made a run for it, but it was Derek who got there first, so it was him who got to shoot the skiff down, and it was up to his uncle to make sure no-one was firing at them.

Which left Derek to one thing: firing that skiff down. He fiddled a bit with the buttons and dials, making the gun whirr and click, until the said gun whirred to life and showed the skiff in infravision. It took him a couple more seconds to lock on the skiff and fired when he did. The skiff exploded, fragments flying everywhere.

A massive chunk of that exploding skiff was flying in their direction. As soon as Derek noticed it, he shouted a "Look out!" to his uncle, but apparently his uncle was temporarily deafened by the explosion. The chunk hit the ground next to Peter, but that didn't prevent the flaming explosion that occurred on the impact.

He was on fire. Peter Hale was on fire.

He ran to his uncle and tried his best to put out the fire, but Peter was already wailing in agony. Luckily, they put out the fire, but his uncle was in no condition to move on his own. He had no choice but to move him back to their base, even though he had to stop occasionally to shoot back at the Hunter troopers.

Once they reached their makeshift base, he noticed Bendis by the radio. He noticed that he was looking towards his uncle, so once Derek put Peter down as soon as he could and walked up to Bendis, who looked like he would fall in a catatonic shock again.

"Listen to me," Derek commanded. "Look at me! Listen, we're holding this valley, no matter what."

"We're gonna die …" Bendis stuttered silently.

"We're not gonna die! We can't die!" Derek snapped at him. "And do you know why?"

He waited for a moment, before he continued: "Because we're so. Very. Handsome. We're just too handsome for God to let us die."

He now grabbed Bendis by his jaw, if not a bit rougher than necessary. "Look at that chiseled jaw, c'mon!"

"I'm sorry," was all that Bendis could stammer out.

After a couple of moments, Derek heard aircraft engines. That only meant one thing: the reinforcements.

"Don't listen to me," Derek remarked and pointed at the sky. "Listen to that! That's our angels, coming to blow the Hunters right to the depths of hell they came from."

He looks at Bendis and the expression of hope is smearing on both of their faces.

"Now, Benids, tell the 82nd to-"

"They're not coming," Bendis cut in. The previous hints of hope disappeared way faster than it appeared, the smell of fear-induced adrenaline back in full swing. As he was lowering the radio, he added: "Command says it's too hot. They're pulling out. We're to lay down arms."

Derek couldn't process it, if "But…What…" was anything to go by.

He was thrown back into reality when he heard his uncle's wail of pain. He immediately kneeled next to him and started doing what his kind has done best; taking the pain away.

How he could've forgotten about his uncle escapes his mind. He focuses on the slightly tricky process of pain-withdrawal, his veins turning black, taking as much as he could handle. Which wasn't much, but sometimes small things could make a big difference.

After he's done, he checks around, only to find out that Bendis was shot in the head.

Now Derek and his uncle were the only survivors of their platoon of 2000. That platoon was just one of many, composing of 200,000 Triskeliates. Derek was originally going to lead a small platoon of 150, and look where they were now.

They've survived, but they've lost.