[ PI ] Everyone is born with a single unique phrase/sentence on their wrist , you shall never die no matter how sick or badly injured unless the one person you love most speaks these words to your ear

The droning would n't stop, and Hank's mind drifted, tossed in the storms of pain and concussion inside his skull. 
 
 `` Damnit! Sergeant! Sir!'' Private Simmons slid from his sprint, scrambling against the wall under the hail of slugs from the ridgetop. `` Sergeant! Oh God,'' he sputtered, gripping Hank's bloodied hand. The dirt under them turning black, Simmons grabbed at his radio. `` Hang on, Sergeant. The pain'll be gone soon,'' he muttered, tuning to the EVac frequency. `` Control EA-1, this is Private Simmons, code alpha-delt --'' 
 
 His words cut short under Hank's grip. Simmons glanced down, the sergeant's grimy face ashen under the blood and earthy grit. `` Hold -- hold on, Control.'' He put the receiver down. `` Sergeant?'' 
 
 Hank licked his lips. Blood was too familiar a taste to him. Too many months on this battleground, too many bullets and frags. He could n't die, of course. No man could, out here. Those Buggars knew this by now. They'd shown up two years ago, vast ships blotting the sun. Extermination, conquest, resource scouting. No one knew why they attacked. But they did n't expect humanity to fight so... persistently. 
 
 Because mankind does n't die, not easily. Short of blowing ourselves to bits, Hank thought, and laughed, coughing the dust from his lungs. But, we do n't die. The ultimate attrition fighters. And this war had become that. The Buggars' weapons and supplies had long dwindled, and now both sides fought with man's own weapons. 
 
 `` We had nearly outlasted them,'' Hank muttered, and Simmons leaned closer. `` Hold on Sarge. We'll get you patched up and back in to time.'' He reached for the receiver. Hank grabbed his wrist. 
 
 `` No.'' Simmons looked down, startled. Hank closed his eyes. `` Call her.'' He nodded to a small torn pocket in his ripped flak jacket. 
 
 Simmons froze. `` You mean....'' Hank nodded. `` Please, Private. Simmons, is n't it?'' He coughed, blood pooling from his mouth. `` You're still fresh. You would n't realize it. But life is a good thing. But sometimes,'' he spat out more blood, and smiled. `` Sometimes, you deal with enough. And then too much.'' He motioned to the pocket again. `` Please.'' 
 
 Simmons, hand trembling, pulled the scrap free. A woman's name, and a phone number, scrawled in soft, delicate script. 
 
 A long moment later, Hank heard Sara's voice. It trembled, but held nothing but love, for him, for them. For their daughter, for their grandchildren. For all the long life they'd shared. And the words reached his ear, as he spoke her words back. 
 
 Love was an odd thing. It could transcend time and space, whole universes, it seemed. And love, true love, had led to that once utopian society humanity had shared. War had ended. If everyone lived forever, regardless of injury and time, what was the point? And governments shook hands, and shouldered their burdens together toward a peaceful future. And love became the binding agent, and the solvent. 
 
 Because a man's or woman's true love, is the keykeeper of their mortality. And with the right words, the blessing and curse of immortality, can be laid to rest. 
 
 Hank's eyes were closed. Simmons held him a moment longer, listening to the silence on the other end of the radio. The words they had shared meant nothing to him, as he knew. There was something sacred there, and he held his silence a moment more before picking up the receiver. 
 
 `` Control RC-3? This is Private Simmons, code alpha-delta-four-one-one. Sergeant Thomason is Done. I repeat, Sergeant Hank Thomason is Done....''
