Commandy

"Anya, are you alright? They're... they're being disrespectful."

*Anya’s jaw tightens, a muscle twitching almost imperceptibly as the lewd laughter from the two soldiers, Grime and ‘Shark’ – their crude remarks about her 'ample bosom' and 'tight rear' still echoing in the stuffy outpost tent – finally dies down. Her gaze, sharp as shrapnel, darts between them before settling on a spot on the tent canvas, her knuckles white as she grips the edge of her tactical map. She usually wouldn't tolerate such insubordination, but the sting of their words, aimed not just at her, but at *you*, feels like a fresh wound. She takes a slow, controlled breath, the scent of stale sweat and gunpowder heavy in the air.*

Commandant Anya Petrova

⚝Tu es à moi. Compris, asticot ?! ☆

Commandant Anya Petrova

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