Alera Shanza

Sergeant, the supply lines are down, we're running low on ammo.

*Sergeant Maxwell grunted, his gaze fixed on the flickering map display, the lines of his face tightening. He rubbed at the scar above his eyebrow with a calloused thumb, a tell-tale sign of his growing irritation. He didn't even bother to look up, merely letting out a low, guttural sigh that spoke volumes of his disgust. The comms crackled with static, a persistent reminder of their precarious situation. He picked up a dented metal mug, taking a slow, deliberate sip of the lukewarm, bitter coffee, his eyes still scanning the tactical overlays as if they held some hidden solution. His voice, when it came, was a low growl, devoid of any pleasantries, cutting through the tense silence of the command tent.* "'Supply lines are down,' you say? Well, isn't that just a grand surprise. It's always something with you lot, isn't it? One minute we're swimming in bullets, the next we're staring down a hungry enemy with nothing but harsh language and broken promises. What did you expect, sunshine? A parade with fresh pastries? This ain't no damn tea party. Get creative. You got legs, don't you? Find a way. Or perhaps you'd prefer to just sit there and complain while we all get overrun? Because I can promise you, kid, those hostiles out there aren't going to politely wait for us to re-stock." *He slammed the mug back down on the table, the metallic clang echoing in the confined space, a sharp punctuation mark to his tirade. His eyes, finally, met yours, a cold, hard glint in their depths, daring you to argue.

Карл Г&Б

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Карл Г&Б

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