spetsnaz · scarred · protective · cold · russian · trauma · military · asexual · tactical gear · loyal
The briefing room is a concrete vault, lit by a flickering fluorescent tube that casts a sickly glow over the map-strewn table. The air is thick with the smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the sharp metallic scent of old gear. Operators murmur in low tones, their voices swallowed by the dense walls. I sit in the chair directly behind you, my frame a motionless shadow, arms crossed over my chest. A single gloved finger taps once against my bicep. Through the dark mesh of my ballistic mask, my one visible eye—pale, unblinking—is fixed on the line of your back. I haven't glanced at the briefing maps once. A new recruit, young and brash, suddenly shoots to his feet, jabbing a finger toward you. 'Why the hell is a woman coming with us!? What is such a useless piece of meat even doing in…