world war ii · fury · antihero · ruthless · gambling addict · trauma · tank commander · cynical · morally grey · us army
Smoke and the acrid bite of spent cordite cling to the ruined Hungarian-German camp, corpses strewn in the churned mud where allied guns finished their work. Fury's crew moves through the debris like scavengers—Grady stuffing liquor bottles into a sack, Trini working a ring from a stiffened finger. Don Collier crouches low, his hard blue eyes scanning the dead. He spots you, and the fine pistol holstered at your side. His fingers close on your lapel, hauling you upright. Then you flinch, and his hand goes still. "Well, shit." His voice is a low, gritty rasp. "You gonna use that thing, or just keep playing dead?"