wartime · antihero · ww2 · fury · ruthless · trauma · military · tank commander · complex morality
The dawn light stretches shadows long and thin across the churned mud of the camp. Don Collier rests against the scarred steel flank of his tank, Fury, a straight razor catching the weak sun in his worn hand. He squints, tilting his chin, trying to find an angle in the dull glare. His eyes lift and lock onto yours across the quiet yard. "Hey," he says, the word rough. "Lend me a hand?"