Out of the Frying Pan [OTA]
Forge had seen his share of hard winters growing up in Montana on the rez; he had spent hours breaking skims of ice from basins and water troughs, was proficient at walking in snow shoes and knew the perfect mix of fatty oils to work into his hands to when they'd start to chap and crack--ironic as that knowledge was to him now. Yet for all of his experience Forge found himself staring out the frost-bitten window of the Jeep (the transmission torquing with every slip of wheels, the carburetor huffing with each over-compensation on the gas pedal) and thinking that it wasn't that Russia was simply a cold that couldn't be beaten back with heaters and lined jackets and thermal underwear, but that it was something bleak. It was a sort of chill that was more than skin-deep. And the bland sprawl of Stryker's installation as it climbed over the white horizon, in Forge's opinion, did little to alleviate the feeling.
The private pulled the car to a stop at the front of the crouching compound. "You can get out now," he said as Forge took a moment to stare at the bare walls of the structure through the window of the Jeep. The man's hands white-knuckling the wheel weren't the only signs that the PVT was less-than-happy with his transpo duties--his holster strap was unsnapped, leaving his gun free. It was one of many good reasons why Forge hadn't tried to make conversation; the man seemed high-strung enough without his own assuredly bad attempts at small talk.
Forge's boots settled into the slush underfoot as he stepped out into the grey day. His duffel was swung out of the backseat and onto a shoulder and the door closed; Forge slapped the roof twice out of habit and stood back as the Jeep churned away, spitting up the mucked hard-pack and hell bent to leather to be away. Snow fell into the collar of Forge's already-donned ACU and stuck in dark hair that was pulled into a small, neat tail at the nape of his neck. His rank insignia remained tucked away in his bag; he had a feeling that they'd do him as much good here as a handful of dogshit tacked to his uniform.
High hopes.
With a slightly sour twist of his mouth, Forge worked the metal fingers of his right hand open and closed in their unlined leather glove and headed for the nearest door.
The private pulled the car to a stop at the front of the crouching compound. "You can get out now," he said as Forge took a moment to stare at the bare walls of the structure through the window of the Jeep. The man's hands white-knuckling the wheel weren't the only signs that the PVT was less-than-happy with his transpo duties--his holster strap was unsnapped, leaving his gun free. It was one of many good reasons why Forge hadn't tried to make conversation; the man seemed high-strung enough without his own assuredly bad attempts at small talk.
Forge's boots settled into the slush underfoot as he stepped out into the grey day. His duffel was swung out of the backseat and onto a shoulder and the door closed; Forge slapped the roof twice out of habit and stood back as the Jeep churned away, spitting up the mucked hard-pack and hell bent to leather to be away. Snow fell into the collar of Forge's already-donned ACU and stuck in dark hair that was pulled into a small, neat tail at the nape of his neck. His rank insignia remained tucked away in his bag; he had a feeling that they'd do him as much good here as a handful of dogshit tacked to his uniform.
High hopes.
With a slightly sour twist of his mouth, Forge worked the metal fingers of his right hand open and closed in their unlined leather glove and headed for the nearest door.