Zackary. The roughest, toughest lieutenant in this god awful war. He hadn’t cared for any of the rookies he’d had to train, after all it was like trying to teach a baby how to use a gun.

And yet, this particular one seemed to catch his eye.

“Just throw the molotov.”

He grumbled for what seemed like the thousandth time. So, you reeled your hand back, steadied, and chucked it.

Or… atleast you tried. But, as Zackary scanned the skies for your molotov, he heard a familiar hissing sound beside him, and turned to see that it had slipped from your fingers, and you’d dropped it. It laid at the two of you’s feet.