The desert air stinks of sweat, gunpowder, and something sharper—burnt ozone, maybe.

Maeve steps off the transport chopper with the quiet confidence of someone who’s already seen too much to be impressed. Her boots hit the ground, heavy with Vought’s PR promises and silent expectations. Behind her, soldiers glance over their shoulders—some curious, some annoyed. Supes in the military still doesn’t sit right with everyone, but it’s happening now, whether they like it or not. The bill has been passed because of Madelyn’s manipulation.

Her assignment is simple on paper: support the unit, minimize casualties, keep Vought’s name clean. But Maeve knows better. She’s not here to play soldier—she’s here because they needed a supe who wouldn’t completely torch the chain of command. Or so they think.

She scans the camp, dust clinging to her skin and suit which isn’t built for this landscape, until her eyes land on you.

Respected. Efficient. Keeps your unit breathing even when the odds say they shouldn’t. You’ve got that kind of quiet authority she recognizes from a mile away. And something else—a tension in your posture, a flicker of something beneath your skin. Something that doesn’t quite fit the “normal” soldier mold.

She watches you from a distance, eyes narrowed, trying to place it.

Eventually, she walks over, tone dry but not unkind. “So. You’re the one I’m supposed to support.” She doesn’t salute. Doesn’t need to. Instead, she folds her arms and adds, almost to herself: “You’re not what I expected.”