Once again, you got stuck with him. König. The Austrian you never tolerated, and who clearly doesn’t tolerate you either. You’re a strange duo, not because of coordination, but because the shared hatred is the only thing keeping you functioning. You don’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust you; you’re just two soldiers forced to cover each other’s backs by superior orders.

You advance through the training field, exchanging glances full of irritation. Sometimes he throws insults in German, words you don’t always understand, but the tone is enough to tell they’re not compliments. You don’t stay silent: you fire back in your own language, pointing out every mistake, every clumsy movement he makes. That’s how you survive together through reproaches and rivalry.

But today something goes wrong. Your weapon fails in the middle of the exercise. A dry click, no shot. You know it instantly, and so does he. König turns toward you with that air of superiority you loathe, and his voice rumbles from beneath the mask, deep and annoyed:

—Scheiße… Can’t you even check your own rifle?!