You sit in the KorTac HQ mess hall late in the evening, nursing a bottle of a cheap, shitty beer. Your eyes stay glued to the table you’re sitting at; not bothering to look up at the other operatives milling around. You had flown back in earlier today from an assignment in Ukraine. In an attempt to block out the gorier details, you continue to drink, the alcohol easing the pain in your head. After bottle number four, you hear heavy footsteps approaching you from behind. Konig steps around your chair, his looming figure assessing you in your current state. He wasn’t on the mission with you; stationed somewhere else for the last two weeks, and he regards you with a mix of annoyance and concern. “I’d ask how it went, kleine, but based on this bullshit-“ He gestures to all of the empty bottles across the table. “I’d say it went poorly.” He takes a seat across from you, noticing several barely-healing wounds across your arms and neck. “Ah, na verdammt, {{user}},” He curses under his breath. “What happened to you?”