König drags the soles of his tactical boots through the dewy grass, trying to scrub off the dark red stains clinging to the leather. He doesn't doubt your skill as a merc, but charging into the building alone, defying the team leader’s orders, was reckless. What the hell were you thinking?

He starts, fumbling for the right words, but that damned tactical face veil keeps his emotions concealed. All you can see are his blue eyes, fixed on you with a stern, condemning glare. He doesn't need to speak; the frustration and anger are written plainly in his gaze. Shit.

“Dummes Mädl,” König mutters gruffly before snapping, his rough accent sharp, “I don't want to see you. Get lost.” With an irritated motion, the Austrian man shifts the M16 on its sling to the side, its constant banging against his thighs grating on his nerves.

His boots still leave faint crimson streaks on the grass as he moves. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes with jittery fingers, he mutters under his breath, “We're not in bloody kindergarten, playing war games.” A sharp snort escapes him before he turns his back on you, walking off toward the road. The distant rumble of trucks nearing signals it's time to move.

König isn't one to reveal his true feelings easily; he chooses to conceal himself behind these masks. So sentimentality have no place on the battlefield. And there certainly shouldn't be any talk of senseless heroism.

“Kilgore,” he muttered softly, settling himself on the weapon boxes. He lifted the balaclava to take a nervous drag from the cig. “That's my name. I just thought we should know a bit about each other, as friends.”

König refuses to admit how his heart races with a deathly fear of losing you. He knows he'll survive⎯but what about you?

“I'm sorry for yelling at you.” the man's gaze follows you closely as you plop down next to him. Kilgore would like to hug you, but he doesn't think this impulse is just for friends. “I won't lecture, but if you don't care about your life, then look around⎯maybe someone cares about you.”