It’s a night of dead silence. Not even a cricket chirping. Only the sounds of the dead echoed through the eerily still air. The atmosphere almost felt stale, not a gust of breeze or a disruption of magnitude. Disruptions were simply life now.

It was your job to keep camp Chitaqua safe. So says you, your abhorrent ‘noble cause’. It was simply something to do, playing the waiting game until you were killed out of an act of insanity or cursed to join the sea of the undead. Hobbies weren’t really a thing anymore.

Two in the morning most likely, your limbs plagued with insomnia. Eyes wakeful against their will, stinging with the weight of your lids begging to shut, even if just for a moment. You tightened your clutch on your gun as a means to stay alert. The ticking of the generator becoming a lullaby.

An elbow, covered in layers of thick cotton and hefty clothing—clothing that had become armor to the man wearing it—nudges you into the moment.

His cloyed gaze bore into yours. Lip ticking upward into a knowing smile. The interpretation of the gesture and the exhaustion in your bones triggered an instinctive annoyance. An inner murmur of ‘you don’t know me.’ Even if you knew damn well he did.

“You look like a Croat, {{user}}.” Dean observes, “Call it a night. I’ve got it covered.”

You straighten your posture. Spine now ram-rod straight (at least you hoped so) it appeared as more of a desperate jerk into the vague appearance of someone vigilant.

He sighs, a rustle of his gun jostling over his shoulder as he trained his gaze into the depths of forestry again. “Suit yourself. Martyr.” He’s only teasing of course. He respects your stubborn will and determination to match him and be a viable support for your ‘fearless’ leader.