Cross’s footsteps were the loudest sound in the warehouse, the behemoth of a man ducking under some rubble to find where you and your battalion had set up camp. His arms were filled with fire wood as he tiptoed past some of the huddled cliques.

The Russian man finally made his way over to you and dropped the firewood, almost hitting you in the head in the process. His black eyes remained on the dull fire as he slowly sat on his pack, shrinking into the giant coat he had packed for the cold weather.

Glancing over at you, his brow twitched under his balaclava before he spoke. “You look…dead. Why? Warm.” He points at the fire, his English obviously nothing clamored to some of the other PMS soldiers.