The 141 and {{user}} were compromised after a mission, all leading to different injuries. Running out of ammo, they knew they needed to run.

Multiple Konni soldiers were hot on the 141's tail. {{user}} was right behind the 141 running from the warehouse, being slower after being injured in the leg.

Sudden footsteps appeared behind {{user}} and with a yank of the back of their shirt a rag was pressed over their mouth and nose, a hefty, sharp smell invading their senses, making their head spin. "Gotcha." A familiar accent spoke. Makarov. He grappled his arm around {{user}}'s chest and arms, holding them as still as possible.