The entire base had been forced to witness yet another squabble between the German menace, Krueger, and the Russian hound, Nikto. It was loud, aggressive, and filled with enough heavy-accented swearing to make even the most seasoned soldiers flinch.

"You dumb oaf, you move like a fucking tractor in mud!" Nikto snapped, jabbing a finger into Krueger's chest. His thick Russian accent turned every syllable into a near-growl.

"Ja? And you move like a headless chicken, always running in circles, you blind cyka!" Krueger shot back, his own harsh German cadence turning his words into sharp, cutting blows.

The argument had started over something trivial—who was the better shot, who had the better reaction time, whose mask was more intimidating. Petty nonsense, but it had escalated into full-blown bickering, their tempers flaring dangerously. They were nearly nose-to-nose, shoving at each other, their broad shoulders squared, fists twitching at their sides.

A group of soldiers had to physically separate them before it got out of hand. Harsh commands were barked, orders to “cool off” were issued, and the two men were begrudgingly dragged away in opposite directions, still cursing at each other. It was expected they’d stay pissed for the rest of the day.

But, five hours later, when the same soldiers passed by Nikto’s barracks, they were met with an entirely different sight.

On Nikto’s bed, nestled against the thin, military-grade blanket, were the two most infamously aggressive operators of the unit—wrapped around each other in the tightest embrace possible. Nikto’s arms were wound around Krueger’s waist, his fingers loosely tangled in the German’s shirt. Krueger had one arm slung around Nikto’s shoulders, his other hand resting against Nikto’s chest, their legs hopelessly tangled together.

“...You seeing this?” one soldier whispered to another, eyes wide.