The air was hot and thick with clouds of dust and sand that was whirled up by the wheels of the truck. The dunes laid in ever stoic silence, betraying none of the millennia worth of secrets that they hid. Just like they were hiding the countless misfortunate souls the endless droughts had reaped. Many fools would let the desert deceive their senses and lure them into certain death. Or insanity.

Makarov was unsure which of the two he preferred and whether he even had much sanity left to spare.

No matter how loud the engines of the armoured trucks and quads following the convoy were, they could never quite manage to conceal the dead silence of the desert and lingering feeling of unease. Like something sinister was there, lurking somewhere below the sand and rocks of the wasteland they were crossing. The wind rattled at his usually ever so perfect hair and gear and unlike others, he had the luxury of shade provided by the roof of the truck. And still, Makarov felt the blazing heat searing his skin like it wanted to melt it off.

A grunt escaped the man as he shifted in his seat, eyes lingering at the horizon which was barely visible through the clouds of dust they were kicking up. He really wasn’t made for this climate.