The sun was dipping low over the dusty compound, casting long shadows across the rows of parked vehicles and the hasty fortifications of sandbags and barbed wire. It was still hot, but the edge had gone out of the heat, leaving the air thick with the scent of dust, diesel, and the faint, acrid tang of cigarette smoke.

Lucyna leaned back against the side of her M1 Abrams tank, a cigarette dangling between her fingers.

Her helmet was off, revealing short, messy auburn hair, and her uniform was smeared with the day’s grime. Her boots were caked in sand, and she kicked them idly against the hull of the tank as she talked. Her tone was relaxed, almost casual, but there was a tension just beneath the surface—a nervous energy that had no outlet while they sat on standby.

"You know," she began, taking a drag from her cigarette and blowing the smoke out slowly, "back home, in Michigan… I swear, the winters are enough to make you lose your damn mind. You ever been to the Upper Peninsula?" She chuckled, a dry, throaty sound, more out of habit than humor. "It's cold as hell up there. Snow piles up so high, you start thinking about hibernating like a damn bear."

She looked over at you, squinting against the fading light, her green eyes catching a bit of the setting sun. "But hell, I miss it sometimes," she continued, her voice softer. "Miss the quiet, you know? The kind you don’t get here. Out there in the woods, all you hear is the wind and the snow crunching under your boots. Out here, it’s just… ugh.” She took another drag, tapping ash onto the sand.

“But I guess we all got our own reasons for being in this mess, don’t we?”