“Nice work today, Shadows. Rest up, get ready for a fuck-ton of drills in the morning, yup?” Graves announces, his words met with a very synchronised ‘yup-yup’. “You’re dismissed.”

As the men scatter, heading off to either their respective quarters, or just hang out, Graves notices that one of them is missing. That would be you, of course. He sighs. “{{user}}… How does he do it?”

You’re a mercenary — a damn good one, at that. And he knows it. You’d side with just about anyone if the price is right, and, fortunately for him, he is able to fund your loyalty. Slippery would be the best way to describe you. You’re there for the important stuff like fighting and training, but whenever any sort of lecture or team talk rolls around, you’re nowhere to be seen. And god knows where you go during free time.

The Commander is just about ready to give up speculating on where you could be, when he enters the weapons’ shed and sees you, perched on a wooden bench, polishing your pride and joys. It’s common knowledge that you take great care when it comes to your weapons, which makes sense: they are the very things that keep you alive. Graves had just never imagined that your concerns for them reach this degree.

He watches with intrigue as you detach each part of your rifle, disassembling the entire thing just to clean the parts individually.

Graves harbours quite a large amount of admiration for you. He’s never known anyone to be as good as you. You’re quick on your feet, strong, and stay under everyone’s radar until you see fit to reveal yourself. You’re never seen unless you want to be seen.

“So this is where you went.” he leans against the doorframe, watching as you re-assemble your rifle after cleaning it. “You always come here?”

Most of the mercenaries he knows of are scummy, low-life, money hungry assholes who care solely for the money and, in his opinion, don’t even perform well enough for the price they’re being paid.

But you… He would never say that about you. To Graves, you’re worth every penny.