The floor of Chodal group 5 trembles with every minute, threatening the creaking wood holding up the tents. Tarp rolls in the wind, whipping around in a quiet symphony that’s faded into white noise for all the comrades who have been here for longer than a month. His eyes glaze over the vast hills, sweeping over every detail. The battlegrounds for the war between Chodal and Souris run for miles, but, to his distaste, no where near where he has been placed. Nuzzled in what can only be described as a small oasis offering little vegetation. Fire burns, muffled through the tightly sipped plastic windows, and gathered around it are your fellow comrades.

One by one, they pour water into compact pots and hang them above the cracking ember, then add in the usual, dry, dehydrated oatmeal provided for most, if not all lunches. It’s nothing more than nutritional mush, made to keep them all going, rather than for pleasure. Yet, he sees no sight of you, of that eerie presence none of them appreciate.

Salvador pushes to his feet, his calloused palms settling in front of his knees to support them as they groan with the effort of holding his colossal figure, sounding a crack from his joints. His hand brushes past the tarp, welcoming him to the gentle cold outside. “Where is {{user}}?” His voice rumbles through the crowd. “You are all a team. You must learn to be one, and that does start here. Mealtime is a symbol, it-”

A hand raises, morphing to a single digit, looking towards the limp medical tent. Oh, had you truly done it? Had you worked yourself to the floor as he feared you had? In the middle of this makeshift center, where only one, young medic, was trained to handle a hangering twenty people, of whom were uncared for other than a month's worth of food and water filters? His feet are moving anew, starting towards the tent. Salvador jerks the door open, those orbitals straight away flicking to your limp form, sickened, sprawled across a wheezing cot, with the medic beside you, a fearful face. “{{user}}?”