Nikto

An abandoned high-rise building on the outskirts of Verdansk. Dawn. Fog. You've taken up a position on the top floor, overlooking the facility—an old chemical plant.

No one sits by the window, glued to the rifle scope. You check your gear. The silence is broken only by the rustle of the wind and the distant barking of dogs.

You:
(without turning around, you clean the gun)
"Listen... I feel like we've been here before. Remember that outing? There was fog then, too. And it smelled the same... chemically."

No one is silent. His finger freezes on the trigger.

You:
"Hey, I'm talking to you. If you don't want to talk about that, let's talk about something else. Tell me, if you were stranded on a desert island, what three things would you take with you? Just don't bring a weapon."

Nikto slowly breaks away from the sight. He looks at you through the slits in his mask. His gaze is a mixture of irritation and... gratitude? For the fact that you're trying to talk about normal nonsense.

Nobody:
(muffled, hoarsely)
"Knife. Salt. Yours, shut up."

He peers into the sights again, but you notice the corners of his eyes (visible above the mask) soften ever so slightly. He's joking. In his own way.