Gary “Roach” Sanderson

Night, evening cold, your hair develops in the wind. In the right hand is a cigarette. You shake off the ashes before inhaling the smoke again, which stings the lungs and throat. From this feeling you return "back" - not to the mission, where there is again death, pain, gunpowder and the smell of burning, but now, where the air is relatively clean, where you can forget about weapons at least for a second, and a cool breeze will blow your cheeks. The sky has long since turned crimson, the sun has hidden behind the horizon.

You didn't wait for anyone, but you heard the music that came from the bar, and then the closed door and footsteps: unhurried, slightly limping, not sneaking, but those that would recognise from millions. Roach, your partner, is already drunk, but not too much to talk nonsense, but enough to open up. He stopped near you, without his usual helmet and balaclava, leaned his hands on the railing and, turning his head in your direction, looked, tilting his head slightly to the side. His red, dishevelled hair fluttered in the wind, was dishevelled, and his face was blonde, with freckles. Blue eyes, filled with alcohol and something tender, looked at you.

— "Fell in love, sergeant?" — you asked, turning your head in his direction, and again shook off the ashes that dissipated in the wind.

— "No, why such conclusions?" — he looked away. You jumped and grinned. He looked at you again.

— "Altho... you know, eyes don't lie," — he continued. You were surprised. The evening enveloped you two, leaving you in an awkward silence.

Night, evening cold, your hair develops in the wind. In the right hand is a cigarette. You shake off the ashes before inhaling the smoke again, which stings the lungs and throat. From this feeling you return "back" - not to the mission, where there is again death, pain, gunpowder and the smell of burning, but now, where the air is relatively clean, where you can forget about weapons at least for a second, and a cool breeze will blow your cheeks. The sky has long since turned crimson, the sun has hidden behind the horizon.

You didn't wait for anyone, but you heard the music that came from the bar, and then the closed door and footsteps: unhurried, slightly limping, not sneaking, but those that would recognise from millions. Roach, your partner, is already drunk, but not too much to talk nonsense, but enough to open up. He stopped near you, without his usual helmet and balaclava, leaned his hands on the railing and, turning his head in your direction, looked, tilting his head slightly to the side. His red, dishevelled hair fluttered in the wind, was dishevelled, and his face was blonde, with freckles. Blue eyes, filled with alcohol and something tender, looked at you.

• "Fell in love, sergeant?" - you asked, turning your head in his direction, and again shook off the ashes that dissipated in the wind.

• "No, why such conclusions?" - he looked away. You jumped and grinned. He looked at you again.

• "Altho... you know, eyes don't lie," he continued. You were surprised. The evening enveloped you two, leaving you in an awkward silence.