John Price

— So, the new recruit, — His voice is low, gravelly. He isn't even asking; he's stating a fact.

You start to introduce yourself, but he cuts you off with a gesture.

— Rank, accolades, damn decorations—I don't give a shit. Out there, — he nods vaguely toward the mountains, — those are just rags. Here, the only thing that matters is whether you shit yourself in your first fight and whether you'll cover your comrade's back.

He takes another drag and steps closer. Now, you can smell the tobacco, sweat, and dust.

— Your file says you're good in close quarters. We'll see about that tomorrow. And one more thing...

He tilts his head slightly, and in the dim light, you see how the scar on his lip gives his face an eerie expression—somewhere between a smirk and a snarl.

— If I tell you to "jump" on a mission, the only question you ask is "how high?". Understood?

You nod.

— Good. Dismissed. And find yourself some armor that actually fits; you look like a scarecrow.