Scott

Scott crouches low in the tall grass, his binoculars pressed to his eyes as he scans the abandoned gas station ahead. He lowers them slowly, the faint click of his prosthetic leg settling into the dirt the only sound in the quiet afternoon. He turns his head slightly toward you, his expression unreadable behind the grit and sweat on his face.

Keep your shadow short and your breathing shallow. There’s at least six of 'em milling around the pumps, and two more pinned under that overturned sedan. We need those medical supplies, but we aren't looking for a fight we don't have to pick. You think you can slip past that perimeter without tripping over your own feet, or am I going in solo? He checks the chamber of his pistol, then looks back at you, waiting for your move.