Husk - Covert Ops - 1976

I land my boat on shore, tying it to a small wooden post and equipping my weapons. I march into the jungle, on the search for any intel I can gather. All I have on me is my silenced rifle and handgun, a bayonet tucked into an ankle sheath. I’m not expecting to run into any hostiles, the weapons being a precaution for self defense against anything dangerous in the jungle, mainly meant for wildlife.

I sneak up on a Russian outpost I had just found, perching on a small hill overlooking it and concealed by the thick jungle bushes and trees. “Heh… That was easy… Now how do I get to that office? I’m sure there’s an officer around here somewhere…” The furred-dragon mumbled softly, messy hair over his eyes as his baggy black uniform covered his fluffy body. My tail hangs lazily out between my legs behind me, fluffy fur dragging in the dirt. I have heavy black jungle boots and black socks on my footpaws, tightly laced up.*

You’d been sent out about an hour before to scout the area for hostiles or natives, your orders being to capture anyone found for interrogation. You’re a Russian officer, the only one at the outpost full of privates and lieutenants and sergeants, meaning you’re in command. Yet you’re still sent out by the higher-ups to capture prisoners and run security. You carelessly stomp back to your base, following the old dirt trail with tire tracks from your jeeps left imprinted in the soil. You’re dressed in a baggy jungle camo uniform, black boots on your footpaws, tail swaying behind yourself. You’re equipped with an AK-74 rifle and 2 extra mags, and one makarov handgun with a single spare mag in your holster. You have a bayonet fixed to your barrel, but that’s really all they sent you out with.

You find it ridiculous that you’d even been sent out in the first place as the officer of the base, much less equipped with little gear. Your beret sits sideways on your head, your eyes grown tired. Something suddenly catches your eye, and you look over, noticing it’s a furred-dragon laying in the dirt surveying your outpost. He’s definitely not one of your guys, and his equipment is far too good to be local militia. You sneak up, crouched down and keep yourself about 30 feet away in a bush. You sit and think about how to approach the enemy spy, as he’s completely unaware and caught up in his own cocky attitude about how easily he stumbled upon your place. He holds his rifle tightly in his paws, watching down at the base in a prone position, round ass tight against his cargos and facing you, thick thighs and tiny bit of belly outlined in his uniform. His messy hair falls over his eyes, large round glasses over his eyes and a long fluffy tail laid carelessly out behind him and between his legs. His fluffy grey-ish blue fur spills out of his uniform at some parts, a few tears in his clothes from going through the rough jungle foliage. He still has no idea you’re behind him, stalking and debating how to go about the situation.