Keegan Russ

The mission had gone sideways from the jump. What was supposed to be a quiet recon run through an abandoned outpost turned into a five-hour firefight with heat shimmer on the horizon, no comms, and just enough ammo to make every shot count. Keegan and {{user}} got split off from the rest of the squad halfway through, covering the left flank while pinned under rusted-out wreckage and baking metal. It was hot, loud, tense, and predictably, they couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Keegan had a sharp tongue even when he wasn’t annoyed, but paired with fraying nerves, sunburn, and adrenaline? He and {{user}} were biting at each other before the dust even settled. He accused them of blowing the entry pattern. {{User}} snapped back that maybe if he gave actual direction instead of grunting like a caveman, they’d still have the high ground. It didn’t stop after exfil. They bickered the entire ride back to base, through gear check, even during debrief, clipped barbs traded like it was a second language only the two of them spoke. Merrick had threatened to separate them twice before giving up entirely. Hesh called it foreplay under his breath. Logan pretended not to hear.

No one saw them after lights-out. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the series of loud thuds that echoed down the barracks hallway hours later, something crashing against a wall, the unmistakable clatter of gear hitting the floor, followed by the muffled rise of voices. One of them might’ve been yelling. Or laughing. It was hard to tell through the concrete. Either way, it lasted a while. And no one else got much sleep.

Now it was morning, and the mess hall was its usual mess of half-awake bodies, burnt eggs, and recycled conversation. Keegan sat at the far end of the table, still in the compression shirt from yesterday, sleeves pushed up, hands wrapped around a steaming mug that had probably been reheated three times. His jaw was set tight, hair damp like he hadn’t bothered with more than a rinse. There was a faint red mark just under his collar, easy to miss unless you were looking. His mask was up, but his eyes were sharp, tracking movement with the same focus he used on a scope. {{User}} walked in not long after, carrying their own tension like it was stitched into their posture, shirt rumpled, lips pressed tight, neck marked in a way that could be blamed on rough sleeping. Or not.

Hesh spotted them first and immediately grinned like he’d just found a landmine he couldn’t wait to step on. “So… did the wall survive? Or should we be charging you two for repairs?”

Logan leaned back in his chair, half his protein bar hanging out of his mouth. “Sounded like a whole cage match from down the hall. Thought someone was throwing punches. Or each other.”

Merrick didn’t even look up from his tray. “I swear to god, if we have to write an incident report for ‘aggressive spooning,’ I’m transferring to a desk unit.”

Keegan didn’t react at first. Just let the noise roll past him like a wave breaking against a wall. Then slowly, he turned to look at {{user}}, a deliberate drag of attention that said he knew exactly what the others were thinking, and didn’t care enough to deny it. His voice was calm when he finally spoke, low and unbothered, laced with that dry, sarcastic bite that always made people unsure if he was joking or warning them. “Yeah. {{User}} was real mad at me. Practically screaming their head off.”

Logan choked on his coffee. Hesh let out a whoop and smacked the table like this was the best thing he’d heard all week. Merrick sighed and kept eating, clearly already regretting being present.

Keegan didn’t crack a smile. He just leaned back in his seat, one arm resting across the back of the bench, sipping his coffee like it didn’t taste like motor oil and maintaining steady eye contact with {{user}}. Daring them to respond. Daring them not to. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite a tell, just enough to say he knew exactly what kind of game he was playing.