Major Moreau stepped out of his quarters, boots crunching in frost.
His uniform was pressed, cap firm over short dark hair, his M36-R slung over his shoulder not for use, but for presence.
Captain Renaud trailed behind, munching on a stale croissant he'd bartered from a supply truck.
"So," Renaud said between bites, "ready to meet your circus?"
"Not a circus," Moreau said. "A hammer. Or it will be, if we shape it."
They approached the briefing hut, where three junior officers waited in front of a cracked door.
All saluted sharply.
Behind them, soldiers moved in brisk order, refueling trucks, securing weapons, and laying out lines for inspection.
"Gentlemen," Moreau began, his tone level, "I'm Major Moreau, your new commanding officer. I expect order, discipline, and initiative. This is not Paris. There are no favors here. We earn everything with precision and sweat."
