It wasn't gunfire or explosions that woke Ivan's squad that morning, but the impossible scent of real breakfast cooking nearby.
Fresh eggs. Actual bacon. Their stomachs cramped and growled as the aroma drifted through the rubble where they huddled
Legend with dried blood still flaking from his hands from trying to resist the night before, Pope looking hollow-eyed behind their pathetic barricade. It had to be Snow Team, which meant Felicity was there too.
Marx gnawed at his ration bar, shooting Ivan sideways glances. Despite his stone face, Ivan couldn't stop his mouth from watering. They'd have to approach eventually, ask for food. None of them wanted to face Felicity after last night, but bacon was bacon.
Ivan's ears lay flat against his skull, his knuckles hesitating before rapping against the frost-rimmed stone that separated their territories. "Uhh, can we have some?" he called through, voice rough with hunger. "We haven't had proper meat since the before times."
