The grumble of the car settles deep within your stomach, quickly vibrating your organs, filling you with a soft adrenaline rush as you gaze through the hazy windshield. Specks of grey dirt spatter the glass, leading along trails of splattered insects and plant debris. A delicate wing of a mosquito flutters in the almost stagnant air, flipping up and down as a cloud of orange sand whisks by.

"Do you like it?"

His deep voice coils through the air, chilling like an empty alleyway in the clutches of midnight. His words cut through your ears, like scissors slicing through sheets of crumpled cardstock. You look over to the driver's seat, worn from many maddened voyages through this desert, to meet his electric, pulsing eyes. They burn scarlet from the reservoirs of toxic nitro beating deep within his body.

You push yourself up a bit up in your seat, preparing to take on his question. "Yes, sir. I do."

A silence falls again over the vehicle. You don't feel any tension residing within yourself. This is a quiet that doesn't need fulfillment, but a gentle energy comes from Megalo Don. A begging, or maybe confusion. He wants you to talk.

"Do you like it?" you sputter, feeling a rocket of shame shatter through your spine. What kind of question is that? Of course he does. Your palms grow clammy as a horde of anxiety plummets into your core. You've never been ready for a role like this, especially in a social sense. You were always the calm, quiet, and respectful grunt that carried out his duties.

And becoming a general is an honor, but you are quickly catching that maybe it is not meant for you. It is so much chatter and long hours trapped in dimly lit rooms as you interact with warmongering people who boast about the promises of their plans for conquering the island of Athena. Just chatter. Just noise.

So much noise.

And talking.

And arrogance.

And insanity.

And now, here you are, sitting in the car of the ringleader, listening and answering to his small talk as you wait for your target to arrive over the peak of a dune or morph out of a mirage. This is the first mission following the promotion, and it is solo with Megalo Don.

"Yeah, it's fine." Don cracks open his window, letting some of the dry, sweltering air whip through his stark white hair. The fine hairs reflect the sickly yellow light, flashing as they coursed through the choking wind.

There is something about him that you hate to admit: you want him. Even with his crazed outbursts and dominating demands, a deep, ravenous passion still ignites you each time you saw him. Maybe it is just the toned curves of his body that set it off. He is physically beautiful, but you can't pull yourself to completely fall into his arms.

He is all sex and no long-term security.

It is just best to stay where you are and not cross boundaries. Besides, he is very adamant about sticking to hierarchies. A grunt-just-turned-general is not anywhere close to his level of power, and therefore, nowhere near his scope of suitors. And you've never seen him with anyone, anyways. Maybe he doesn't want anyone. Does he even like men? There hasn't been any signs except for the fact that he hasn't dated any of the women around him. The Machinist and Ringmaster Scarr work with him daily, and while they all seem comfortable around each other, playing a bit and making humorous remarks, there is no spark of romance. Just a casual professional relationship.

And maybe that is all there is to it. Work with Don, but don't expect him to fall for you. We are here to conquer whatever he wants, not to lie with him. He doesn't even treat you special. Well, except for occasionally calling you -

"Dude, snap the fuck out of it!"

A thunderous, piercing bash sparks close to your face, throwing your ears into a ringing storm. Your eyes feel tight as your pupils dilate, searching for the source of the incoming threat. The stench of gunpowder grabs your soft nostrils before a gentle, warm wave of red cascades through the shattered passenger window.

Don's controlled breathing moves through the settling air as he pulls his shotgun back. Your turn your head, watching as a headless body, armed with a rifle, plops to the sand a few feet from Don's car. Its blood dribbles down the countless shards of glass decorating your lap and slashed skin. The suspension of the car dips down as Don slips out of the car, the door cracking as he smashes it shut. He slammed it not out of anger; the door is dented. It doesn't close properly.

You let yourself out, and the sand dips down as your tattered boots hit the amber landscape. Don slips his muscular hands into his deep trench coat pockets, gazing neutrally at the carnage slowly spilling over the sizzling ground.

"What happened?" he mutters. "I called your name many times when he came into sight."

You remain silent, forcing yourself to keep your chest up and posture proud. The urge to slump against the car and beg for forgiveness is unbearable.

"I made a mistake," you reply.

"A big fucking mistake."

You don't respond or make any gestures. Don turns his head, locking his ember eyes onto you.

"Hear me?"

"Yes."

"Then say something, dammit. Staring at me mindlessly while I yell at you." He shakes his head, and your heart fills with the smog of dread. He scratches the back of his neck, a cluster of small nicks obviously pestering him. Based on the shape of the cuts, you suspect he tried to freshen his haircut with a razor. A few small patches of untrimmed hair remains.

"I can help you next time."

Don lifts his hand, his fingers wavering in the air. A silence takes over, this time heavy and sweltering. Don shuffles over to you, his large boots sending up small plumes of rogue sand. He settles before you, his fine hair glistening with angelic light as his head blocks the raging sun.

"Are you drunk?"

"What?" you whisper.

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about? Just staring at me as I tell you, command you, what to do, and now offering to cut my hair? What are you going on about?" Don tends to the back of his neck again before quickly dropping his hand. "If this was anyone else, I would be...God, I don't even know."

Don's hand suddenly wraps around your shoulder. He leans down a tad, his eyes floating into view.

"Shape up. There will be no second chance again, got it? I know you just got to this army two months ago and you are a general now, but...you just show potential. Just..." Don flicks his hand towards you. "figure out whatever the hell this is."

Don rounds the car, leaving you to stew in the aftermath. What is wrong with you? What was that stupid interaction. With Don? Are you serious?

"Hey, uh." Don's voice comes from behind the remnants of the burst window. "Was that an actual offer?"

"A-about what?" You turn your head to the left a tad, allowing your frail voice to carry over to him better.

"My hair."

"Um. Yeah. You just looked...uncomfortable. Plus, you want a good haircut."

"It's bad?"

"Oh, no, no." You spin around, looking through the hole in the window at Don, the dangerous, angled shards reaching out towards his face, encapsulated by his mask. "Just a tad uneven. Just, cutting your own hair is hard. If you want me to, I can get it for you."

"Yeah, that works. We have some plans I need to go over, anyways."