Hawkins flattened himself against the jagged rock face, barely daring to breathe. He'd stopped counting the days; it had to be a week, give or take, since he'd been dropped in this desert hell. His flight suit was caked with dust and grime, and his throat felt raw under the relentless sun. He'd had better times, no question.
Sweat trickled under the collar of his uniform as he peered around a boulder, searching for any sign of his pursuers. The midday heat shimmered over the dune-scattered horizon, turning everything into a mirage. In the distance, a faint dust cloud hinted at an approaching patrol. Hawkins cursed under his breath, repositioning his compact PDW. He hated this part—he was a pilot, not some ground-pounder infantry type. If he wanted this, he would've joined the Army in the first place.
He could still hear Captain Chase's calm voice from the briefing a week ago, echoing in his mind: "In the unlikely event you're forced down behind enemy lines, you will need to know how to survive, evade capture, resist interrogation, and escape. We're working with the Egyptian Army to simulate a full-scale pursuit." At the time, he'd scoffed. It sounded routine. But the moment he'd touched down out here, all illusions vanished. This was SERE training, Overwatch-style—taken to extremes he'd thought he'd left behind with his old Air Force service.
His lungs burned as he slid deeper behind the rock, recalling the intense week of cat-and-mouse. Two separate Egyptian infantry companies were involved: one, "the enemy," tasked with finding and "capturing" him, the other—Captain Fareeha Amari's unit—trying to rescue him. So far, the enemy had proven ruthlessly efficient, locking down the region with patrols and overhead drones that prowled the skies. Hawkins had grown intimately familiar with the dusty gullies and sparse rock formations of this desert, searching for any scrap of shade or concealment he could find.
He rested a moment, grabbing his near-empty water pouch. One last swig, then he forced himself to save the dregs for later. How many times did I swear I'd rather ground myself than do another SERE run? he thought. If it weren't for Overwatch's demands, he'd be in the cockpit right now, free from the dust and fear pressing in from all sides. But Overwatch expected no less—every angle covered, every scenario practiced.
A faint mechanical whir came from above: a reconnaissance drone, circling like a vulture. Hawkins fought an urge to bolt. Instead, he pressed tight against the rock, controlling his breathing. One misstep, and the whole "enemy" platoon would converge before Fareeha's relief force could come close to rescuing him.
He adjusted his PDW's strap and flicked off a clump of sand from the barrel, wryly noting how useless it felt against an entire company. Still, standard procedure demanded he carry it—just in case. He smirked humorlessly, Pilots aren't supposed to be on foot, right? Yet here he was, crouching in swirling heat and dust, thoroughly grounded.
With a long sigh, he resumed inching forward, mind running through the next steps: find better cover, ration water, pray the rescue came soon. Welcome back to your nightmares, he thought darkly. Welcome back to SERE.
The desert sun hung at its zenith, beating down without mercy. Nate Hawkins ground his teeth, pressing himself flatter against the coarse sand. A sudden gust of hot wind kicked granules into his face, biting at his skin like a swarm of microscopic needles. Still, he didn't dare move. Above him, the buzzing rotors of a surveillance drone cut across the sky in tight arcs, its harsh mechanical hum echoing off distant rock formations. The "enemy force" had raised the stakes, and Hawkins could feel the pressure mounting with every passing second.
His gaze flicked upward, spotting the small, insect-like silhouette circling overhead. They're intensifying the search all right, he thought grimly. It wasn't enough that an entire Egyptian Army infantry company was scouring the terrain on foot—now they had an aerial element as well. The combination of ground patrols, overhead drones, and the omnipresent risk of an actual helicopter pass nearly made him want to sprint for an open canyon and risk it all. But survival instincts—and years of hammered-in SERE procedure—urged him to stay put until the drone drifted on.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, ignoring the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. One misstep here and that drone pilot sees me, calls in the "capture" team. Another humiliating end to a SERE scenario, a memory he still carried like an old scar from his prior Air Force days. He'd dreaded these exact circumstances: away from the cockpit, ground-bound, a single PDW and minimal gear between him and overwhelming numbers. If I wanted to be a ground pounder, I'd have joined the Army or the Marines, he told himself yet again, half-joking, half-bitter.
The whine of the drone mercifully moved off, fading just enough that he felt safe to shift position. Rolling onto his side, he dared a quick glance at the horizon. Ages ago, these bleached dunes and scattered rock faces had seemed picturesque, almost majestic in their emptiness. Now they felt like a cage with too few hiding spots and far too many eyes. The day's heat shimmered in waves, forging mirages that warped the ground. Pretty sure my water is down to two mouthfuls at best, he tallied, patting his canteen. No chance of a refill unless I find some nasty old wadi… and that's not happening soon.
He scanned the environment for a new route. The top of a rocky ridge loomed some hundred meters ahead, crowned by stunted bushes that might grant temporary concealment. Taking a breath, he slithered forward on his stomach, wincing as small stones dug into his elbows. Every motion had to be calculated—too fast, and he'd kick up dust or silhouette himself against the sand. Too slow, and the ever-shifting patrols might box him in.
His mind churned with memory fragments from prior SERE experiences: the stinging lash of desert wind, the exhaustion in every muscle, the raw edge of fear that never quite dissipated. He recalled the simulation during his USAF service, how the "enemy" had cornered him in a forest, pinned him under searchlights, and dragged him off for a mock interrogation. I swore then I'd never do that again. And yet… Overwatch. He almost laughed at the irony, but the dryness in his throat turned it into a rasping cough. Maybe I should have listened to that promise… but here we are.
Suddenly, far off to his left, movement caught his eye—dust clouds thrown up by vehicles. He squinted. More enemy troops, presumably searching in a coordinated sweep pattern. They were still distant, but their path suggested they might head his way in time. An involuntary surge of panic pulsed through him. The dreaded scenario: pinned from multiple sides, with no backup. If Fareeha's company doesn't show soon, I'm fucked, he admitted to himself.
He braced a forearm beneath him and snaked forward again, inch by painstaking inch. His PDW's strap dug into his shoulder, reminding him that even though he carried a weapon, it wouldn't do much good against an entire company trained for desert warfare. In an actual engagement, they'd outflank him in minutes. But standard Overwatch operating procedures insisted every pilot receive ground-combat survival gear during an event like this. Better to have it than not, I guess. He swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat.
As he neared a rocky outcrop, he paused again, half-propped behind a jagged boulder. The oppressive sun poured onto him, unrelenting, but the stone provided a sliver of shade. He rested there briefly, panting. Long enough to catch my breath, he told himself, sliding his canteen out and daring a sip. Warm water trickled down his parched throat, offering little relief but staving off dehydration a few moments more.
A sudden burst of static from his earpiece made him freeze. The "rescue" frequency crackled once, then fell silent. He strained to hear any instructions, but there was nothing—just the faint hiss of open air. Sojourn and Fareeha Amari's voices had remained quiet for most of the day, presumably struggling to keep their own transmissions short to avoid tipping off the "enemy." At least they're still in the fight, he reassured himself, pushing away the gnawing worry that the entire operation might have left him behind.
Just as he considered daring another step, a gruff shout carried across the dunes—some command from the enemy unit. It was too distant to make out words, but the urgency in the tone sent chills down his spine. They were close, probably found fresh tracks or footprints. He huddled tighter against the rock, cursing quietly. They're onto me, or at least narrowing the search.
Now or never. He readjusted his PDW, ready to bolt if they advanced. His mind spun with possible escape routes. Maybe if he circled east around the ridge, he could break line of sight. Or maybe he'd have to crawl half a kilometer under scalding sun, hoping no one spotted him. Neither option appealed, but that was life in SERE territory: choosing between the frying pan or the fire.
He blew out a tense breath, forcibly calming himself. This is why you train. Overwatch wants you to feel how hopeless it can get, so you push your limits. The logic didn't comfort him much, but it gave him focus. Adrenaline surged, sharpening every sense. He brushed off the worst of the dust clinging to his arms, peeked once more around the edge of the boulder, and made his decision: keep moving, keep hiding, keep hoping. Fareeha's rescue team would come through—he had to believe that.
Hooking the canteen back onto his belt, he eased forward, low and slow. The sun's glare punished him from above, and the enemy's unyielding search closed in from all sides. But he kept crawling, spurred onward by the single thought that if he could keep them guessing just a little longer, the cavalry might finally arrive—and spare him from a second, humiliating "capture."
The sun edged past its apex, casting desert shadows that offered little actual relief from the heat. Nathaniel Hawkins holed up behind a rocky overhang, breathing in shallow spurts to keep dust out of his lungs. He'd spent the past hour sneaking across a series of sun-baked ravines, crouching low whenever he heard boots crunching on gravel or the buzz of an overhead drone. His water was nearly gone, and his heart hammered with each close call. If Fareeha and her so-called "rescue" team didn't find him soon, the "enemy" platoon sure would.
A faint crackle made him tense—his earpiece flickered to life. A burst of static. Then a calm, measured voice: Captain Vivian "Sojourn" Chase.
"Strike One, we have limited comm windows. Acknowledge if you hear me."
Relief washed over him, so strong his eyes almost stung. "Copy, Sojourn," he whispered. "Good to hear your voice. Location's still compromised—enemy's got a net of drones."
"Understood," Sojourn replied. "One of Fareeha's platoons is sweeping north, but the opposition is locking down your quadrant. We see heavy foot patrols and at least one manned helicopter. Recommend minimal comms and continue with SERE protocols."
He snorted softly, half in amusement and half in misery. "Captain, I'd rather eat glass than re-hash this training any longer."
He could practically hear Sojourn's faint chuckle. "You're doing fine. Remember, limit your exposure. Head to the next ridge east if possible—around grid coordinates Echo-Sierra seven-four-one-eight. Rescue force is cutting a corridor for you."
Static surged again, then another voice slipped through the interference: Fareeha Amari. "Strike One, we're close. Keep shifting east and we'll rendezvous, but you must stay low. There's a drone net overhead—any larger movement and they'll pick you up."
"Roger," he whispered, peering over the rock. In the distance, he spotted a pair of uniformed figures combing the terrain. The sun glinted off their rifles. "I'll do my best. The illusions of me having better days are thoroughly shattered."
Despite the tension, a corner of his mouth twitched at the unintentional humor. Gone were the comforts of a cockpit's climate control and advanced sensors. Now, he was the sensor, forced to rely on wits, caution, and the patchy guidance from overhead watchers who were themselves pinned by the "enemy's" coverage.
He inched around the boulder. The path east was a sloping stretch of rock littered with thorny shrubs—enough to hide him, but also enough to slow him down. He checked his PDW, ensuring the safety was off. Not that he had illusions about winning a firefight, but it might buy him seconds if discovered.
Another wave of dust swirled across the ridge, and the faint whine of a drone approached from behind. Gritting his teeth, Hawkins scrambled closer to the low shrubs, trying to vanish into the desert's harsh folds. He pictured Fareeha's company forging a path somewhere out there, angled to break him free. Just a bit longer, he told himself, half wishing for a short nap but knowing better. If he let down his guard now, the next footsteps he heard might be the "enemy" pouncing on him first.
The late-afternoon sun cast jagged shadows across the desert floor, harsh beams piercing every crevice and sand-blown ridge. Hawkins, battered by exhaustion, skulked through a winding gorge that seemed to grow narrower with every step. His water was gone—tilted back for a final gulp twenty minutes ago—leaving his tongue dry and sandpapery. The intense overhead glare was softened only slightly by the tattered brim of his desert cap, yet the sweat in his eyes still stung ferociously.
A distant helicopter-like whirr droned somewhere behind him. He'd recognized that sound pattern earlier: enemy search teams deploying small air units or drones overhead to force him into a trap. They're herding me, Hawkins thought grimly, scanning the rocky outcrops. Everywhere he looked, potential watchpoints or vantage spots beckoned, each concealing who-knew-how-many "enemy" soldiers. If he didn't find an exit soon, he'd be surrounded.
He inched around the next bend and froze at the sight of a half-dozen uniformed figures cresting the ridge line. They spread into a textbook infantry skirmish formation, scanning the canyon with methodical precision. Hawkins's heart lurched—he was pinned from behind by the drones and from the front by this well-trained squad. With nowhere else to go, he dove behind a crumbling boulder. Of course this is how it ends. SERE training or not, they've got me.
For a breathless moment, the only sound was his own ragged breathing. Then he forced himself to move. Sprinting along the rock face, he noticed an old maintenance shed jutting out of the sand like a relic, alongside piles of rusted crates. It wasn't much—just a weather-beaten structure riddled with holes and drooping under its own weight—but it was better than nothing. He charged the final stretch, stooping low while bullets (or in reality, Overwatch's training rounds) cracked into the ground behind him, kicking up violent sprays of dust.
He slammed against the shed's warped metal door, staggering inside. The interior reeked of decay—rotted wood, ancient oil, and desert grit. Its few windows were caked with dust, and the walls were riddled with gaps wide enough for fingers to slip through, let alone gunfire. Adrenaline spiked. He was cornered, weapon in hand, and all around him, the "enemy" advanced with professional coolness. This is just an exercise, a distant part of his mind repeated. But it sure doesn't feel like it.
Outside, the "enemy" squad barked orders in Arabic, spreading out to encircle the shed. Hawkins tried to steady his racing pulse. The PDW in his hands suddenly felt laughably small. If this were real, he mused darkly, I'd be a sitting duck. But the scenario demanded he fight—stave them off long enough for Fareeha Amari's forces to intervene. Gripping his gun in a clammy palm, he peeked through a jagged crack near shoulder height, scanning for movement. In the distance, the sun glinted off a soldier's rifle barrel—close enough that Hawkins could swear he heard the rustle of the man's uniform.
Gritting his teeth, he lined up the sight and squeezed the trigger, sending a quick, measured burst in that direction. The training rounds spat out a sharp rattle, their "impact" presumably registering on the soldier's gear. Through the dusty gloom, Hawkins saw the figure reel backward, effectively "knocked out" of the exercise. A pang of savage satisfaction flitted through him, overshadowed by the knowledge that he'd just revealed his position to everyone else. Sure enough, the rest opened up with return fire, banging the shed's fragile walls and turning the interior into a haze of swirling grit.
Hawkins ducked behind an overturned crate, heart slamming against his ribs. The hammered metal siding moaned under the onslaught, dust showering from the rafters. This is it, he thought, half expecting the door to burst inward any second, "enemy" barrels aimed at his head. Gasping for breath, he clutched the PDW tighter, straining to hear anything beyond the staccato rattle of training rounds cutting into wood and corrugated steel.
And yet, a small voice inside him insisted he hold on: Fareeha said they were close. Sojourn said they were pushing in. He wasn't alone in this, not truly. Despite the fear, the dryness in his throat, and the screech of metal overhead, he forced himself to stay coherent. Just stall them, he urged. Don't give up now.
Then, an unmistakable crump of detonations thundered outside. The ground shook under Hawkins's boots, nearly toppling him to one knee. Through the battered gap in the wall, he glimpsed rising clouds of dust, accompanied by startled shouts. Fareeha's rescue party had arrived, unleashing blank mortar salvos or some Overwatch-simulated ordnance that looked and sounded frighteningly real.
In seconds, the entire dynamic flipped. The flanking "enemy" force broke off their assault on the shed, forced to defend themselves against Fareeha's sudden onslaught. Hawkins's radio crackled again.
"Strike One, this is Horus Six Actual." Fareeha's voice was calm but urgent, underscored by the thump of more simulated explosions. "Hold position. We've got the enemy pinned. My squad is converging on your location now."
Hawkins couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. Relief flooded him, washing away some of the raw terror he'd been grappling with. "Copy, Captain. I'm here in…some questionable real estate." He eyed the battered interior, half-laughing through his exhaustion.
Outside, confusion reigned among the "enemy." Gunfire rattled from multiple angles. Hawkins peered again through the crevice, observing soldiers scrambling as Fareeha's well-coordinated platoons advanced in disciplined formation. Even from a distance, he recognized the synergy that had made their morning exercises so effective: squads moving methodically, each fireteam covering the next. The push was swift, thorough, forcing the opposing force to either flee or risk being "taken out" of the simulation.
A final explosion echoed across the dunes, and then, like a switch being flipped, the fighting died away. Hawkins's earpiece crackled with Sojourn's crisp tone. "All stations, ENDEX. That concludes the simulation. Excellent work, everyone. Stand down and regroup."
Hawkins's shoulders slumped in relief, his breath hitching slightly as adrenaline ebbed away. He closed his eyes briefly, letting gratitude wash over him. He'd almost forgotten how powerful that rush of relief could be—real or simulated, the feelings were identical.
For a moment, Hawkins remained crouched, mind struggling to process that it was actually over. He inhaled shakily, then forced himself to stand. The battered shed looked even worse in the lingering dust—sunlight streamed in through dozens of bullet holes. Slowly, carefully, he stepped outside, blinking away the grit. What met his eyes was a scene of carefully orchestrated aftermath: soldiers from both "sides" standing around, removing training blanks from their rifles, chattering about close calls or missed opportunities.
Hawkins exhaled a breath he'd been holding for far too long. He glanced across the sands to see Captain Fareeha Amari striding toward him in her full armor, rifle slung over her shoulder. A few of her subordinates trailed behind, expressions equal parts relief and triumphant grin. Hawkins couldn't help but bark out a weary laugh. They got me at the last second, but they got me.
He lifted a hand in a small wave, quipping, "Glad you decided to drop by, Captain. Thought I might have to rent a place here permanently."
Fareeha shook her head in amusement. "We cut it close, I'll admit." Her gaze flicked to the battered remains of the shed, lips curving into a half-smile. "Though you put up quite a fight on your own."
Before Hawkins could reply, a few Overwatch observers arrived, nodding in approval at the thoroughly tested scenario. Sojourn's voice crackled for the last time on the open channel: "All units, proceed to designated rally points for debrief. Training operation complete."
Hawkins let out another shaky breath. The desert sun might be setting, but his adrenaline still coursed hot in his veins. He was alive, un-captured—and after that ordeal, he understood why Overwatch insisted on SERE exercises: every scenario, no matter how grim, had a solution if you worked together and played your part.
The training might have concluded, but the memory of that last stand in the shed, bullets hammering the walls, would stay vivid—a stark reminder that behind the simulated illusions lay the real stakes Overwatch sought to master. With a silent nod to himself, Hawkins followed Fareeha and her troops back into the desert haze, ready to rest, debrief, and hopefully never do SERE again for as long as he lived.
A dusky glow spread over the desert base as the sun slipped below the horizon, shedding warmth on the makeshift AAR (After-Action Review) site. Several large tables and folding chairs had been arranged under a canvas canopy, strings of portable lights illuminating a swath of sand that served as an improvised briefing area. Though still dusty, sweat-streaked, and exhausted from the SERE simulation, Overwatch and Egyptian personnel settled into seats or leaned against crates, ready to dissect the day's grueling exercise.
The smell of sweat, desert dust, and lingering gunpowder from training rounds saturated the air beneath the canvas canopy. The distant hum of a generator provided a low, constant backdrop, occasionally interrupted by soft murmurs or weary chuckles.
Hawkins trudged in last, half a step behind Captain Fareeha Amari. With each step, his thighs burn with fatigue, and his limbs felt leaden, dragging more than walking. Every bone and muscle seemed to cry out for rest; he swore his boots had doubled in weight. He felt the sting of raw sand abrasions under his collar, and everything else ached from hours of crawling and ducking behind flimsy cover. The moment he slipped under the canopy, a wave of cooler air coaxed a sigh from him.
"Good of you to join us," Captain Vivian "Sojourn" Chase said, half-smiling from behind a battered field table. "Take a seat, Lieutenant."
Hawkins dropped wearily onto a folding chair, forcing a polite nod. He'd glimpsed the reflection of his own dusty face in a leftover piece of polished metal earlier—he looked every bit the haggard, half-starved survivor he was meant to be. If there was one thing he wanted to do besides breathing, it was to find a shower. He stifled a grimace and mustered a tight-lipped smile.
"All right, everyone," Sojourn began, addressing the group. "Let's keep this succinct—focus on what worked, where our vulnerabilities showed, and how we can refine our SERE protocols for the future."
A low murmur ran around the group; a few Egyptian officers exchanged glances, while Overwatch support staff tapped data slates. Fareeha crossed her arms and nodded attentively, as though bracing to speak. Hawkins, however, slumped forward, elbows braced on his knees, mind darting between thoughts of bed and hot water—and yes, maybe food if he was lucky. To say he was starving was a colossal understatement.
Sojourn motioned to Hawkins first. "Lieutenant, you were the central figure in this scenario. Care to share your perspective?"
He cleared his throat, the dryness of his mouth reminding him how little water he'd had. "Yes, Captain… I'm just glad it's over." He almost laughed at how weak his voice sounded. "Honestly, even knowing it was an exercise, I hated how vulnerable I felt out there. I was basically a sand-scratching sitting duck, if they had ducks in Egypt."
A ripple of amusement broke the formal atmosphere, a few chuckles rumbling around the canopy. Fareeha's gaze flickered with faint sympathy, and she offered the barest hint of a smile. One of the Egyptian sergeants cracked a grin, nodding in agreement as if to say We saw your predicament.
Hawkins took a steadying breath and added with a half-shrug, "And, not gonna lie—I'd sell my very expensive, multi-million dollar plane for a decent shower right about now."
A bigger laugh rolled through the group. Even Sojourn—normally composed—let her lips quirk upward at the corners. "I'm sure that can be arranged," she said wryly. "But we needed your raw reaction. The point was for you to handle a ground situation in the worst-case scenario."
"Yeah, well, you succeeded," Hawkins replied, leaning back in the creaky chair. "Between the overhead drones and the infantry net, my old Air Force SERE was child's play compared to this. So, mission accomplished, right?"
Another wave of soft laughter echoed. Mendez, the Chief Master Sergeant who'd helped coordinate and maintain Hawkins's flight ops, piped up from one side: "Be grateful they didn't toss in double the drones. They had them on standby, just in case."
Hawkins shot him a long-suffering look. "They were one step from that, I'm sure." Despite his fatigue, he couldn't help smiling. The group's lighthearted banter balanced the seriousness of the day's ordeal. At least he wasn't alone in the madness.
Fareeha took the floor next, her voice firm but friendly as she highlighted how her company coordinated to break the "enemy's" flanking attempts. She singled out certain Overwatch observers for providing real-time feed of Hawkins's approximate position, which allowed them to plan a timely rescue. "We cut it close," she admitted. "Had the enemy pinned him for another few minutes, it might have gone differently."
"Yeah, no shit," Hawkins muttered softly, drawing knowing chuckles from a few onlookers.
Sojourn eventually brought the conversation back around, concluding with a note that the SERE test data would be compiled into official Overwatch protocols. "Excellent job, everyone. We'll finalize the after-action logs and share them with the rest of Overwatch and Egyptian command, but let's call this portion done for tonight."
Hawkins exhaled in unbridled relief. He was officially free to drag himself unceremoniously to the showers and maybe pass out for a day or two straight. The swirl of participants started dispersing—Egyptian officers forming small huddles of animated talk, Overwatch specialists yawning or removing earpieces. But Sojourn raised a hand, signaling Hawkins and Fareeha to remain.
Hawkins eyed Sojourn warily. "Something else, Captain?"
Sojourn offered a thin smile, glancing between him and Fareeha. "That's right. HQ has decided we need extra PR coverage to highlight Overwatch-Egyptian cooperation here." She paused. "We brought in a Public Affairs Specialist for this rotation to shadow you both—document your coordination, gather footage, do interviews. Typical outreach material."
Fareeha's brow creased, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. "And they want to focus on us specifically?"
"Apparently so," Sojourn answered. "They figure a pilot from a US Air Force background turned Overwatch, working with a decorated Egyptian Army officer in one of Overwatch's most important missions, is prime recruiting fodder. The UN loves success stories."
Hawkins wrinkled his nose. The last thing he wanted right now was to star in some sanitized PR highlight reel. "So… we're basically going to be the poster children for Overwatch synergy?"
"Looks that way," Sojourn said evenly. "Better get used to a camera in your face. The specialist is Swedish—Elin Lindström. She arrived from the Stockholm office roughly about a week ago." She gestured behind Hawkins, lips curving in a small, knowing grin. "Speak of the devil—perfect timing."
With a huff, Hawkins wearily turned—and froze. Fareeha did the same, eyes widening. Striding toward them, wearing Overwatch's standard off-duty fatigues, was the blonde specialist from the earlier social gathering. The same luminous features, same blonde hair in a neat ponytail, and the same maddeningly curvaceous figure accentuated by the uniform. Only now, she carried an official datapad, camera equipment slung over one shoulder, and an air of self-assured poise that spelled trouble. Even in that plain outfit, she radiated a confident allure—sharp gray-blue eyes that missed nothing, a warm yet distinctly mischievous smile.
Hawkins felt his ears burn hot, and he caught Fareeha quickly averting her gaze, suddenly very interested in the ground beneath her boots. It seemed clear she remembered their earlier embarrassment just as vividly.
Elin Lindström stopped a few paces away, scanning both Fareeha and Hawkins with an interested gaze. "Good evening. Lieutenant Hawkins, Captain Amari…" Her Swedish accent lilted softly, turning formal words melodic. "I'm Elin Lindström, Public Affairs Specialist. It's great to finally meet you."
Her eyes lingered just a moment longer on Hawkins, then flicked to Fareeha with a mischievous sparkle. It wasn't flirtatious exactly—just an easy, magnetic charm that said clearly she knew the effect she had on both of them, and fully intended to enjoy it.
For a moment, Hawkins couldn't find his voice, recalling how embarrassingly he and Fareeha had checked her out before. The memory sent a hot flush creeping up his neck. A fleeting glance at Fareeha confirmed she felt the same—caught between polite greeting and mild horror.
Elin dipped her head politely, though her eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement—almost as though she remembered that earlier moment too. "I look forward to working with both of you. Heard about your SERE scenario—sounds like quite an adventure."
Hawkins managed a cordial nod, mentally cursing fate. "Adventure. That's…one word for it." He forced a polite smile. "So… you'll be… shadowing us."
"All day, every day," Elin replied cheerily, tapping her datapad. "Interview segments, field footage… The usual. I promise not to be too intrusive, but HQ wants the raw story."
Fareeha cleared her throat, an uneasy half-smile forming. "We'll accommodate, of course. We just finished a very long day, but yes… welcome."
Sojourn folded her arms, satisfied. "I'm sure we'll iron out details tomorrow. In the meantime, everyone needs rest. Lieutenant, Captain—well done. And Miss Lindström…" She gave the blonde a nod. "They're all yours. Gently, I hope."
The taller woman's lips curved in a friendly grin, though there was that telltale gleam in her eye. "I'll be gentle." She turned to Hawkins and Fareeha again, that faint, playful glint not quite hidden. "Within reason, of course."
Hawkins felt his stomach twist in anticipation. Being the face of Overwatch. Great. Just fucking great. Out loud, he could only manage, "Sure. Uh, we'll… help how we can."
Elin gave him a brisk nod and a mischievous wink, then pivoted smoothly, stepping away to introduce herself to the rest of the Egyptian contingent. Once she was out of earshot, Hawkins exhaled long and low. "I get the feeling this is going to be an interesting rest of the rotation."
Fareeha merely shook her head, eyes still locked on the retreating blonde's lovely form. "Interesting is… one way to put it."
They exchanged a helpless, conspiratorial look. The day that started with mock bullets and desert dust had ended with a new kind of trouble—a poised, confident and undoubtedly alluring Public Affairs Specialist eager to put them under the lens. And if that knowing twinkle in Elin Lindström's eyes was any clue, both Hawkins and Fareeha might find themselves in for a different kind of chase entirely. But for now, at least, Hawkins could cling to one small victory: he'd survived SERE—and maybe, just maybe, he could shower before the next round of Overwatch surprises.