Garrett woke up to birds chirping, sunlight creeping through the windows, and the sound of kids playing outside.

He hated it.

The birds were too loud, the sun was too bright and the kids were mocking him. Maybe it was just his old age catching up to him, but he really hated waking up in the morning. Nonetheless, he got up, threw on his clothing and coat (double-checking that his blade and pistol were there), and walked into the kitchen. Garrett then tore off a piece of stale bread from the loaf, cut a piece of cheese off a wedge and ate his measly breakfast, downing it with a bit of wine that he sto- er, [i]borrowed[/i].

He then remembered: there was a mission today. Thankfully, he had woken up rather early, but still, he needed to get there, and fast. Gobbling down the last of his breakfast and drinking the rest of his wine, which dripped down the corners of Garrett's mouth and onto his shirt in his haste, Garrett broke into a sprint to make it to the headquarters (assuming the rebels have a headquarters. If not, disregard this).

[b][i]Several hours later...[/i][/b]

Well. That was bad.

The rebels had lost. And hard. They lost quite a few people due to the mistakes of one rebel, who was leading them. Garrett was holed up with them, wherever they were. Most were wounded, including the young girl he sat next to. She looked to be around her mid teens, far too young to be on a battlefield. For a moment Garrett thought about Winston, but quickly snapped out of it. "That could've gone better," Garrett said to the girl, his voice snarky and measured.

[@sharksama]