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... 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 wait ...
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