Muttering curses - most of them in Latin - under my breath, I grabbed a mud-stained notebook out of the pocket of my combat trousers and started scribbling.
"Ammunition, extra cartridges, smoke grenades..." I mutter under my breath, checking off all the bits and pieces I conjure into existance and then shove into pockets and belt compartments.
Finally, satisfied I have everything I need, I hoist my rifle sling around and fix it into the "ready" position. Now I can get at it far more easily, plus it's loaded. Ah. That's better. Now anything that tries creeping up on me will end up getting a nasty surprise. It pays to be prepared. At least getting chased by Marines can teach you that much.
"Right," I bark, using the voice that tends to make people listen to me, "Where to next? Any shorter routes we could use? Or are we going for safety first?"
Chimera points out the route on the map. I look at it, nod knowingly and step back. I didn't understand a thing amid all those squiggly lines, but I'll act like I do anyway.
I think I'll stick to shooting anything that gets too close rather than de-coding scribbles.