Rolf—POV
By the time the alarm bells rang, Rolf was thoroughly drunk.
Not falling-down drunk—his body's conditioning prevented that—but impaired enough that his judgment was compromised, his reflexes slower than they should be.
The celebrations shattered into chaos. Soldiers grabbed weapons, ran toward defensive positions, organized response to threats that were suddenly very real.
Rolf stood on unsteady legs, trying to process what was happening.
The information filtered through his alcohol-fogged mind with frustrating slowness.
Baggen grabbed his arm. "Come on! We need to—"
"I need air," Rolf interrupted, pulling free. "Need to… think. Clear my head."
"Rolf, there's an assault happening! This isn't the time for—"
But Rolf was already moving, stumbling toward the outpost's outer sections, away from the organized chaos of military response.
