Low Profile Recon

Cold air. My right knee pressed down, solid. I tried to pivot my rifle—the barrel dipped smoothly. Not locked anymore. Forward visual: a terrain of pink plush folds, irregular ridges. Ahead, half-concealed in a crease of cloth, lies another soldier figure, red plastic, unresponsive. I edged my base plate forward two inches, keeping low in the shadows of the fabric ridge. Sightlines clear. Position stable.