Underneath the tarp of the Samson-Class heavy transport truck 3, a collective groan could be heard as the truck stopped for what must've been the upteenth time that day. Greg McKnight was stirred into a wakeful state as he slid off the armor plate that he had been lounging on. Catching himself as he slid off his machine, Greg casually dusted himself off. Despite the tarp that covered the truck's trailer, an ungodly amount of sand never failed to find its way into the truck; Greg was half convinced he'd find half the desert in his pants by the end of their trek. 

Collecting himself and his thoughts, he watched as a pair of techs lounged by the head of his mobile suit, one lazily typing on a laptop as the other made lax comments here and there. The techs had little to do since the order to surrender had come in- there was no more need to keep McKnight's Zaku II F2 in peak fighting condition, because there was no more fighting to be had. The machine was ready to jump into combat, Greg would be a poor soldier if he allowed his machine to deteriorate to an unusable state, but since it wasn't being used, there was very little need to do more than a quick diagnostic followed by a wipe down with a rag. His Zaku, once a devastating machine of war, was now little more than an oversized piece of luggage for the convoy to carry around until they found a Federation base to surrender to.

Greg scowled, the idea of surrendering to the enemy still disgusted him. Not that he had any particular hatred of the Federation, but more because his pride refused to allow him to accept the idea of giving up. His gloved fingers brushed against the dove painted on his mobile suit's shoulder shield, the black paint cracked and peeling from the unforgiving dry heat of the desert. One of the technicians noticed that Greg had awakened, and got up off the bed of the truck to approach him.

[color=khaki]"Hey Commander, its truck no. 5. Again. It blew a tire."[/color] The tech shot a look back at the tech on the laptop. [color=khaki]"Again."[/color] the two technicians said in unison.

Greg nodded and tugged at his uniform, the sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, and the black dove of his unit was still shown prominently on his shoulder. The entire uniform reeked of sweat and was covered in a thin dusting of sand. Slipping out from under the tarp and into the harsh sunlight, Greg squinted as he shielded his eyes with a hand. He looked up and down the convoy, and nothing but radiating heat, sand, and trucks as far as the eye could see. 

Taking his legs for a stretch Greg took a walk down the convoy, nodding to a couple of the other pilots doing the same thing as he did. It was hard to find something to do, surprisingly enough, and now that they were out of combat, more than a few of the pilots were getting a little stir crazy. One such group of pilots had gathered ahead of him. He recognized the pilots ahead of him, none were of his combat unit, but regognizable nonetheless. There was Gordon, an aggressive, but loyal mobile suit pilot, Aarom, one of the 261st's marksmen, and Tyranne, a supply officer with a surprising amount of talent for mobile suit piloting. 

Noticing the two taller pilots towering over the short supply officer, Greg approached, allowing his mass to shadow them as he interjected with some small amount of irony. 

[color=darkorange]"Aarom, Gordan, give the man some space. He can barely think with the two of you towering over him."[/color]