• The figure kneels down on an open spot in the dirt, a locus almost surrounded minimally by pebbles and small rocks, the man raises his hand to a transistor, clicking the familiar button with the same icon, he croaks his lips and vibrates his throat with gritty and ... exceptionally intimidating vocals,

"Actual, 2·3, ORP time now, radio check, over."

Letting go of the control, he anticipates an answer, his eyes focused on a natural rock formation front of him. 
"2·3, this is Actual, we read you Lima·Charlie, how copy?"

He replies again with the finger weighing down purposefully on the button,

"Good copy, Actual."

The man simply continues his trek, letting himself crouch walk with stealthy weightlessness in the wilderness, giving exceptions to small cracks and certain "pops" from twigs and rocks being adjusted from the bottom of his boot as he steps on them.

Once he reaches a certain enough location, he directs his hands toward the top corner of his plate carrier to his left above his chest, and presses the key once again, letting his other hand hold onto his Daniel Defense Mk. 18. 
"Actual, 2·3, Checkpoint Alpha, time now, proceeding to Checkpoint Bravo, how copy?"

The same voice arrives again.

"Good copy, 2·3; keep it moving to OBJ Wattpad."

The transistor ceases it's talking, leaving the operator to give the other side his subsequent departure.
 "Wilco, Actual; 2·3 out."

• I'm leaving Wattpad due to reasons concerning my brain cells.
Thank you for being a somewhat decent human being.