ℳ — { Her armour enhancement had never come in this handy. Then again, Montana had never had her life depend on being able to blend in, so that came as no surprise.
Soon after being stranded, she came to the realization that she would not be able to survive on her own; if she wanted to make it without the project's now-missing aid, she would have to find alternate methods of obtaining sustenance, rather than just through foraging. The rations and supplies with which she was sent soon dwindled, and she was left with a grim reminder of her dependence on something that no longer existed.
So Montana did what she did best; after all, her specialty had always been infiltration. With the knowledge and instruction, however limited, she had been given upon arrival, the ex-Freelancer quickly located each of the warring bases. After that, it was simple. In and out; quick and easy. Activating her adaptive camouflage, she assumed the identity of the nearest Fed or rebel -- in this case, rebel -- and took what she needed from their stock. Her way of living wasn't necessarily dignified, but until she was given an alternative, she had very few options.
Not once had she run into problems; after all, having an extra soldier around was far from unwelcome to either army. While she would've been happy to take more than her share of their supplies, common sense dictated that greed would not bode well for her in this situation. Only taking the bare necessities, she was forced to return for more quite often (not to mention for matters such as personal hygiene, for which she would happily come in much more frequently), which built itself up to be quite handy; she knew her way around, which spared her the struggle of talking to either troops. After all, that had always been her weakness; her infiltration relied heavily upon going entirely unnoticed.
That in mind, Montana tended to favor the same route every time she visited the rebel camp. Over time, she'd found the quietest, lowest-traffic ways in and out of the building, and they had served her well. So well that something was bound to go wrong sooner or later, and 'sooner' was seeming likelier every second.
Her confidence in this strategy left her unprepared for the not-so-distant echoing of voices around the corner. As irony would have it, the first problem she would encounter would have to be maybe forty feet from her exit. The voice stopped -- and she so hoped it was not because her presence became known -- and footsteps ensued. She couldn't yet determine the direction in which they were going, so she simply stood still and hoped for the best.
The best did not happen. Within seconds, the voice's owner had turned the corner, and Montana was face-to-face with someone she did not recognize. On one hand, she could accept that she was caught red-handed, rations held tightly under her arm; on the other hand, she could try to bullshit her way out of here. On an unreliable and probably nonexistent third hand, maybe she could punch him and run. What she ended up doing was staring at him, waiting for him to speak first so as to gauge her choices.
