NOTE: If you want to play out a particular scenario in any of the prompts, hmu at uncalendula and we can come up with something! You don't have to be limited by what's provided.

[It is not a warm place, unless one counts the oppressive heat.

The near-drunken scrum of bodies in the far corner of the yard - all dirt, all sand, a small desert surrounded by four thick walls with bars and locks - howls for blood in Spanish and English, goading the two men in the center who circle each other with their fists up. One of them (the older, taller Santino, his arms a wasteland of tattoos) spits an insult at the man across from him, a Nathan Drake much rounder in the face who seems to be luxuriating in the thrill of the fight, even as a feigned step from his opponent results in four knuckles that crack into his jaw and split his lip.

They planned this. A diversion for Sam, to get what he needs.]

¿Es todo lo que tienes?

[Nate snaps, grinning through the red. He spits a mouthful of blood into the dust at his feet and launches himself across the circle, tackling the offender into the earth with an elbow in his solar plexus, crushing his fist against a cheekbone repeatedly as a guard's whistle breaks through the shouting.

With a fresh cut over his eye from a zealous C.O. he sits sourly in the clinic waiting for (frankly, unnecessary) treatment not long after, and is later released back to the yard with a 'clean' bill of health, seeking the lanky frame of his older brother.]

Crap crap crap-

[Ducking from a hail of bullets that pock a crumbling, ancient wall, Nate plasters himself against the relative safety of the stone, waiting for a break. After a moment he turns, peeking up over the edge to blind-fire and immediately taking cover as another volley follows. Around him the dense foliage provides little shielding, but not quite enough to save him from the grenade that sails over his only barrier and lands at his feet.]

Crap!

[He scrambles to another stone, hitting the dirt behind it as the wall explodes in a shower of tabby and mortar. As the dust settles he fumbles for another magazine, slamming it into his gun as the men in matching Kevlar vests close in through the lull, identifiable through their irritated where did he go?s and spread out, find Drake!s. Nate takes a breath, counting the seconds before whipping back around to claim three head shots. The men crumple immediately and he gets to his feet, glancing around for their backup before stooping to pry a rifle from one of their lifeless hands.

Nate examines it for a moment, slings it over his shoulder, and resumes his exploration.

The next hour sees him climbing up to precarious heights without equipment, clambering into decrepit buildings and pausing, on occasion, to take notes or draw something in a journal. He feels his way through the foreign environment with a confidence that is probably unearned but nonetheless impressive.]

[A salvage vessel sits in the Mississippi at high tide, cables stretched overhead on a metal sling as a man in a diving suit perches comfortably a couple dozen feet off the ground. As the sling lowers, cargo attached, to the deck of the boat, Nate peels his face mask off for a breath of fresh, muggy air and his BCD follows suit. The vest - tank and all - is tossed to a waiting figure in a hi-vis vest below.]

You keep pushin' it, Drake, [the crewman says, hefting the gear.] Your tank's light every time you come up. Shit- you had three minutes left on this one?

[The sling gets close enough that Nate can jump off, nearly landing on his previously discarded flippers, with a short laugh.]

More than enough time. But hey- do me a favor and check the o-ring on that one, will you? I think it's cracking.

[He bee-lines for the boss, giving Jameson a short wave from a distance before noticing a crew member he hasn't met yet, pausing.]

...oh. Hey. You the new temp hire?