The military transport vehicle, a lumbering beast with more in common with a disgruntled rhinoceros than a Chevrolet Suburban, lurched violently, flinging Jasper Kincaid against its reinforced side panel. He let out a sound of profound displeasure, a noise that sat somewhere between a strangled sigh and the disappointed hiss of a deflating party balloon.
"Honestly," he muttered, gingerly extracting a stray crumb of what was purportedly a biscuit from the tailored contour of his eyebrow, "this is simply preposterous." He surveyed the offensive morsel with the pained expression of a Renaissance master forced to critique finger-paintings. "It tastes alarmingly like a dog attempting to bake a scone."
Jasper, you see, was not a man accustomed to hardship. He was accustomed to thousand-dollar haircuts, bespoke suits that could bankrupt a small nation, and the sort of champagne that came with its own gravity well. Yet, here he was, jostled about in the bowels of this metal behemoth, his impeccable designer clothing acquiring an interesting new patina of dust and despair.
And for what? To save humanity, of course. A fact he was contractually obligated to remind himself of at least once per dyspeptic digestive biscuit.
Outside the window, the world had decided to stage a macabre production of "Apocalypse: The Musical." The scenery was a charming blend of urban decay and discarded fast-food packaging, while the soundtrack consisted primarily of groaning, the occasional bloodcurdling scream, and the disconcerting crunch of bone meeting pavement.
Jasper, for his part, refused to participate in the amateur dramatics. He was, after all, the leading man. And leading men did not travel by way of bumpy military transport when there were perfectly good private jets gathering dust somewhere. He glared out the window as if willing the world to right itself, but the post-apocalyptic landscape remained stubbornly insistent on its current aesthetic choices.
Spotting a particularly hapless young soldier attempting to camouflage their abject boredom by pretending to polish a boot (with a sock, no less), Jasper snapped his fingers with the practiced air of a man accustomed to summoning servants.
"You there, soldier," he commanded, his voice a study in clipped syllables and practiced hauteur. "I require sustenance. Not this…" he gestured with the air of a man handling a particularly virulent strain of plague, "Peasant fare. Something... palatable. Perhaps a lightly toasted brioche with a delicate citrus curd? And see if you can locate a decent vintage Bordeaux. One mustn't neglect one's hydration."
