Utterly Mad

Seb's ears perk up as he detects heated words, their tone distinct against the backdrop of lightly inebriated conversation, casual roughhousing, and old rock music.  The argument grows louder to his sharp hearing as he approaches the armory tent, and still a good forty feet away before he could discern individual words. 

"...-imes do I need to tell YOU, I DON'T ****ING USE RUSSKIE WEAPONRY! I'd rather die than touch the **** my father was shot with!"

Up ahead, he sees the tent flap launch outwards and a frustrated Zaweri storming across the yard to the RV.  Seb sighs through clenched teeth.  Stubborn old fogies.  Running his claws through the thick ruff of slate-grey fur along the back of his neck, he mentally steels himself for conversation with the armory's QM, knowing who it likely is already. 

Entering the tent, his nose was immediately invaded by the odor of lubricating oils, faintly burning gunpowder, and a tang of fading aggression.  Oh, good.  He decided not to press the matter, keeping it strictly business was on his mind as he places the requisition form on the table, crossing his paws behind his back, ears flattening backwards slightly as he glances surreptitiously over the aged soldier's frame and the mess of hardware scattered all over the tent. 

"Sarge handed me this form.  Like you to fill the order, sir."  he says in his growling tone, trying to suppress any inflections.