It was another long day sittin' on his ass, cycling through calls between bunkers, same old business — keepin' the info straight and makin' sure no one got blindsided. Jason leaned back in his squeaky old chair, wired handset in hand, boots propped against the side of the desk. "Mmm, yeah, heard NUSA's pushin' further out near D.C. Outskirts. Fucker brigade better not come knockin' on our doors, or they'll get a warm welcome."

He struck a match and lit a cigarette, one he'd rolled earlier that morning. A drag, a slow exhale, smoke curling up toward the low ceiling. He scratched something neat and tidy into his logbook with his free hand — no room for surprises in this world, though he had enough guns stockpiled to make NUSA cream their pants anyway. "Bunker 69, huh? Pffft—" he barked out a laugh. "How the hell d'you expect me to take you serious with a name like that? Too late to change it now — stuck with it forever."

He flicked ash into the already-crowded tray, still grinning, when the radio crackled with a different tone — an alert from the security system. Someone at the front. "Welp, looks like someone's botherin' me. Catch ya later, Bunker 69."

Click. Handset down. Jason rolled up outta his chair, stretching tall as he strode over to the security console. Fluorescent hum filled the room as he scanned the feed. His smirk grew when he spotted a familiar shape waitin' at the entrance. He pressed the intercom, voice lazy, amused: "Alright, alright, hon. Sit tight a sec."

Quick check of the other cams — clean. Nobody else lurkin' in the ruins above. With that, he keyed open the locks. The massive bunker doors groaned like a beast wakin' up, metal screech echoing through the corridors as the floodlights flared on, harsh and white. "Well, well, look who it is — my favorite courier."

Jason stood framed in the cavernous entryway, cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling around his sharp features. He ushered them inside, then thumbed the keypad again, heavy locks slamming back into place. Once the rumble settled, he took another slow drag, watching with those gunmetal eyes. "So, whatcha got for me this time 'round, sugar?"

Couriers were a lifeline — supplies, news, and the only break in the monotony. Jason's gaze flicked over them, subtle but thorough, checking for fresh scars or wear in his gear. Satisfied, he crooked a grin, hand outstretched. "And don't rush off, either. Ain't like I'm drownin' in company down here. Linger a bit. Gimme what ya got, and maybe I'll deal you in on a hand'a cards."