Work Text:
The beach was foreign, alien to all of them. But the air was breathable, and the scenery not so lush that it impaired visibility, and the water was warm and mild.
And the man on the beach was young. And alone.
Sea breezes tussled neatly cut hair, making the pale golden strands shimmer in the late afternoon light as he jogged along the water's edge. He'd shucked his uniform jacket off some distance back and had it tied sensibly around his waist. A thin white tanktop stretched across his well defined form, parts of it becoming see-through from the sweat that vee'd down his back and between the solid definition of his chest.
Brack, Commander in the Drule army, lowered his sight-glasses and smirked to himself. The perfect hostage.