Lady Kara moved like a blade through the morning fog, her boots silent on the cracked stone of Tile 808. She'd scouted the area, mapped the routes, calculated the timing. Precision. Efficiency. Glory. All she needed was Bob to follow the plan exactly.
Which, historically, had never once happened.
Bob arrived riding what could generously be described as a "borrowed" siege cart, its wheels wobbling like it was questioning its own existence. He saluted Kara with the confidence of a man who had absolutely misunderstood every instruction she'd given him.
"I'm ready," he declared, holding a torch, a bucket, and something that might've been a live chicken.
Kara blinked. "Bob… why do you have—"
"No time!" he shouted, leaping off the cart and sprinting toward the enemy outpost with the enthusiasm of a toddler who'd just discovered caffeine.
Kara sighed, drew her blade, and followed.
Bob hit the first squad like a meteor made of bad decisions. He tripped, rolled, accidentally kicked a commander in the shin, apologized, then head-butted him out of pure instinct. The torch flew from his hand, bounced off a shield, and ignited a banner Kara had specifically told him not to touch.
The enemy panicked. Kara capitalized.
She cut through the chaos with surgical precision, each strike clean, controlled, perfect. Bob, meanwhile, ricocheted between enemies like a weaponized misunderstanding, shouting things like "TACTICAL PANIC!" and "I'M HELPING PROBABLY!"
By the time the smoke cleared, Tile 808 was theirs.
Kara stood tall, victorious. Bob stood beside her, covered in soot, feathers, and possibly glory.
"See?" he said proudly. "Just like you planned."
Kara stared at him.
Then sighed.
"…Sure, Bob. Exactly like I planned."