To her curiosity, Eric hadn't opened any of the bottles he'd bought for the entire day after returning home. Instead, he'd unpacked all of them save for one, which he'd left in a bag on the counter, and instead opted to drink something called 'beer'. She sat opposite of him as he stayed perched on his couch, the amber-colored glass bottle clutched tightly in one hand as he stared absentmindedly at the television in the corner. Thirteen's brow furrowed at the sight of it.

She'd expected civilian life to be monotonous, but this was downright unbearable. This was really what she was supposed to do with the rest of her life? Humans lived to be almost two hundred years old now, on average, which meant she still had about a century-and-a-half left ahead of her.

If this was really what she was expected to do for the rest of her days, she was liable to jump off a tall building first instead.

Eric must have sensed her discomfort, because he glanced to her out of the corner of his eye, letting out a small grunt as he shifted in his seat.

Then, to her surprise, he tossed her the remote.

"Here," he offered. "Find something that looks interesting to you."

Thirteen stared at the remote – a small glass rectangle, adorned with a tactile touch screen – then looked back to him. His only response was to shrug.

"I've seen this movie a million times," he explained. "They kill his dog and steal his car, and then he hunts them down for it. Believe me, once you've seen a bunch of mobsters get shot in the face a hundred times, you don't really need to see it for a hundred and first."

He leaned back in his chair, upending the bottle in his hand to get at what little liquid was still inside. Once it was completely drained, he stood up.

"I'm gonna go get another beer," he said. "Want anything?"

Thirteen shook her head. He shrugged once more. "Suit yourself."

With that, he walked off, leaving her alone in the room. Thirteen again turned her attention back to the remote, her brow furrowing once more.

She knew how to drive a tank, how to fly a gunship, and how to control a mech. She knew the exact calculations needed to take the head off an Iprenian with a sniper rifle at two-thousand yards. She knew how to create explosives from little more than the remnants of a plasma-slagged hardware store and some gumption. She'd been put in charge of military equipment worth multiple millions of dollars, to say nothing of her own armor, which rivaled even humanity's best warships in terms of sheer monetary cost. Of all the Angels, she'd always been considered the one who was the most maliciously creative, able to think of new and exciting ways to kill aliens on the fly.

And yet, despite all of that, this little glass rectangle somehow eluded her in its simplicity.

She turned it over in her hand, trying to figure out how it worked. There were only a few buttons on it – a power button, obviously, but also one labeled volume, one labeled channel, and two more respectively labeled input and guide. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do – this device was one of the most rudimentary pieces of tech she'd ever been put in charge of, but somehow, it was troubling her.

Perhaps it was because of the stakes involved this time. Out in the field, if she broke a piece of equipment, it was considered a worthy sacrifice to the war effort since it generally meant that several Iprenians were about to die in turn. Sure, her commanding officers might yell at her if the piece of gear had been particularly expensive or valuable, but they were always very impartial about it, because on a certain level, they understood why she would have done it. Here, though… if she broke something of Eric's, the aftermath was a lot more personal.

She had no idea which parts of his house were sentimental to him or not. Some of them were easy to guess – the pictures on the walls, of people she could only assume were friends or family, along with anything that looked particularly expensive, for what few of those kinds of objects he may have had.

This television and remote, though, eluded her.

She scowled. Her primary concern was breaking the remote. She was much stronger than even the most well-trained human athletes were as a result of her upbringing; who was to say that merely the act of her pressing on the remote wouldn't cause it to shatter into a million pieces? It was definitely not something that could be ruled out immediately. And if it was sentimental to him…

As soon as the thought entered her head, her scowl deepened. Her time in the military had taught her to plan for the worst-case scenario, but as she couldn't seem to stop reminding herself, she wasn't in the military anymore.

With that thought in mind, Thirteen decided to throw caution to the wind. She pressed a random button on the remote, unsure of what it would do, and watched as the television suddenly changed away from what Eric had been watching, to… something else entirely. She blinked at the sight of it.

"What is this?"

"It's a children's show," Eric said from behind her. She turned to face him, and found him standing there, holding a fresh bottle of beer. She noticed that he had already taken several sips from it, and her gaze narrowed.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," he explained. "Really, I wanted to see if you could figure out how the TV worked on your own. Congrats, by the way – I suppose at this point, we'll have to get you started on the other household appliances soon." He brought a hand up to his chin in thought. "Hm… The washer and dryer are probably fine, but the stovetop and oven might be a little too dangerous…"

Thirteen glowered at him, and he raised his hands in surrender. "Just kidding," he offered. A moment later, he looked past her, staring at the TV. "So, you

planning to sit here and learn your ABCs all day, or am I okay to change the channel to something else?"

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Thirteen said nothing, instead passing the remote back to him. Eric took a seat, then began to flip through channels for a moment before looking over to her.

"Any idea of what you might want to watch?" She shook her head, and he pursed his lips. "Yeah… not sure why I asked. Sorry."

The two of them fell silent as he continued to search for something to watch. Thirteen simply sat there, staring out the window, until suddenly, he stopped on what appeared to be a show about a war of some kind. Immediately, she turned towards it, blinking in surprise at what she saw. It was old, grainy, black-and-white footage from what appeared to be some twentieth century war. Men were huddled in muddy trenches, clutching wood-stocked rifles and shivering as snow fell around them. She stared at it in amazement before turning to him.

"Which war is this?"

"Looks like World War One," he answered. "I take it you know at least enough to recognize what that means?"

Thirteen nodded. "We studied history as part of our training. It has been awhile, though."

"Since you've seen the inside of a classroom?" She nodded, and he sat up straight.

"Hm. I probably should have expected that. Don't suppose you can tell me when, exactly, they put you into the field?"

She shook her head, and he let out a small sigh. "Didn't think so."

Eric took a sip of his beer before looking back to her. "They let me read your file," he said. "Only the parts that weren't covered in black ink, of course… so really, I was only able to skim your file, since the thing looked more like a damn chalkboard than anything. But still, I was able to make out a little bit of your history. More than I initially knew, at least."

"What did you know initially?"

"Only as much as everyone else. One day, these girls in armor showed up and started tearing the Iprenians a new asshole." She tilted her head, and he added, "Figure of speech; it basically means you put the hurt on them real bad. Anyway, not long after the rumor mill started up, the US government came out and officially declassified the Angel program to the general public. All they really told us was that they'd been training fifty young women to fight as a new type of specialized unit attached to SOCOM directly. That's about all we knew, at least until they started publishing all your kill counts."

Thirteen blinked. "...They told you our kill counts?"

"They did," Eric confirmed with a nod. "Said it would be a much-needed morale boost. And for once, the government was actually right – nothing put a smile on a soldier's face like reading about how you girls were absolutely eviscerating entire enemy lines by yourselves. Though, I have to ask… those kill counts weren't accurate, were they?"Thirteen's heart skipped a beat. She said nothing, instead merely staring at him, until eventually he waved her off.

"Forget it," he declared. "You don't have to answer that; I understand it's probably classified."

She nodded, and he let out another sigh. "Yup… about how I thought that was gonna go…"

He raised the lip of the bottle to his mouth once more and took another drink. Thirteen stared at the liquid as it flowed through the bottle, and as Eric lowered it away from his mouth, she couldn't help but ask about it.

"Why do you drink that stuff?"

"Hm?" he asked, turning back towards her. "The beer, you mean?":

"The alcohol," she specified. "I saw how much you paid for those bottles at the store. And, for that matter, alcohol is an intoxicant."

"Yeah, I know. That's the whole point." Eric raised the bottle so she could get a better look at it. "Look, sometimes, you just want to loosen up a little. And when that happens, all you need is a visit from Mister Booze and his friends."

"How much is a little?" she questioned, tilting her head.

Eric hesitated, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. After a moment, he answered her with only one word.

"Classified."

And then he drained what was left in the beer in one go before standing to get another. Thirteen watched him as he left the room, unsure of what to make of the conversation.

Somehow, the more she spoke with him, the more confused she got.

***

She was already awake when she heard Eric step outside that morning. He hadn't bothered to check on her first; not that she cared or needed his assistance that badly, of course, but it was unusual.

Thirteen thrived off of a routine, and already, he'd broken it by leaving the house without a word.

When she heard the Crown Vic start up and pull out of the driveway, she knew something unusual was happening. Cautiously, she stepped out of bed, pausing only to pull on some clothes and her eyepatch before moving out into the hallway.

She stepped into the kitchen, and the first thing she noticed was that the bag with the big bottle of alcohol in it that he'd bought the day before was gone. That was curious, though she had no idea what to make of it. The house was empty aside from that, of course, and so she continued into the kitchen, looking around for any signs of where he'd gone.

Before long, Thirteen found a small note on the counter, along with a pre-made meal of some kind – some thin slices of meat held between two pieces of white bread, with some kind of cheese in the middle. She pushed the plate aside, instead reaching for the note.

Hey, it read, I have to leave for a bit. I'll be back in a few hours. Until then, this sandwich is for you, and there's also some more in the fridge if you're still hungry. Do me a favor and don't leave the fridge open, would you? Oh, and if Rosa stops by, tell her I'm at the gym or something, I don't care as long as it gets her to go away.

And then, at the bottom of the page, he'd written something else.

Happy Victory Day, by the way.