"Gooooooood Moooooorrrrnnniiiinggg assholes!" the radio blares as the MC of the morning show comes on air, "Its your buddy Hernandez transmitting from the Citadel!"

"You're the asshole." I grumble while sinking deeper into the comfort of my pillows. I hate The Hernandez Show. That's why I set it as my morning alarm for every working day. That man's voice could give angels nightmares. It also forces me to wake up without fail.

"Remember, slackers don't get rations!" Hernandez squawks from beside my bed, "Glory to the Leader!"

"Yeah. Yeah." I grumble while pushing myself up from the mattress, "Leader's great. Rations are great. Things could be worse."

I blunder into the bathroom and start groping about for my toothbrush. As much as I dislike the whole Leader worship cult, things really could be worse. Despite the rationing, food wasn't really in short supply. The term was really quite deceptive. Citizens could requisition as much meat and vegetables they wanted from government stores, free of charge. Luxury items like cars and nice clothes could be easily purchased from private stores. Salaries were generally high. Housing was almost free. Life under The Leader was all things considered, very comfortable. Which raised the awkward question, why was rationing in place when the Citadel was so self-evidently prosperous?

I gargle my mouth and begin vigorously brushing my teeth, taking the opportunity to shake the cobwebs out of my head. I grimace at the sight of the scar tissue surrounding my blind eye. Its been so many years and I still haven't gotten used to the sight. Should I order a designer eye patch? One made out of leather, the rare expensive kind. What the hell, I'm going to do it. I can afford it anyway.

Spitting out the toothpaste from my mouth, I gargle one last time before undressing and stepping into the shower. Need to hurry. Hernandez's on-air badgering isn't just for show. For all the plenty available in the Citadel, there's one thing its critically short of.

Manpower.

Fighting the Fallen needs soldiers. The Leader likes to promote the Valkyries, the female pilots, as the sole force capable of battling the Fallen, but that's not strictly true. Although Valkyries will always be stronger than their male counterparts, the Auxilia and Battle Lords, men still do have a role to play.

It just takes a lot of men.

Sighing, I take a few pieces of bacon from the fridge and begin frying up my breakfast. As I wait for my food to finish cooking, my eyes drift to a display case in the living room. Lined with various medals and decorations, my attention is attracted to a small bronze star mounted in the corner. Its such a small thing, but I remember nearly wetting myself in the process of earning it. I was part of a recently raised squadron of Valkyries and we were being rushed to the Epsilon Indi sector. Fallen had spawned there and were being contained by the Auxilia and Militia. We were supposed to drop the hammer on the enemy and finish the fight. Easy job.

Except that the Fallen in question was a class B.

When our squadron got there, we were greeted by the sight of a field littered with burning tanks and corpses. The Militia's artillery rained shells and rockets on to the Fallen, a inky black splotch that resembled a dinosaur. The remaining tanks and infantry blazed away at the living caricature of a T-Rex with their weapons, covering the Fallen's body with explosions, knocking loose several globs of whatever foul substance it was made out of.

But the Fallen kept advancing, healing from its wounds almost immediately. With every snap of its jaws and swing of the inky tail, formations were thrashed and men died. The Auxilia took to the sky in their bulwarks and made repeated dive bombing attacks on the Fallen, inflicting the only real damage in the fight. It was clear that things were hanging by a thread.

Nevertheless, Command was right. The mission was an easy one. The Fallen was too enraged by the Militia and Auxilia to pay any attention to us, a class A squadron. We quickly tore it apart and -

Damn it, that's my phone ringing.

I pick my mobile up from the couch and glance at the incoming number. Its not anyone I recognize. I accept the call anyway. This better not be an insurance salesman.

"Duma." an unfamiliar woman's voice says on the line.

"Yes?" I ask, "This is Olivia Duma speaking."

"Ms Duma, you are required to attend a meeting in the Inner Citadel at 9am today." the caller replies, "A temporary entrance pass has been issued under your name. Identify yourself to the guards and you will be allowed to enter."

"What is this about?" I grumble, "I need to get my work card stamped by the supervisor at the Transmission Station for next month's ration."

So getting back to my point I was making before the whole swept up in memories thing happened. The Citadel needs people to fight and to do the work that the soldiers aren't around to do. Rations are a means to compel a certain amount of work from citizens every month. Not getting your work card stamped means no ration entitlement. No ration entitlement means no food, no right to shop at private stores, no right to subsidized rent and utilities.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

You can guess why I was feeling pretty annoyed at my mystery caller.

"An exemption has already been granted." the caller responds curtly, "Make yourself available at The Garden at 9am sharp."

I draw a hard, surprised breath, "The Garden? What is going on?" The last time I was there, it was made clear I was no longer welcome. Not in the Inner Citadel and certainly not at the headquarters of the Yellow Roses.

"Your record is known to us." the caller sniffs, "Yet procedure requires your presence. Lieutenant of Merit."

I feel the sarcasm dripping from the last sentence. I want to scream, to snap back at the caller, but now is not the time.

"Yes, ma'am." I answer blandly, keeping my temper in check as the line goes dead.

....

My car comes to a stop at the guard house just before the gates of the Inner Citadel. Winding down the windows, I flash my ID at the Valkyries manning the station who barely bother to scrutinize it. The guards already know who I am. Someone from the Garden must have called ahead. The gates to the Inner Citadel begin opening, groaning as the gears haul the massive slabs of metal to the side. The guards then wave me through without further ceremony.

"Never thought I would be here again." I mutter to myself as my car passes under the shadow of the Inner Citadel's fortifications. There was a time when I thought my career was cruising towards a permanent spot in the Garden. Now I spend my days dealing with citizens and pilots throwing tantrums because the queue to make a prayer is too long and they don't have the patience to wait like everyone else. The people I am charged with watching for the Yellow Rose are all eccentrics or heading towards insanity thanks to the strain of deciphering prayers everyday.

Well, that's not true. Don's neither insane nor eccentric. Although as Morning Buddy Hernandez would say, he's an asshole. But an asshole is the best conversation partner I have in the office. So there you go.

I make the turning to the Garden, a grim, grey rectangular building with an open air parking lot at the rear. Despite the name, there's no actual greenery planted on the grounds. The only flowers cultivated here are the Yellow Roses. I begin circling my car about in the parking area, looking for an empty spot. Given the personnel count of the Garden, there's barely enough space available for staff parking, let alone visitors. There was some talk about building an underground parking area, but the people on top felt that it would interfere with the dungeon located in the building's basement. My phone rings again and I put it on speaker mode.

"You are late." its that mystery caller again.

"I'm looking for a place to park my car." I reply as calmly as possible, "I'll be inside soon."

I finally decide to just chuck my car in front of the building's fire access gate and be done with the ordeal. Don't want to push my luck with whomever had summoned me. The Militia are free to issue me a ticket if they get here. I stride into the Garden's lobby with long strides, trying to make up for lost time. There's a young lady in a neat uniform wearing the armband with a Yellow Rose insignia waiting calmly in the lobby. Her hands are clasped demurely at the waist and her eyes are closed. Long hair is draped over one shoulder, emphasizing the girl's feminine build. Standard issue uniform, but the skirt is modified. Its just a little to short and flatters her figure too much. A new hire then. Probably fresh out of Academy judging by her age. Not yet daring enough to dress as she pleases, but at the stage of pushing boundaries.

The moment I approach, the girl's eyes snap open and lock on to me. She speaks.

"Duma. Your punctuality leaves much to be desired."

I let myself be talked down by this punk? My temper begins building again.

"Watch yourself, specialist." I snarl, "You have a long way to go before you can even dream of talking like that."

"I am the highest scorer ever from the Academy." the girl eyeballs me evenly, "I expect respect from someone like you."

Just a punk after all. I snort derisively, "Earn merit first, then we'll talk. Where is this meeting?"

The girl huffs and leads me down the corridor in silence. She stops in front of the door of a conference room before gesturing at me to enter. I open the door and step into the room, paying the girl no further heed. But from the corner of my eye I can see a displeased frown form over her face. Oh, just get over yourself, will you?

And then my heart stops.

Facing me are three women seated behind a large table. Senior officers of the Yellow Rose. There's only one reason when such a panel is convened. An investigative tribunal. I notice that no seat has been provided for me. Sweat begins to run down my brow. I might be in bigger trouble than I thought.

"Now that Lieutenant Duma is here," the woman, most likely the chairperson, seated in the center says, "Shall we get started?" Nods all round. I find myself staring dumbly about, not knowing how to react.

"Then this meeting is called to session." the chairperson continues, "Lieutenant, as you may have already guessed, this meeting is being held because an investigation is under way."

I nod, keeping my peace, back ramrod straight.

The Chairwoman laughs gently, "No need to be tense, Lieutenant. The investigation involves you, but you are not the person of interest."

"Then who is ma'am?" I sigh in relief. That little episode probably took a few years off my lifespan. The panel probably knew it too. They set this whole thing up to show dominance.

"As is procedure, a Yellow Rose is summoned whenever one of the subjects she is watching over is involved in an incident." the chairwoman says, "Particularly when that incident is a serious one."

I spoke too soon. I can see it now. An Operator at the Station must have gotten caught for an offence. And the offence is probably not something minor like unpaid parking tickets. I can see it now. The panel will rake me over the coals for not listing down 'warning signs' in my reports to the Garden. Then I will probably be hit with at best a reprimand. Or more likely, a disciplinary charge for negligence.

"If I may ask the panel," I inquire delicately, "who is the subject?"

"Don Kuat." the chairwoman answers.

Oh no. It must be that incident with the Valkyrie he asked me to throw out yesterday. That girl did have highly placed connections as I suspected. And now I am being dragged down with Kuat thanks to his antics.

"Don?" I ask, feigning ignorance, "He can be difficult, yes. His record is stellar though. A veteran of good standing as well."

I swear, if I get out of this, I am going to make a big donation to the Church of the Orthodox Divines. And I'm going to strangle Kuat the next time I see him.

"Difficult." the chairwoman muses, "That's one way of describing him. But this incident goes way beyond that."

"Ma'am?" I answer, desperately keeping my fingers crossed, hoping the shit doesn't hit the fan.

"Murder, Lieutenant." the chairwoman stares directly at me, "Your subject is suspected of committing multiple murders."