3 - 2

MESSNIGHT II

“I have always despised War. It is wasteful and destructive. A farmer given seeds creates a bounty of life; a soldier when given ammunition only spreads ruin. In a perfect world it would have never been necessary. However, despite the angels of our better nature, we have never lived in such a world. If it must happen, if Hell must exist, if conflicts must be resolved by violent means, then it should be done as quickly and decisively as possible, with the minimum of souls cast into its fires. That is always what drove me; I became obsessed. War can only be abolished through War. Therefore, I devoted all of my energy to becoming its master.” - Colonel-General Sergei Petrova, Reflections on The Martian Conflicts Ch. 3, 7 MIC

Captain Beckett stared longingly into the bottom of his glass. It was a fine and handsome sifter made of handcrafted crystal glass. What was bothering him was that it was already empty.

He’d already drank all of his allotment of Victory Sherry and the bar was swamped as Officers scrambled to get drinks before dinner chimes sounded.

The fact they’d managed to organize a bar at all was impressive. In a display of what he might’ve considered traditional military excess, the Regiment’s silver, ornamentation, and even some of its furniture had been shipped in via rail this morning. It now adorned the walls of what’d been some reception area inside the systems control building. He couldn’t help but think it looked out of place; fanciful candelabras and commemorative mantle pieces were neatly arrayed on top of cheap office tables disguised with cloth wherever possible. Leather couches and finely upholstered parlor seats were spread amongst mass-produced metal cantilever chairs.

The White Army managed to retain some imperial or monarchal pretensions, despite their supposed direct ideological opposition to such concepts. In their defense The Mess, even at home station, was relatively spartan compared to some of the lavish spaces he’d seen inside the Republican Diet or the Capitol-Rift Citadel in Sirenum. Whenever the situation allowed, these items eventually followed. For better or worse the mostly plundered collection was part of their heritage. There were even, pending MLAC approval, some recent additions. Lt. Tiamen had begrudgingly surrendered a white speckled green guidon flag from 3rd Battalion, 26th Light Infantry Regiment, FRR Army to the Mess. It was now hanging upside down on a wall above the entrance to the mess in symbolic capitulation alongside a half dozen other captured banners. A section of armor plate painted with the ‘vambraced arm brandishing sword’ insignia of the Noachian 11th Division, hastily cut off a disabled Maddox, had been converted into a tall table with a little welding. The most senior Officers in the Regiment gathered around and were admiring it in a self-congratulatory sort of way.

The rest of them mingled about the makeshift parlor awaiting the cue to move into the dining hall, another large repurposed conference room. Capt. Wunder was even amusing himself with the Regiment’s ancient and permanently out of tune Vilisek Piano, reportedly taken as a prize three quarters of a century ago from Prosperity Station in Venusian orbit. What it was doing there in the first place only raised more questions.

Lucy, for her part, was already at the front of the bar line juggling six different drinks while waving her debt chit over the tender’s reader unsuccessfully. She never did anything in half measures, this was her second trip there already and they hadn’t even really started yet.

“Don’t look so sad Cannon-Cocker, I got one for you too.” Lucy offered him one of the paper cups pinched between her fingers as she returned to their standing height table. He took it and dumped it into his glass, leaving the empty receptacle off to the side to be taken care of by some private playing steward while on extra duty.

“You really didn’t have to,” He replied.

“I can tell when you need something. Does this look like an Imp-standard shot to you?” Lucy questioned while dumping one of her cups into her own glass and holding it up to eye level.

“Hmmm… little on the low side maybe?” He mused while inspecting his own.

“‘s some local running the thing and he’s certainly taking this opportunity to make a killing off the victor. You know how much this was? 19 Shil 7 Penn. 5 Penn short of a Libra for 6 short drinks; it’s extortion.” Lucy complained.

“I mean, we did just level their city…” Sam observed.

“What and you think this money’s going to the Fed children’s fund? MHS and the Worlds Development Forum already signed a pledge for 30 Billion Marks to rebuild; this is just opportunism of the most despicable variety.” Lucy elaborated.

“You’re drunk already aren’t you?” Sam questioned.

“I’m fucking trying,” she sighed and took a long drink.

“Maybe slow down a tad… you know what Corvo said.” Sam cautioned.

“That clown? He doesn’t write my Fitreps.” Lucy rebuffed.

“Well, he writes mine.” Sam pointed out.

“Lighten up a little, Sam. I really thought you were supposed to be telling me that.” Lucy chastised while prodding his shoulder and leaning onto the table.

“I’d hate to see a long and promising career ruined by a little foolhardy misconduct,” Sam grinned.

“You’re really leaning into this Captain bit aren’t you, Puppy?” Lucy observed while resting her chin on her palm.

“Eh, maybe just a little.” He replied, taking a sip from his now recharged glass. Just as he finished an arm snaked around his neck, yanking him into an uncomfortable headlock. “Dalia! I thought we were over this!” He protested fishing for her wrist to execute an escape while simultaneously trying not to spill his drink.

“Relax, Cannon-Cocker! Jeez, so sensitive. You know the constrictor only gets tighter when you struggle” She joked while her bicep and forearm cinched around his neck. Lucy seemed unbothered watching. Sam set his glass down and leaned back slightly while pulling down on her arm for a tad bit of extra breathing room. Riflemen only responded to force, it was a stupid lesson he’d learned the especially hard way in a line FIST. He rammed his elbow into Dalia’s ribs and she released with a pained gasp.

“You ass, I got shot there!” Dalia groaned while hunched over. Sam took a moment to feign readjusting his collar while he caught his breath. His vision had gotten a little more narrow than he was comfortable admitting, even to himself. She really was strong; Cyrus, dead bastard though he was now, really spared no expense when whipping up his personal troops.

“Sam assaulted me and you’re not even gonna protest? You really are whipped Lucy,” Dalia whined exaggeratedly while rubbing at her ribcage.

“Eh, turnabout’s fair play. Beside’s that’s a Cannon-Captain in our honorable White Army you just strangled.” Lucy observed.

Dalia, somewhat disheveled at the news, stood him straight up and brushed off his shoulders. “My apologies, Sir.”

He knew this was the half-sincere and half the exaggerated court theater Dalia’d never been able to unlearn. “It’s fine, just try to squeeze the life out of the Enemy next time, Lieutenant.” Sam instructed while retrieving his drink.

The more time he spent around them, the more obvious it became why everyone else both admired and shunned the Regiment’s outliers. Certainly everybody was fucking everybody in The Mess; it was an open secret. Who was fucking who was even a topic of regular scuttlebutt among the Company-Grades. However, nearly everyone had either struck out or steered clear of the two of them.

The danger of occasional physical violence never really managed to keep him or Mark away. For his part, he just considered himself to be of especially refined taste; his aim was worth the risk. He’d stumbled onto what everyone else was chasing. The fact that he was introduced rather than made his move unilaterally disarmed her a little. Once he was over that exterior hurdle, it turned out she wasn’t actually an overly conceited geneocrat like many had suggested. There was a side to her she didn’t show to other people behind all the ‘professionalism’ and it was intriguing. That, and she was an obvious physical beneficiary of the best genesculpting money could buy. It was easy to make someone look perfect, but it took a real artist to add the tiny imperfections that grounded the beauty.

Mark on the other hand just seemed to revel in that element of danger, which was extremely evident by his chosen partner. It was something he’d never really understood. Dalia was nice enough, certainly sociable and competent, and sure she was pretty. She was also pretty huge, physically imposing in a way most other women he’d met most definitely weren’t, and he couldn’t quite get over it. Mark just couldn’t stay away. Apparently, they’d just met randomly at Tun Tavern; he was the only one there brave or foul-hardy enough to not only try, but be persistent about it and she eventually caved. It was funny how chance encounters turned out from time to time. She turned out to be a great friend and an even better source of information.

He felt mournful for a moment looking back. He really wished his campadre was here now to at least enjoy their victory instead of laid up in a hospital bed far away. He’d have to give him a link tonight and catch up.

“If it makes you feel any better I got you a painkiller already,” Lucy offered while sliding two of the plastic containers towards Dalia.

“You read my fucking mind.” Dalia replied by snatching one of the cups off the table and instantly downing it. “The Sergeants took their sweet-ass time. Sergeant Major Rosenthal brought his fucking Sword on this campaign and then forgot where he put it. Decided he couldn’t march the Quartering Party until he found his fucking Sword.”

“Your Sergeant Major brought his sword?” Lucy questioned.

“Yeah! Apparently he told Capt. Wunder something along the lines of ‘I payed a Ginney and a half to have this refurb’d and I’ll be damned if I don’t stab someone with it after all the trouble’.” Dalia relayed.

“Sounds like something that’d come out his mouth,” Sam remarked while nursing his drink.

“Oh that’s not even half of it!” Dalia added. “He kept asking my Riflemen ‘how many Green sympathizers they’d aborted’ when he went to tour our positions during that SOBE. I guess he thought I was a safe space,” Dalia motioned to the patch sewn on top of her right breast pocket an embroidered Shahbaz hawk holding a Juniper branch in its claws and a scroll in its beak which folded elegantly and read HIM Capitol-Rift Guard’s Div. “He even went on a whole five-minute tirade to my platoon about how much he hated Earthers and how ‘back in the day on Titan’ his platoon used to line up Green prisoners at bayonet point and quote, ‘make them clear AP mines with their feet’”.

Lucy and Sam gave each other both uncomfortable glances. Sure they were supposed to fight and win, kill if necessary, but admitting to that type of behavior was distasteful at best and tantamount to a serious confession at worst.

“They don’t make ‘em like him anymore…” Lucy observed.

“Maybe that’s for the best.” Sam added.

A siren blared outside the building but no one paid it much mind. This was the fifth time it’d happened today. The building intercomm clicked on and blared a short warning. “CONTROLLED DET.”

While inside the safety of Smokehouse-3’s walls the War was very much over, Greendome at large was still a war zone and littered with unexploded rubbish of battle. There was a distant boom and the building's pressure windows shook slightly. Republican Guard Engineers and the various ordnance disposal units from both belligerents now were working together to clear the most pressing dangers while they sat inside the wire and toasted their victory. While it brought things into perspective for the moment, it really was just business as usual. Not an uncommon occurrence anywhere the Regiment had the pleasure of ruining.

“Say Sam, you know what the deal was with Quatrich? I thought he was Logi or something?” Dalia asked.

“Yeah, he was and they put him on a resupply run to 3rd Bat. He made a wrong turn at a roadblock on Hanover Strasse and ran right into a No-ak strong point. One of those No-ak Boro IFV’s smoked the first truck with cannon fire and then hosed his down with coax. Chopped his driver up pretty good. He just froze, hot mic’d his comm and sputtered but nothing came out. Some Sergeant had to take charge of the convoy and get them out of there. On top of that when he got back Maj. Deemo and Lt. Col. Corvo chewed his ass up for a good hour about it because some idiot from CLB-14 left their Battalion Colours in the back of the Vic that got totaled and they went up in smoke.” Sam explained.

Dalia and Lucy both shook their heads. “Probably for the best then.” Lucy remarked.

“This life isn’t for everyone, that's for damn sure,” Dalia added while looking into her glass.

Lucy tried for a moment to place herself in Quatrich’s shoes. No blunder could ever be understood in isolation from the context which created it. Had he really been so stupid or so foolhardy not to check his route, to brief it to his troops? Did he use the plethora of technological aids available to him? Did he solicit the input of his Soldiers? Did the fog of war become too thick? Perhaps the answer was more obvious: Fear.

Was it something in his nature that caused it, or had he simply not been prepared and adequately hardened for the realities of his chosen profession? Was it such a simple distinction between them; she had courage and he did not? That seemed wrong.

For the Lacedaemonians and Thebans, Phobos ruled the battlefield. Combat was a question of nerve as much as spear and shield. Fear, the eternal enemy of all soldiers, determined the victor and would for the next two millennia. Would Tribune or Centurion Quatrich have acted differently had he been confronted with a Carthaginian Elephant storming through his century? Would he have wilted under the hails of arrows at Bergerac or broken with the Old Guard at Waterloo?

Whenever she was faced with danger it always seemed there was no time to consider the consequences of failure. She only could recall thinking in terms of solving problems in the most expeditious manner possible: process, do. No consideration for the stakes beyond what was immediately relevant. The one moment she couldn’t ground herself with a course of action, logical or not, was the one Phobos chose to seize her.

“You should really stop picking like that; it’s bad for your cuticles. See, look at mine.” Dalia scolded while offering her own immaculately maintained nails for comparison.

“Ugh, I know, my feet are in even sorrier shape. I had a kit in my hygiene bag, but it was at the bottom of my pack and I was too caught up. They need professional help now. I just can’t help messing with them when I’m thinking.” Lucy bemoaned while ceasing to pick at a hangnail.

“You two really are girls.” Sam commented.

“What, a little personal hygiene is too much for you?” Lucy asked while seizing one of his hands for closer inspection. “Have you ever even considered using a file?” She questioned further while eyeing the angular edges of his nails.

Sam playfully tugged his hand out of her grip with a faint smile “Not even once”.

“What were you so wrapped up in anyways? What's it like to look down the dangerous end of a Boro?” Dalia asked.

“I already had a Maddox level its gun at me; trust me, I know. Just what makes us different, us and Quatrich that is.” She relayed while wiping away the tiny bit of crimson forming at her nail bed. What was really bothering her was the tiny bit of dried blood stuck under them that she couldn’t seem to get out.

“I think he couldn’t accept that he had little control over whether he lived or died.” Sam offered. “I talked to him a few times, smart kid, not too bad at his job, but the strung type. He just always had to know everything, devil in the details kinda guy. Remember when we were about to hit The Warrens and they gave us that ‘react to indirect fire’ refresher?” Sam continued.

Dalia and Lucy nodded, it was simple stuff but fundamental: disperse, seek cover or go prone then identify and doubletime to a rally after the impacts.

“He fucking slept inside S4’s Lynx that night and every one after. That razor sharp mind just couldn’t stop thinking of ways this city could kill him, it just kept building and building inside his head. When his fears were realized and no amount of thinking could undo it, it broke him.” Sam proposed while taking another drink.

“You know what Yamamoto Tsuenetomo said?” Dalia asked.

“Elysian?” Sam asked for clarification.

“About half a millennium too late.” Lucy corrected, already familiar with this anecdote.

“When caught out in the rain, we do all sorts of things not to get wet. You know you go under stalls and sprint through open areas trying to avoid it. But ultimately you still get wet. It happens basically no matter what you do.” Dalia paraphrased. “When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed. Though you will still get the same soaking,” she quoted directly.

Lucy could still see the outline of that miniaturized book resting in Dalia’s cargo pocket. She’d been given, nay, issued it as an inspectable item long ago and was expected to memorize its contents. It was another part of her past she couldn’t let go.

“Isn’t that the same guy who said something like ‘death is the substance of the way of the warrior’. Tad morb, but I suppose I understand. When I was in Cancun with Mark in King 3/5, I just left the wire to go on patrol thinking that I was gonna die there; really I thought it was a foregone conclusion. All I needed to worry about was my troops.” Sam replied.

Lucy nodded, it seemed a heroic enough ideal. Just the kind of thinking she would’ve expected out of him, though her own situation seemed markedly different. “I just… I never think about it,” she admitted.

“Of course you don’t.” Dalia indicted with a faint slur and accusatory finger. Despite her size, her lineage had imparted her with a specific vulnerability to the demon Al-Kuhl. “I say this as your friend. You’re, ehhhh, a little too arrogant to entertain the idea that there’s been a bullet or shell made that can kill Lyssa Petrova.” Dalia casually explained.

“Uh-huh, and you’re feeling it and dinner chimes haven’t even sounded.” Lucy countered.

“And you’re not? Or is that thing working overtime?” Dalia weighed her options and roped in the only other participant. “Am I wrong Sam? Or is she a little stuck up? C’mon we’re among friends.”

“I like to think of it as an air of nobility.” Sam responded, attempting a defusion. The way Lucy’s brow furrowed slightly at his admission signaled abject failure.

Was she really stuck up? No. No fucking way. Lucy seized the last drink on the table from Dalia’s side in retaliation and downed it.

“Sweetie, please… I know you’d go to Tyrrhenia and back for me, but you’re really not helping your case here.” Dalia complained while Lucy turned her nose up. If she was arrogant, she could be just as stubborn. Dinner chimes finally sounded, putting pause on their discussion for the moment.

The members of The Mess then assembled in orderly lines at each of the parlor’s hatches and waited to be marched into the mess proper. The regal and well practiced notes of Star Soldiers whistled through fifes as the stewards threw open the doors and they proceeded inside.

Balachenko hammered his fist into Rand’s collar driving the tacks of the brass device into his skin most unpleasantly. Of course it hurt like hell, but there was the unmistakable feeling of pride swelling in his chest. Even through everything that had happened, everyone they had lost along the way. These weren’t just any Rifles on his collar; they were Lt. Petrova’s and he felt an extra measure of pride that she saw fit to give him hers.

He was among friends and comrades that only life and death struggle could make, and it felt like, for maybe just a moment, that everything made sense. If there ever was a place he was supposed to be in life, it was right here, at this precise moment. Svertson, with a new wound badge with three stars on his chest was beaming with pride, displaying the slightly mismatched color of his replacement teeth. He even struggled upwards to pull out Rand’s chair. “Take a seat Rifleman.” Svertson offered.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Rifleman Rand, kinda got a nice ring to it.” Cpl. Lachenski observed as Rand took his place at the table while the last few newly minted riflemen made their way back to their places.

“Mr. Vice, BRING OUT THE BOUF!” Madame President announced to another thunderous chorus of cheers. Riflemen Neubach even paused refilling his glass to raise the pitcher sloppily in jubilation. The distorted and amateur notes of The Roast Beef of Old England tweeted out of a fife while the one drummer they’d managed to retain summoned the main course with a steady bat.

One of the Messman Corporals marched out while grinning ear to ear. He held aloft for all of the Mess to see a small slab of Bouf, looking evilly red with some kind of spice, and smartly approached the head table. While climbing up the small set of stairs to the elevated platform on which the head table was situated he ‘tripped’ and launched the food onto the dusty rockcrete floor. Without missing a beat he excused himself and retrieved the article, roughly slapping it back onto the platter now that it was coated in a fine rockcrete powder. The Messman then marched to the front of the head table and placed the platter in front of Madame President who looked on the thoroughly dirtied bouf slice with abject horror. It was so heavily covered with dust and the most toxic kind of hot spice as to be considered not just inedible but genuinely hazardous.

She nervously picked up her silverware to another chorus of jeering and picked the tiniest piece off with her fork and forced herself to chew. Her face instantly contorted and turned red. Beads of sweat formed and her nose started to run as she snatched up her own stein of beer and used it to chase the vile sample down into her stomach. She paused for a moment coughing harshly before managing to croak out her declaration. “I-I declare this bouf.. Fit for human consumption.”

There was another chorus of laughter at the display and the two instrument band beat up again as the Messman marched the devilish portion back to the kitchen and tonight's actual main course was distributed among the mess: Shikan Marengo and the traditional Roast Bouf.

Stewards and Messmen made their way down the line serving hearty portions to everyone. No one was to go hungry tonight and the smell alone was enough to send into overdrive the appetite of any man let alone those who’d lived on only canned rations for weeks.

Rand himself never liked shellfish, they were a bit weird to him. It was like a bug that lived in the water? He was sort of under the impression they were just something that was introduced to the various fishponds he’d frequented as a youth to help keep them clean. Other forms of protein either never had as much agency or were much more carefully managed. Was it healthy to eat something that not only was really alive at one point, but also subsited on waste? He imagined aliens might look like the crawfish tucked at the corner of his plate.

Lachenski had no apprehension and snapped the waterbugs body off. Loudly slurping the tiny nugget of meat out of its tail before he attacked the fried egg coated in a tomato based sauce next to his shickan. Surely he knew it was just garnish? Rand really couldn’t help himself any more and dug in.

By now, everyone was drunk. Seniors half lidded gaze drifted slowly side to side while he quietly sipped at his drink. Krieger wouldn’t shut the fuck up. His peers in 1st Platoon and Dygalo cackled all the while as he relayed some asinine story about falling into a shit-hole he himself dug in Yukatan. Rybeck himself just wanted to relax. While it was dying down a bit now, the whole environment of the mess was playing with his mind. For the months prior to this he’d just snuck off with Weiss to meet Restrepo and a few others to pass the special smoke around and get high.

Neither of them were here now. He was simply immersed in the culture of work again. It’s not that he didn’t like any of them. He would lay down his life for anyone in the room, let alone his table. It was just, to put it in historical terms, the vibe he couldn’t stand.

Everyone was jubilant and thoroughly intoxicated and he didn’t drink. He just wanted to relax, and it was hard. Every time someone stood up to fine one of their peers the clamor of the bass drum put him on edge. As far as he was concerned, now was the time to execute the tried and true ‘Pavin goodbye’ and stood up from his chair.

“Dan, where ya’ goin’? I was just getting to the good part!” Krieger protested sloppily.

“Gotta piss is all,” he reassured. Krieger waved at him dismissively and continued recounting his tale. He did have to piss, but it was a convenient excuse. He snatched up his mask and made his way through the lock and out of the tent. By his quick survey it seemed like things were on the downswing. Some Lancer Sergeant was already passed out, slumped against the wall inside the airlock. He had his mask on and his airway was clear, someone would eventually shepard him back to his tent.

He wandered his way past a pair of RG Soldiers with slung rifles vaping through the drinking tubes on their masks while watching the chaos of drunken troops around them with mild amusement instead of manning their posts as they were supposed to. He’d used up all his Sergeant energy already today taking over Senior’s duties and just ignored them. Making his way into a portashitter he did his best to ignore the blatantly obvious, but quickly hushed, sounds of fornication emanating from behind a set of connexes just to his left. Instead he tried focusing on admiring the pattering sound his stream of urine made as it impacted and spiraled down the drain. Just as soon as he buttoned his pants back up and exited the building the celebration resumed.

Good for them, he thought to himself. Thoughts of his wife waiting at him floated to the top of his mind. She might as well have been a saint. Taking care of their son and keeping the homefront in order while he was out here doing the Nation’s business. Rybeck stopped himself and chanced a glance upwards on his way back to the tent. One of the advantages of the city being mostly without power was being able to appreciate a clear Martian sky. Even with the naked eye he could pick out Earth and Luna at maximum opposition. He hoped he’d never have to go back, but somewhere inside he knew that he wanted to.

The flickering lights inside the station itself were enough to distract him from his thoughts. The Officers had gotten to a good, if delayed, start and a few pairs were visible through the windows staggering into off-limits sections of the facility. Their intentions were obvious. What he hadn’t expected to see was his boss among the shambling horde. Lt. Petrova and a male officer were leaning onto each other for mutual support as they bumbled down a second story hallway.

He dismissed it, she needed a break as much as any of them, and headed back inside their tent. He was sort of hoping to bed down before anything got out of hand, though the racket inside wasn’t promising.

Balachenko had his personal comm propped up against a box and it was projecting some trideo onto the wall to which the present occupants, roughly half the platoon, were gathered around and howling with laughter.

“Drink, big Sarn’t?” Seevan greeted the scent of grain alcohol oozing off of him while offering him a canteen cup.

“Seevo, you know Rybeck’s not that kinda guy.” Lachenski intercepted. “He wants some-a this.” Lachenski offered a vapor pen to him. “It’s good, Svertson scored it off some cat at Division. Just ask Rand.”

Rand was laying down on his cot nearly motionless, watching the reflected light of the projection dance over the ceiling.

“Imel fuckin’ zoinked our RTO, ma’am’s gonna be pissed.” Seevan complained while taking a sloppy drink from his mess tin.

Rybeck grabbed the pen and took a long hit, coughing slightly as he exhaled and passed it back to Lachenski. “I-I don’t think she’ll care,” he wheezed lightly.

“What makes you say that?” Lachenski questioned.

“I saw her going to shack up. 50-50 she comes back at all tonight.” Rybeck responded

“Oh yeah?” Lachenski raised an eyebrow, “with who?”

“Not sure, but one of your people: Raider tab, kinda Medd looking dude, y’know black hair, bit swarthy, hard part, kinda fucked up lookin’ ear” Rybeck listed off, trying to remember.

“Really? You’re sure?” Lachenski asked.

“Yeah, of course I’m sure. I’m a trained observer you know.” Rybeck replied, slightly offended at the implication.

“If it’s a cauliflower ear that’s Lt. Beckett. Really you’re making everything kinda fall into place.” Lachenski added while moving towards his cot to sit down. Rybeck followed because Lachenski was now hogging the pen and sat down across from him. Seevan weaved his way to his own rack and leaned over Rand. “You good?”

Seevan’s breath could strip paint.

“Y-yeah, I’m swell Corporal…” Rand mumbled as he continued watching the light dance above him.

“You sound a bit more interested than you’ve any right to be in who our boss shacks up with.” Rybeck stated while motioning for the pen again.

“Is that Sergeant to Corporal advice?” Lachenski asked for clarification while he passed it back.

Rybeck took a hit then waved the pen. “I might be wearing bigger chevrons, but this is a man to man thing. Best for us to mind our business; she’s a person after all y’know. I’m sure you wouldn’t want people stickin’ their nose into your relationships unduly right?”

“Hmm, well I only bring it up because y’know ma’am called someone at Reg HQ on her pers-comm day b’for. Y’know, when the Feds were fucking us. It’s the only reason our missions got approved at all by my estimation. Didn’t think she knew him like that.” Lachenski explained while taking possession of the pen back briefly only to pass it back to its rightful owner Svertson who was busy watching whatever dogshit comedy they couldn’t stop laughing at.

Rybeck rubbed his chin for a moment thoughtfully. It wasn’t a deep thought. Mostly he was surprised by how hard it was hitting him. The strange feeling of weightiness to his limbs made it more comfortable to shift into an awkward recline only a few centimeters away from Rand’s boots.

“Rand… Rand!” Rybeck called out jostling one of them. Rand slowly lifted his head up.

“Sergeaaantttt?” Rand stretched out the last syllable into an interrogative inflection.

“Rifleman, are you fucked up right now?” Rybeck questioned, suddenly serious.

“Sergeant… are you fucked up?” Rand returned the question. There was a long moment of silence while their eyes locked. Neither of them could contain smiles any longer and Rybeck nodded. Rand let a giggle build into a fit of positively tickled laughter.

“Dan, did you hear anything I just said?” Lachenski questioned, slightly annoyed.

“Imel… huh, nah man. I’ll be straight with you, didn't hear a damn word.” Rybeck responded through suppressed chuckles while slowly turning his head back.

Lachenski retrieved the pen from Svertson and took another hit. “To be honest… I don’t really remember either… I’m kinda… where’s everyone else?” Lachenski asked, evidently struggling to maintain a train of thought.

“Gus, Senior, Ars are still in the Sergeant’s mess, probably will be all night. Y’know how they are.” Rybeck took possession of the pen and made an exaggerated jerk-off motion.

“Sergeant for 5 hours and already forgets his roots.” Lachenski lamented. “Say what’re you gonna do when we get back?”

“Spend time with the wife and kiddo. Save for after that inevitable parade, this is probably my last boys night for a minute. You?”

“I forgot you were linked. What’s your wife do again?” Lachenski asked while dodging the question.

“She’s a QA/QC engineer at Likovka, they like, make optics and lenses and stuff. Even make the sensors in our helmets.” Rybeck responded.

“QA/QC?” Lachenski asked for clarification.

“Quality assurance and control. Factory’s mostly automated. She just like, checks products for defects and stuff. I dunno the specifics, you’d have to ask her.” Rybeck waved the question off.

“Sounds like a good job.” Lachenski commented.

“Eh, she makes more than me, half the reason we made it legal was so she could get that tax exempt status. Not that I regret it; get to see that sweet ass everyday back home.” Rybeck smiled. “You still seeing that one chick, the accountant?”

“Nah, broke it off,” Lachenski dismissed. “Worried too much, kinda clingingy, not really in the mood for that kinda shit anymore. Blew her back out ‘for we left though. God damn it never hits like when you’re worried you might not do it again.”

Rybeck nodded in agreement. “Oh I gave Mrs. Rybeck the night of her life; going for a repeat when we get back. Take Nilo to Vermillion Reservoir, spend the day fishing and pass him off to his granna for the evening. Get a nice dinner and some alone time; y’know the rest.” Rybeck chuckled.

“How’s that little fucker anyways? Made quite a ruckus at family day.” Lachenski added.

“Eh he’s a little guerrilla sometimes, but same genetype as me, can't be too surprised. He really just wants to be just like his dad. Wife keeps sending me pictures he drew.” Rybeck retrieved his comm and swiped through a few pictures of crude children's drawings, displaying them quite proudly. “Look at this catfish he caught off Morolo bridge, biggest fucker anyone got all day.” Rybeck added while swiping.

“Shit, wish I had a dad like you. Say Seevo, what’re you doing when we get back. I’m looking for inspiration.” Lachenski redirected while leaning backwards.

“Drink.” Seevan replied while refilling his canteen cup from another suspiciously unmarked container.

“Yeah, sure, for a little while. But then what?” Lachenski asked.

“Drink, and then drink the day after that, and the day after that…” There was a pause when Seevan downed most of what he’d just allocated himself. “Just gonna keep drinking until I forget.” Seevan finished off the rest of his canteen cup and poured himself another portion with a hardened look. “Until I forget about Doc and Sarn’t Weiss and Ritter and…” Seevan stopped himself and steadied his drink with both hands, “forget all this for a while.”

Rand crossed his arms tightly across his chest. Rybeck stood up sensing something. Fighting the forces of gravity had become much more difficult since he sat down. He managed a shuffle over towards Rand patting on his head. “‘S alright Balmi, you did all you could. Can’t ask more from any of us than what you did.” Rybeck comforted.

Rand rolled onto his side away from them and fixed his eyes closed. “I know… I know y’all didn’t mean anything by it; it’s just how it is.” Rand paused to clear his throat. “But Doc… Tony, he-” Rand stopped himself again to force down a sob. “He was the first one to treat me like I was the same as him.” Rand managed to choke out.

Rybeck pulled Rand up and into a tight hug letting him sniffle against his shoulder. “We all miss Tony. He was a good man.” Rybeck felt like he was about to let something out for a moment too, but he wouldn’t dare even now.

Lucy slammed the door behind her and locked it and then practically collapsed onto the couch inside the tiny office they’d snuck into. Sam already looked particularly disheveled, his Reg flash was only hanging on by one pin and his eyes were doing a sort of lazy and sloppy drifting as he tried to look at her.

“Lucy… I’m uh… I’m fuckin’ drunk…” He mentioned rather nonchalantly. On the inside he was more than a little perturbed. She always did this; she always took things a bit too far and right now it was spoiling their plans. He wasn’t sure which of the two swimming images next to him to be mad at.

She sat there next to him vegetating for a second while the walls swayed and something started to crawl up from her stomach to her throat. “Yeah… me too.”

“I uhm… you still wanna fuck?” Sam questioned awkwardly. “‘Cause, uh, I don’t think this Cannonier’s fit for duty,” he motioned towards his crotch.

She pouted for a moment, yeah she was looking forward to it, but she wasn’t in much better shape. She already ran the puke and rally twice. When the mess ended Capt. Eckartt got shots while that stupid movie they were all supposed to watch was playing and she wasn’t about to be upstaged. It was one of the Regent’s favorites: A Bridge Too Far. She’d forgotten how long the damn thing was and hadn’t figured that into her pla-. Biology, center stage.

“Sam, I'm gonna be sick.” Lucy announced while attempting to swallow the saliva building in her mouth.

“Really? I uh, you’re not that uh… disgusted with me?” He slurred apologetically while touching her shoulder. His emotions kept rubber-banding all over the place.

She suddenly shot up off the couch and lurched for a waste paper basket and voided the rest of her stomach contents. Sam shambled upwards leaning onto a desk for support while patting her back reassuringly, luckily her hair was still neatly tied up and out of the line of fire.

Lucy slid down onto the floor and while clutching either side of the can for support. She lost her balance on the way down, sending the can onto its side while spitting a mouthful of red-brown partially digested shickan on the industrial carpet. Sam rubbed circles on her back while hanging onto the edge of the desk for support, scared that if he let go the spinning sensation would send him to the floor too. She spent another moment coughing and settled into a sitting position. She looked towards him, eyes watering and fluid and chunks splotched around her mouth and chin.

“Sam, am I a bad officer?” she managed to spit out while looking right through him.

“Beautiful, please.. Wha-what makes you say that?” He tried to comfort while snatching a scarf someone left on a hook inside of the office to wipe at her mouth. This was all coming out of left-field.

“I didn’t do a good job, I didn’t…” she admitted weakly. “Roshan.. Roshan got his head crumpled right in front of me.” The pace of her speech rapidly increased. “A piece of the dome shoved his head down into his neck, it was flat, his eyeball was sticking out.” His stomach balled up as she spoke. He was too drunk to be dealing with this right now. He didn’t like dealing with this kind of thing anyways; he wasn’t good at it; he didn’t like remembering.

He just held onto her shoulders while her body tensed and the fingers of her left hand dug into his forearm painfully.

“And I couldn’t do anything, pieces were just falling everywhere, I was just a bug.” She suppressed a burst of manic laughter, which stopped as suddenly as it began. “And Doc-” she retched again dryly half from memory and half from intoxication.

“They fucking butchered him. I did everything they told me. I did everything they taught me! And it didn’t matter!” She shouted angrily, jerking away from him.

“Lucy, you did everything you could.” He replied while maintaining their distance for the moment. The seriousness was only slightly sobering, but it hadn’t dulled the gravity of her words. She just sat there, staring at her hands as they slowly balled into fists while her face twisted with frustration.

A bomb was going to go off if not defused. He did the only thing he could think of and seized her hands again. “Look at me.”

She still looked cocked and ready to fire off at the slightest provocation, eyes watering with angry tears.

“You did everything you could. That’s what happens. That’s what fucking happens in War. People die and there’s not anything we can do about it. You can take every precaution, make every correct move and still lose, still die, or get someone killed. That’s it, that’s the facts. I know what you’re going through and I know what it's like.” He spoke trying to force a steady tone and correct intonation despite the fact everything was fuzzy.

“You know why everyone looks to you? You’re not some Lieutenant, you’re Lyssa Petrova. Everyone is looking at you because they don’t just expect they know that you’re better. Every Soldier and Officer in this Regiment knows-”

“How would you know what this is like?” She interrupted, eyes snapping to her own nametape. “Let go Sam.” She requested curtly, forceful but controlled. He let go of her hands and sloppily moved backwards. She may have been in control for that moment, but there was a slight waver in her breath. Finally releasing whatever she was trying to contain she shot upwards. He took another cautious step backwards as she whirled around scattering papers off the desk. Lucy seized a snow globe replica of the Zhi-An Arcology off of the desk and hurled it at the wall with all her might, shattering it against the fiberboard paneling with a dull crack.

They both stood paralyzed for a moment as water and tiny white polymer specks slid down the wall, glass fragments sprinkling down on the vomit stained floor. Does putting someone under so much pressure, so many expectations and hopes, forge a diamond or does it make them crack? He was too drunk for this. She just stood there for what felt like an eternity of a moment, staring at the crumpled plastic buildings on the base while silent tears streamed.

He needed a new approach. Everyone was too drunk and the wounds were still too fresh. It suddenly seemed an inappropriate night for celebration. Sex? Why had he been thinking about that before?

He felt guilty for even entertaining the thought despite the fact it was her idea in the first place. She still wouldn’t really open up to him completely. Though there was something more real in her expressing her feelings, even in this outburst. Maybe this was his fault, but it was more than she’d ever managed before, maybe that was what counted.

More than ever her moment of humanity felt like looking in a mirror. He moved a bit closer tentatively and the tension in her body finally abated as she turned back and pulled him into a hug. Finally, he was getting somewhere. Relief.

She suddenly retched again right next to his ear. Terror. This uniform was done if she puked all over him. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to let her go this time. She coughed a few more times but the heave was thankfully dry. They broke embrace and she impressively managed to stagger back over to the couch under her own power then sat and tried to collect herself more completely wiping away her tears with the scarf. He was still much further gone and needed the desk for assistance to sit down beside her. They sat in silence for another moment. Her words had awoken something in his memory though. They were close physically, but he felt faraway in his own mind.

There were things he actively tried to avoid thinking about, and they all came to visit now. He would never be able to adequately explain his experiences with words. Sure he was a child of war, everyone was. They didn’t name it the fucking Planet Mars without cause, but it was different being a bystander rather than a participant.

How do you go home and tell your own sibkin with normal lives and jobs immersed in the fantasy of ordinary life what it’s really like out there. Most people spent their whole lives trying to forget about what happened during the Civil War or the Red and White Revolution. It was only a few of the perhaps morbidly curious or mentally deranged like himself who actively sought out conflict. Sure you can tell them how hot the sun is in the far off land of Yukatan, or how heavy you feel when you first get there even after 60 odd days of ‘gravitic adjustment’ during trave, but there were things he knew they would never understand, things they would never let themselves imagine or entertain.

If anything, it was better that all those proud citizens back home were ignorant, willfully or otherwise. People shouldn’t have to know what human intestines look like tangled up in mem-wire.

What it’s like to have to tell one of your own soldiers to lay waste to a child with cannon fire because that boy is holding a hand grenade without the pin and intent to throw.

What it’s like to be struck by the ejecta of a human body when shredded by explosives. To look down and realize that the blunt object that nearly knocked you unconscious is a human arm. Not just any arm, but a hand with a ring you recognize. A ring you recognize from late night barroom crawls, from passes around of the last ZV, from days on an OP spent doing absolutely nothing together.

What it’s like to hear the primal fear in someone's voice as they desperately call for help knowing that there’s nothing you can do for them without getting yourself killed. The horror as you watch people try and meet the same fate. He even tried his best not to think about it, not to talk about it or give the thoughts any more life.

It was better that most people didn’t know, but he knew, and she knew.

“I-I’m sorry…” Lucy apologized. “I didn’t mean to… it just all came out,” she motioned over to the two puddles on the floor. At least she managed to get most of it in the can. “That and the uh…” She shifted closer to him and he only now arrested his mind to its current surroundings at her touch.

“You’re drunk, I’m drunk… we’re drunk. ‘S all right. I understand; all of it.” He said, placing his hand on her shoulder. There was still some mournfulness in her gaze, but she placed her hand on top of his and lifted it around her shoulders.

“Can, can we just go back to having a good time?” she suggested, almost pleading.

“You’ll feel it all just the same, whether it's now or later,” Sam muttered.

“It hurts but…” Lucy trailed off and there was another long silence as she rested her head on his shoulder. He cursed himself for being too wrapped up in himself to just comfort her, to just be there.

“But, even through all of it, the fear and danger... I felt excited? Alive? In a way I’ve never felt before.” She paused, fighting another battle in her mind. “It feels wrong saying that out loud. When it was a Fed right in front of me I didn’t even hesitate. I just killed him. I thought I was supposed to feel something more. I was fucking glad I did.” She confessed.

He knew why. It was equally hard to discuss in ‘polite company’. There was a high in combat. A twisted pleasure even, in knowing that you’re competing, playing a game with the highest stakes imaginable and no margin of error. Everything came into focus in life; No loans or taxes, no nagging wives or petulant children, no worrying about that embarrassing moment in primary school. Just us and them; fight or die. In that space there was no greater triumph than to stand above a vanquished foe and see that abject defeat in their eyes as they lay dying.

I’m alive, you’re dead; I win, you lose.

It was hard to admit even to himself that he was still chasing that dragon. There were other reasons he was still wearing the uniform sure, but that desire would always lurk within him.

There was no real catharsis here between the two of them. He just nodded and she could sense something in that nod; they were the same. A sword wants to be used.