Excerpt from Shiloh Kensington’s Diary - May 31st, 2027

Kei woke up, went to work for eight hours, and then promptly moseyed off to kill himself again. No big deal. Just got convicted of public intoxication and gambling, so he walked to a place with both. But it was alright.

Idiot.

It started out okay. He went to get the money he hid, which’s a good and bad thing, considering that the base commander here has put a flashlight up the guy’s asshole. But I doubt he’ll get caught. For all his flaws, lack of intelligence isn’t one of them.

We just ran Kei Nakamura’s vocal logs through AiSCA, and surprise, surprise—we found hundreds of examples of abuse and record manipulation (which is great for getting Pier Zero in trouble but useless for figuring out what they were hiding) and found that Kei only commits crimes under wave scramblers. Somehow, these guys got equipment to distort soundwaves to make it sound like the place’s crowded and hard to hear, making it impossible to hear what they’re saying. It’s so advanced AI can’t parse it. Whoever Kei spends his time with is into some illegal shit, and they’re good at hiding it. I’m honestly impressed.

Enough about Kei because he just ruins my night. Let’s talk about something ELSE that ruined my night: Alex Marsh.

Now before you think that I’m jealous of her, let me make something clear: I’m not. I’m pissed at Tyrell.

Look. I’m the most unwifeable person in existence. I’m abrasive and blunt, and here I am, right now, writing in this diary like it’s voluntary therapy instead of proof I’m fucking cra…

I’m unwifeable. Laura tells me. Li tells me. Tyrell tells me. Akash tells me. Hell, even Mikhail says things like, “Major. I tell you truth. You want man? You smile. You don’t want man? You don’t smile. It’s simple. Must you be doll? No. Men like cooks not puppets. But you must smile sometimes, and you [never smile].” And then I smile, and he says, “Don’t force it. Don’t force it. No what? Don’t smile. Just don’t beat up men.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Yeah, even he’s given up. I’m unwifeable. I accept that, and I take solace in the fact that there’s a lot of women like me. You know, like women with terminal illnesses, women with horribly disfigured faces, never-married women with children from four fathers… you know. Unmarriable. These are my people. But look—I’m wifely, okay?

That’s right, I’m wifely. Wifely women are people who do there thing in college, find a partner, get married, have kids, share the chores, and put in serious effort to keep the relationship alive, at the very least, for the sake of their children. That’s wifely. And while there’s women who are wifeable, that doesn’t make them wifely—Alex Marsh fits into that category.

This woman’s calm and gentle and smiles—wifeable—but she walks around in her underwear during work hours, making it crystal clear she’s still on the menu—that’s not wifely.

And let’s be clear—that’s okay. I thought she was halfway badass for having the confidence to shave her hair and show off her scales. If ANYONE saw my diamond crust, Nick would have to peel me out of my room by force. So I admire her. But! And a huge fucking but at that! Living your life how you want is the opposite of wifely. Okay?

So… why… in the fuck… did Tyrell just treat that woman like she was a saint who needs a home-cooked meal and three dates before she even kisses someone? It was absurd.

Okay, you’ll probably think I’m overreacting because he said, “And unless you think he’s gonna lay a girl like that at the Mess, you can’t blame ‘em,” and that sounds neutral. But it was the way he said it. His tone came with an implied whistle and an “Oh, no-no. You think I can pull that? Fuck, Major. You’re going blind.”

SHE WAS IN HER FUCKING UNDERWEAR!

She’s damn near bald, for fuck’s sake!

Am I so unwifeable that someone like that’s a saint by comparison? Dear God… I’m going to die alone!

Alright, the urge has passed, so good night. I hope you spontaneously combust before I see you again.

2

I shot awake, nineteen—2027—to the sound of gunfire. No sirens—just drills. My breaths were shallow, mind hazy—grateful the drills freed me from the night terrors. Compared to those, today’s Reaping duty would be a breeze.