Graylock woke to a slight, unbearably gentle tap-tap-taping on the oak door of his office.

He was sprawled on his back on a flat cot, one arm and leg dangling over the edge, his jacket laid out over him like a blanket. The blinds were mostly shut, with a thin beam of light cutting down the middle of the room, forming a glittering wall of drifting dust motes.

How very magical.

Less magical was the dull, pulsating pain in his head. And the gross, churning feeling in his stomach, like a fish circling the edge of it's bowl. Splish splash.

Godsdammit.

Tap-tap-tap-tap

Graylock groaned. He turned on his side to peer at the far corner of the room. The door was half-obscured by various odds and ends. The biggest culprit being his books. Even though his bookshelves ran the entire span of one wall, he'd run out of conventional spaces to store them. Now they were stacked in tall piles, like buildings, making a sort of city skyline.

Graylock had developed a voracious appetite for books during his early years of enlistment. Not so that he could learn, or be more prepared, but so he could forget where he was, for at least a little while. He learned that words were powerful things. They could transport the mind and the heart. Besides being a satisfying way to spend time, they were also a brief respite from his surroundings and circumstances. A veil he could use to separate himself from the realities of the war front.

Of course, sometimes the veil wasn't enough. Sometimes the tighter you drew it, the harsher and more defined the shadows cast from the other side became. When the senses can no longer be protected from the harsher realities, numbness is the only answer.

And sometimes, something a bit stronger.

The fact of the matter was that Graylock had seen what could happen to men whose minds had been broken. Traumatized. Some of them weren't even coherent. Never would be, again. Locked away forever in padded cells, far from the rest of the civilized world.

He wouldn't let that happen. The madness wouldn't take him. If that meant being a drunkard, he would wear the mantle gladly. He felt no shame in it. Not anymore.

Besides, he could take care of himself, inebriated or otherwise. He could hold his drink.

Though, at the moment, there was an unpleasant gurgle in his tum-tum that seemed to indicate otherwise.

TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP

Louder. More insistent, this time.

"Calbreia herself!" Graylock shouted, throwing his jacket onto the floor. He was still wearing the rest of his military uniform, boots included. His footfalls were pounding, angry thuds on the floorboards. He weaved between stacks of books like a cabbie making an efficient route through town. He stopped at the door and felt his pockets for a flask. Realized he must have left it back by the cot, or on his desk. Sighed. Opened the door.

He held the door open long enough to notice that Lott was standing just beyond it, and to be hit with the blinding glare of the high noon sun, hitting his sensitive eyes like the slash of a sword.

He cringed back, closing the door until it was only open a crack.

"We need to talk," Lott said. "Graylock?"

"Could you at least turn the sun off, first?"

A boot on the step. A sudden pressure on the door.

Graylock pushed back, laying his weight against the door and meeting Lott's resistance. For a moment, it didn't budge.

Then, from the other side: "Graylock!"

Graylock sighed. He sidestepped, letting the force of Lott's weight push open the door.

Lott half-stumbled into the room, righted himself, then glared.

"What?" Graylock said, all innocence.

Lott shut the door behind him and looked about the room. He suddenly seemed like a suspicious parent, inspecting a child's room for evidence of wrongdoing.

"Where is it?" He said.

"Pardon?" Graylock said.

Lott was already crossing the room, moving in slow circles. Rummaging with his eyes, and occasionally his hands.

"You know what I mean," Lott said. "We both know why you would work so hard to procure four hundred dollars in such a lump sum."

"Assumptions, much?" Graylock said. But he was trying hard not to look in the direction of his desk. Specifically, the bottom-left drawer of his desk.

Unfortunately, because he was so focused on not looking at the desk, he ended up doing just that. If only briefly.

Lott caught it, too. He exchanged looks with Graylock. Still holding his gaze, he navigated around a stack of books and began to approach the desk, gauging for a reaction as he went.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Graylock did his best to look nonplussed. "What?"

Lott grabbed an open, tented book and lifted it up off the desktop. Nothing underneath, save a slim layer of dust. He looked at Graylock again, assessing.

"I know I said I'd clean my room," Graylock said. "And I will. Just give me five more minutes, Mother."

Lott's expression was the visual equivalent of a growl. He dropped the book back onto the desk, knocking a puff of dust into the air. "You're good at deflecting people who care about you."

"This is you caring about me?" Graylock said. "Making vague accusations? Rummaging through my things?"

"Still deflecting," Lott said.

"Ugh." Graylock rubbed the point between his eyebrows. "It's too early for this."

"It's the middle of the Godsdamn day," Lott said. He dropped a sealed envelope on the desk. It made a whap sound as it slapped against the surface.

So dramatic!

Graylock did his best not to look at the letter. Didn't want to give Lott the satisfaction of giving the thing a second-glance. Whatever it was.

"I've always had respect for you, Colonel," Lott said. "Even before I was stationed here. I remember reading about your exploits at the Battle of Carmine Ridge. The things you've done for this country. You're a damn hero."

Graylock wished people would stop talking about that. Honestly, he wished there was a way he could forget about Carmine Ridge entirely. Maybe he'd stop dreaming about it, so much.

Besides—'battle'? The Battle of Carmine Ridge?

No. Not exactly. Only according to the propaganda. Anyone who'd actually been there knew otherwise.

"I'm not—" Graylock began.

"Let me finish!" Lott said. "With respect, sir. My concern is not just for the health and well-being of this base, and this community. It's for you."

"I'm doing just fine," Graylock said. "Thanks for checking in."

"I can tell," Lott said. "Here's your flask, by the way." He picked it up off the desk, tossed it.

Graylock caught it. Unscrewed the top. "Thank the Gods." He downed a gulp, and was met with a disapproving glare from Lott.

"I'm going to apply for a transfer," Lott said.

"Really?" Graylock said, screwing shut the cap on his flask. "But we have such a great dynamic going."

Lott frowned. "You're going to try and act like you don't care if I go?"

Graylock did care. Lott was the only one that put up with his bullshit, anymore. It was nice knowing he could be himself around someone. As much as Lott had a tendency to call him out for his behavior, he was still always there for him.

Also, he was a proactive officer, and had assumed the vast majority of what were technically supposed to be Graylock's duties. And that was rather nice as well. It would be a shame if that were to just disappear.

Graylock sighed. "Let me guess. You just want to see some effort from me in this relationship."

"I need to know that you're not on Amethyst," Lott said.

"I'm not," Graylock said.

He wasn't on Amethyst. He just, you know. Partook every once in a while. It was different.

"And I need you to respond to this letter," Lott said, pointing at the envelope.

"Um, okay," Graylock said, still nursing his headache. "Are you...are you going to tell who it's from, or..."

"You know who it's from," Lott said. "Kalana Kaine."

Ah. Right.

"She sends me lots of letters," Graylock said. "I choose to ignore them."

"You can't do that, Gray."

"Why not?"

"Because she's a Kaine," Lott said. "You have to give her...something."

"It's all just part of some political game she's playing. I don't have to be a part of it if I don't want to."

"Graylock, your job is political. The entire reason this base exists, and the entire reason you're stationed here, is to protect corporate interests."

Graylock suddenly wanted another pull of his drink. He started unscrewing the cap. "You think I don't know that?"

He'd joined the military for the sake of his country. To make a difference. He'd believed the papers. What everyone said about the war against Daroven.

Lies.

And now here he was. Stranded at the edge of the world. Nothing left to strive for, if he even could. Nothing to do about it.

But he could still draw the line somewhere, couldn't he? Didn't he at least have that?

Just because the Kaine's had orchestrated his placement at Tantern didn't mean they owned him.

Lott was shaking his head. "If you're not careful, you're gonna lose what little you have left. And you may not believe it, but I don't want that to happen. Sincerely, I don't."

He stepped around the desk. "Answer the letter."

And then he was out the door and gone.

He left the door cracked, just a little, ruffling the pages of an open book on the floor next to the cot. And suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet for 'Gray'.

Had Lott ever called him that, before? Had anyone? Not that he could remember.

An interesting development.

He couldn't say what exactly it was that attracted people to him. Especially when he did everything he possibly could to keep them away. Why couldn't people take a hint?

Why did his head feel so damn light?

He swayed, one hand on the door jamb and the other against his temple.

He didn't normally feel this hungover. He must have overdone it last night. Again.

Of course, there was only one way to make the pain stop. The relief would be instantaneous. And he would feel pretty darn good for a few hours after, too. With the day he was having, it seemed like just what the doctor ordered.

Graylock meandered toward the desk. Sat in the oak chair. Almost fell into it, really. And stayed slumped there, a layer of matted, sweaty hair hanging down across his vision.

His arm lurched, as if of it's volition, and in one smooth movement he yanked open the bottom left drawer. The vial of liquid Amethyst rolled, glass tapping on wood and resting at the front of the drawer.

He'd first been exposed to the stuff in the same 'battle' for which he'd received most of his medals. The infamous Carmine Ridge. Amazing how stuff comes together like that in life. Call it fate. Call it bad luck. Call it whatever you want. His wounds from that day had scarred his body just as surely as the memories scarred his mind.

He'd been hit with a sniper shot in the upper chest, destroying one lung, shattering multiple ribs, and who knew what else. Without the Amethyst injections, he would have died. It had helped that his body was Crystal-adaptive. He'd absorbed the Amethyst faster than a normal person would have, and without having to deal with the more dire after-effects.

Still, he craved it, sometimes. More than the stuff itself, he liked how it made him feel. It didn't make him forget, unfortunately. But it did keep him from caring, for a while.

He reached into the drawer, touching the vial softly with one finger. He pushed it, and it rolled, before stopping and sliding back down and resting against his hand.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP

Graylock nearly jumped right up out of the chair with startlement. What he actually did was sit up straight, taking a rigid pose in the chair, and stare at the door.

Big mistake, Lott. The effect of storming out is lost if you come sulking back. Leave, or don't leave. Gods.

He stood. He wasn't halfway to the door when someone pushed it open, and it swung wide.

Lott wasn't standing on the other side of the doorway. It was some boy. He could have been fifteen. Or sixteen. He wore a hat, a loose shirt, and vest, jeans, and a bandanna that hung at his neck.

He had a black eye. Looked like someone had nailed him good. It was big and purple and bulging.

He seemed to be holding something in his hand, but Graylock barely got a glimpse at it before the boy threw it, and it fell to the floor between them.

Looked like a letter. The second letter that had been waved around in front of Graylock today.

The boy stared at him. And he spoke.

"Explain yourself."