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“Tell me again how you got captured?”
“Well...”
///
Things the Commander should be used to: being cold, being hungry, being sad.
Things the Commander is not used to: being cold, being hungry, being sad.
They let out a long sigh and shuffle in the nest of leaves they’ve made. They’ve made camp on the edge of some woods, right where the trees stop and the world slopes down to a gleaming city.
A deep inhale. The scent of forest fills their nose, but it’s tinted with gasoline, smoke, and the hint of fast food. Despite themselves, the Commander finds they’re focused on the latter; they never got to finish the only bird they managed to catch a few days earlier, not when one of those purple things had showed up and chased them half across the forest.
Another inhale. They can imagine the food: a warm burger tasting of cheap ground beef and ketchup, the fries greasy and half salted. This brings up memories of other food: homemade chicken sandwiches shared with Central, stale donuts snuck from behind squaddies’ backs, beef jerky mockingly handed out as treats that they unironically enjoyed...
The Commander groans in the way only a animal can, rolls over so that the world is upside down. Their stomach growls, louder then they like, and they groan again. They haven’t eaten a real meal in so long, not since this occupation began.
The Commander doesn’t really understand what’s happening, not fully, and they’re not afraid to admit it. They understand the base got overrun, and because of that humanity had no defense (though in their opinion XCOM was never a great defense to begin with). They understand that aliens have taken over and regrouped civilians into these... city centers, complete with metroplexes all the way to slums. But beyond that they’re not entirely sure what’s going on. Not that they have time or security enough to really care, when survival and avoiding the purple things is more important.
Better to stick to the wilds and...and...
Starve to death, the Commander guesses with a whine. God all they ever think about now is food. What it tastes like, where to get it, how goddamn hungry they are. They hate it, but XCOM means nothing now, aliens mean nothing now, the need for food, steady heavy food food, is all consuming.
But the Commander was raised in captivity, feed by humans; they never learned how to properly hunt. And even then, birds and rats don’t fill a canine belly, not really, so all they ever fucking think about is food food food. If they had the mental capacity to spare they’d hate themselves for it.
The Commander flips back over onto their stomach, gazes down at the city center. The smell of the restaurants hangs heavy in their nose. Saliva drips down their jaws. They can’t take this anymore, they can’t they can’t they—
The Commander gets to their feet, unsteady on weak legs. They amble down the hill, slow lumbers at first but then they are running running running and it is exhausting exhausting exhausting but they can’t take it anymore. They can’t do this anymore.
They promised themselves they’d never go in a city center. But they’ve never been good at keeping promises.
The Commander slows to a trot. The scenery goes by steadily, the change from wild grass to roadside scrub, the emergence of a road from the south. They reorient slightly and hug the edge of the asphalt, fur whipping in the wind of passing vehicles.
What would Central think of them now, they wonder as they pass through the mouth of the city and step onto the sidewalk, nails click clicking on the pavement. Would he be angry? Or would he understand? Animals feel hunger so much more viscerally than you.
No one really gives them any mind, just steps out of their way as they weave through the foot traffic. Their nose twitches incessantly, and they bow their head to the concrete and follow it.
It leads to an restaurant, modern and sleek, with outdoor seating. The Commander pauses, crouched in a bush, and surveys. There’s no way to get inside, that’d cause a scene, and they don’t want a scene. Hazel eyes flick across the occupants of the outdoor seating; a young man at one of the tables has his nose in his phone, burger unattended.
If it was possible for wolves to grin, the Commander would.
They glance around; the restaurant is fairly quiet for so early in the evening. Not many people are seated outside, and not many by the restaurant windows. That’s good, they think, that’s perfect.
They reach back into their head, shake the mental dust from their Psionics. It’s been so long since they’ve used it, besides creating Psi holograms to lead the purple things away. For a moment they hesitate, worry this will exhaust them, and then decide even if it does the food will make up for it.
The Commander gently reaches across the distance and Psionically lifts the burger; it hovers in the air, the space around it shimmery purple. They quickly pull it over into the bush, unceremoniously dropping it onto the ground.
There is no hesitance or prayer or reverie, they just swallow it, eating as every one of their kind does: full bites, no chewing. It’s gone in seconds, and the Commander shivers as they feel it slide down into their stomach. They’re still hungry, desperately terribly hungry, but this is nice.
Best to move on, though.
The Commander strolls through the outdoor area, tail swishing a bit in amusement as they hear the man at the table exclaim in surprise and shock that his food is gone. If they’re lucky, they can find more people distracted by technology, and take their meals too.
For a while they aimlessly walk the streets, watching as people pass by. Sometimes the regular people are stopped by the people in black armor, sometimes they’re stopped by lampposts asking for ID. Sometimes the people in black armor follow the Commander too, talking in their headsets, but the wolf quickly loses them in back alleys and side streets before returning to the main streets.
There’s lots of stores here, clothes and makeup and books, advertising items and brands the Commander doesn’t recognize. The skyscrapers rep names they don’t know, and cars that look something out a sci fi movie drive past. The world feels like a techno movie here, and the Commander, who has always had a soft spot science fiction, thinks they like it.
Not that they like the aliens or anything, but they haven’t seen any aliens yet so maybe it’s okay they like this ‘city center’. They don’t know. They don’t know a lot of things, but being a animal sometimes it doesn’t matter as much as it would a person. They like to think that, anyway.
The Commander enters a small park, with a black cubed fountain and a massive statue of... well, they aren’t quite sure what it is, but it’s pretty impressive. Golden with arms reaching toward the sky, tall as a one story building. Something in their head pings, vibrates, knows, when they see the statue, but they can’t quite puzzle a answer from the conceptual way the being sharing their body talks. Whatever it is, the Commander thinks it’s pretty cool.
Their nose twitches. A young girl is seated a bench across the park, eating a box of French fries and reading a book. The Commander swallows, lowers their body, and approaches. The girl doesn’t notice them at first, but once the Commander is within petting distance, she blinks and sets the book down on her lap.
“Hey doggy,” she says. The Commander internally laughs. They are not a dog, but whatever works for food. They soften their gaze and look at her. The girl glances around, eyes resting momentarily on the people in black armor who have arrived in a black van near the edge of the park and are now talking amongst themselves. One of the people does not have black armor, they have red, and a cape. “Where did you come from?”
Food please.
Another nervous glance; the person in red armor is pointing at them. “I haven’t seen anything like you around. I thought ADVENT banned pets.”
ADVENT? That’s the burger chain. They can’t ban anything but food. Speaking of, food please.
The girl studies them for a moment. “You’re pretty scrawny, doggy,” she says finally. “Are you a stray?”
Technically. Food please!
The girl glances around one last time, and then picks out a fry from the box. She offers it out to the Commander with a open palm; they try as gently as they can to lap it up from their hand, relishing the taste of grease and salt.
“You really like that, huh, doggy?” she says as they furiously wag their tail and nose her hand. “You want more?”
Yes yes yes! Please please please!
She hands them another, and they scarf down quick as the first. She then sighs and sets down the whole box at the Commander’s front paws, and they happily stuff their muzzle into the container, eagerly swallowing mouthful of fried potato.
The girl gently strokes their head as they eat. When she suddenly stops, they look up from their fry eating, one stick hanging from their teeth. The people in black armor are coming over, and they don’t... well, the Commander can’t see their faces from behind their helmets, but they don’t smell friendly.
Actually, now that they take another look, these people in the armor smell really weird.
They smell like aliens.
The girl stands up from the bench, picking up her book and sliding it into a bag around her shoulder as the people (?) in the armor approach. She glances down at them. “It’ll be okay, doggy,” she says quietly. “Just be a good dog.”
The Commander stands warily beside her, body low to the earth, muscles tense. The people in the armor are speaking to her now in tongues they don’t understand but that she must; well, two of them are, the ones in black. The red one is approaching them, and before they can react, the person in red armor has grabbed them about the middle and lifted them off the ground. They flail their legs uselessly in the air, and then begin to twist back and forth against the grip, jaws snapping hard at empty space.
“Hey!” the girls shouts, but the two people in black armor move to block her movement as the person in red armor carries the Commander to the black van. They’re dumped headfirst into the back, the doors slamming shut behind them and leaving them breathing heavy in the dark.
This was always a possibility, they suppose, but no one ever knew I wasn’t a person. It’s how I survived the base attack, they were looking for a human. How did they figure it out? Did they figure it out?
Feverishly the Commander hopes this is standard protocol for wild animals. Or, well, all animals maybe. Hadn’t the girl said ADVENT banned pets? And just what is ADVENT, then? Something bigger then fast food name?
Their head hurts, their stomach hurts. The Commander curls up on the cold steel of the van floor as it begins to move. The slow rumble is soothing, despite the anxiety in them, and they find they’re able to slip into a half sleep that’s only broken fully by the van doors being opened.
They squint against the bright lights that are shone directly into their face, and screw up their muzzle in distaste. The lights go away, and there are scientists staring at them. At least, from the white coats and clipboards they assume these humans are scientists.
The Commander stares back from their lying position on the van floor. Can they fight these people? No, there’s some of the people in the black armor behind them, and they’re so weak from malnutrition they couldn’t even really use Psionics as a extra aid. No, the Commander will be a ‘good’ subject and instead sneak away when they can, out of this place and back to the wilds. Yes, that’s a good plan.
One of the scientists nearest them produces a syringe, and the Commander jumps up, skidding on the metal floor of the van. They don’t like needles, they hate needles. They growl at the scientist, who gently shushes them as he climbs into the van. They move away from him, slinking along the wall of the van, but then there are the other scientists blocking the open doorway.
There is nowhere to go.
“Be a good dog, Commander,” says the scientist.
The Commander growls again, ducks under his arms once more as he tries to get a grip on them. The man turns slightly, signals at a fellow coworker, and a second female scientist climbs into the van, and quite suddenly the Commander is cornered.
They snarl, ears flat against their head as the man with the syringe gets closer.
“Be a good dog,” he says again.
The Commander bites his hand as it comes near, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to make him drop the syringe.
“Fuck!” the man shouts, and kicks at the Commander. It catches them in the ribs, making their legs give out, them wheezing from the impact. The female scientist who’s climbed into the van snatches up the syringe and comes at them, grabbing a handful of scruff.
The Commander attempts to lunge, attempts to wrap their maw around her too close face, but they’re too slow and she’s inserted the needle. All at once the two scientists retreat from the van and join the others in...
Watching? Waiting? The Commander isn’t sure.
They’re not... really sure of a lot right now. They need to sit down, so they do, suddenly unsteady. The world feels like it’s spinning, but only just slightly.
Something is wrong. Something is off. Something is...bad.
They slide down from sitting to lie on the van floor, and wonder why there’s a spark of fear in their chest. When the scientists climb back into the van and pick them up, the Commander doesn’t struggle, just watches as the world passes by: they’re carried into some large facility it seems, through white washed halls and then dark ones lit with red.
They’re laid on a table in some back dark room, a bright light shining down from above. Faces of masked doctors (are they doctors? are they sick? they aren’t sure) loom over them, and the Commander thinks they let out a whine when they realize they can’t see what the doctors are holding.
One of the doctors (?) looks at a watch. “How much longer?” they ask.
“Any minute now. Prep the subject.”
The Commander feels hands on their head, which lolls uselessly at the touch. Something buzzing is brought against the back of their head, and it only occurs to them that the fur there has been shaved off after it is done. There’s a sound of things on wheels being rolled in. Something cold is wiped on the exposed skin, and somewhere else they feel pinpricks: in their left foreleg, mostly. There is soft beeping now, in time to the beat of the Commander’s heart.
The Commander has never liked surgery. It scares them, the scalpels and the blood and the masked faces. Are there scalpels here? Why do they need surgery? Is that what this is?
A sudden need to sleep has crept into them, and they suppose if they have to have a surgery, it’s probably better that they sleep.
The Commander closes their eyes—
—and opens then again to see the familiar sheets of their central officer’s bed. They’re curled on the edge of his bed; said man is sleeping, but when the Commander moves, he lifts his head and groggily asks “Are you alright?”
The Commander blinks, stares at the walls, stares at their paws. “I... think so.” Their voice feels raspy, weak, like it’s not been used for years, and they can’t place why. Maybe they yelled at the troops earlier? They can’t... remember.
It probably doesn’t matter.
“You think so?” Bradford is sitting up right now, looking at them.
“Yeah,” they say, “Yeah, I’m alright. I just... had a bad dream.”
“Figures, given the circumstances. C’mere.” He pats the area next to him on the bed, and while protocol demands they sleep on the foot, the Commander decides protocol is stupid and takes the invitation to lie next to Bradford. A arm wraps around them, and the weight is comforting.
The Commander listens to his steady breathing and attempts to calm their racing heart.
Just a bad dream.
Just a bad dream.
///
“An ADVENT burger? Really?”
“In my defense, I was very hungry and very stupid.”
“Jesus Christ, Commander.”
“Well...”
///
Things the Commander should be used to: being cold, being hungry, being sad.
Things the Commander is not used to: being cold, being hungry, being sad.
They let out a long sigh and shuffle in the nest of leaves they’ve made. They’ve made camp on the edge of some woods, right where the trees stop and the world slopes down to a gleaming city.
A deep inhale. The scent of forest fills their nose, but it’s tinted with gasoline, smoke, and the hint of fast food. Despite themselves, the Commander finds they’re focused on the latter; they never got to finish the only bird they managed to catch a few days earlier, not when one of those purple things had showed up and chased them half across the forest.
Another inhale. They can imagine the food: a warm burger tasting of cheap ground beef and ketchup, the fries greasy and half salted. This brings up memories of other food: homemade chicken sandwiches shared with Central, stale donuts snuck from behind squaddies’ backs, beef jerky mockingly handed out as treats that they unironically enjoyed...
The Commander groans in the way only a animal can, rolls over so that the world is upside down. Their stomach growls, louder then they like, and they groan again. They haven’t eaten a real meal in so long, not since this occupation began.
The Commander doesn’t really understand what’s happening, not fully, and they’re not afraid to admit it. They understand the base got overrun, and because of that humanity had no defense (though in their opinion XCOM was never a great defense to begin with). They understand that aliens have taken over and regrouped civilians into these... city centers, complete with metroplexes all the way to slums. But beyond that they’re not entirely sure what’s going on. Not that they have time or security enough to really care, when survival and avoiding the purple things is more important.
Better to stick to the wilds and...and...
Starve to death, the Commander guesses with a whine. God all they ever think about now is food. What it tastes like, where to get it, how goddamn hungry they are. They hate it, but XCOM means nothing now, aliens mean nothing now, the need for food, steady heavy food food, is all consuming.
But the Commander was raised in captivity, feed by humans; they never learned how to properly hunt. And even then, birds and rats don’t fill a canine belly, not really, so all they ever fucking think about is food food food. If they had the mental capacity to spare they’d hate themselves for it.
The Commander flips back over onto their stomach, gazes down at the city center. The smell of the restaurants hangs heavy in their nose. Saliva drips down their jaws. They can’t take this anymore, they can’t they can’t they—
The Commander gets to their feet, unsteady on weak legs. They amble down the hill, slow lumbers at first but then they are running running running and it is exhausting exhausting exhausting but they can’t take it anymore. They can’t do this anymore.
They promised themselves they’d never go in a city center. But they’ve never been good at keeping promises.
The Commander slows to a trot. The scenery goes by steadily, the change from wild grass to roadside scrub, the emergence of a road from the south. They reorient slightly and hug the edge of the asphalt, fur whipping in the wind of passing vehicles.
What would Central think of them now, they wonder as they pass through the mouth of the city and step onto the sidewalk, nails click clicking on the pavement. Would he be angry? Or would he understand? Animals feel hunger so much more viscerally than you.
No one really gives them any mind, just steps out of their way as they weave through the foot traffic. Their nose twitches incessantly, and they bow their head to the concrete and follow it.
It leads to an restaurant, modern and sleek, with outdoor seating. The Commander pauses, crouched in a bush, and surveys. There’s no way to get inside, that’d cause a scene, and they don’t want a scene. Hazel eyes flick across the occupants of the outdoor seating; a young man at one of the tables has his nose in his phone, burger unattended.
If it was possible for wolves to grin, the Commander would.
They glance around; the restaurant is fairly quiet for so early in the evening. Not many people are seated outside, and not many by the restaurant windows. That’s good, they think, that’s perfect.
They reach back into their head, shake the mental dust from their Psionics. It’s been so long since they’ve used it, besides creating Psi holograms to lead the purple things away. For a moment they hesitate, worry this will exhaust them, and then decide even if it does the food will make up for it.
The Commander gently reaches across the distance and Psionically lifts the burger; it hovers in the air, the space around it shimmery purple. They quickly pull it over into the bush, unceremoniously dropping it onto the ground.
There is no hesitance or prayer or reverie, they just swallow it, eating as every one of their kind does: full bites, no chewing. It’s gone in seconds, and the Commander shivers as they feel it slide down into their stomach. They’re still hungry, desperately terribly hungry, but this is nice.
Best to move on, though.
The Commander strolls through the outdoor area, tail swishing a bit in amusement as they hear the man at the table exclaim in surprise and shock that his food is gone. If they’re lucky, they can find more people distracted by technology, and take their meals too.
For a while they aimlessly walk the streets, watching as people pass by. Sometimes the regular people are stopped by the people in black armor, sometimes they’re stopped by lampposts asking for ID. Sometimes the people in black armor follow the Commander too, talking in their headsets, but the wolf quickly loses them in back alleys and side streets before returning to the main streets.
There’s lots of stores here, clothes and makeup and books, advertising items and brands the Commander doesn’t recognize. The skyscrapers rep names they don’t know, and cars that look something out a sci fi movie drive past. The world feels like a techno movie here, and the Commander, who has always had a soft spot science fiction, thinks they like it.
Not that they like the aliens or anything, but they haven’t seen any aliens yet so maybe it’s okay they like this ‘city center’. They don’t know. They don’t know a lot of things, but being a animal sometimes it doesn’t matter as much as it would a person. They like to think that, anyway.
The Commander enters a small park, with a black cubed fountain and a massive statue of... well, they aren’t quite sure what it is, but it’s pretty impressive. Golden with arms reaching toward the sky, tall as a one story building. Something in their head pings, vibrates, knows, when they see the statue, but they can’t quite puzzle a answer from the conceptual way the being sharing their body talks. Whatever it is, the Commander thinks it’s pretty cool.
Their nose twitches. A young girl is seated a bench across the park, eating a box of French fries and reading a book. The Commander swallows, lowers their body, and approaches. The girl doesn’t notice them at first, but once the Commander is within petting distance, she blinks and sets the book down on her lap.
“Hey doggy,” she says. The Commander internally laughs. They are not a dog, but whatever works for food. They soften their gaze and look at her. The girl glances around, eyes resting momentarily on the people in black armor who have arrived in a black van near the edge of the park and are now talking amongst themselves. One of the people does not have black armor, they have red, and a cape. “Where did you come from?”
Food please.
Another nervous glance; the person in red armor is pointing at them. “I haven’t seen anything like you around. I thought ADVENT banned pets.”
ADVENT? That’s the burger chain. They can’t ban anything but food. Speaking of, food please.
The girl studies them for a moment. “You’re pretty scrawny, doggy,” she says finally. “Are you a stray?”
Technically. Food please!
The girl glances around one last time, and then picks out a fry from the box. She offers it out to the Commander with a open palm; they try as gently as they can to lap it up from their hand, relishing the taste of grease and salt.
“You really like that, huh, doggy?” she says as they furiously wag their tail and nose her hand. “You want more?”
Yes yes yes! Please please please!
She hands them another, and they scarf down quick as the first. She then sighs and sets down the whole box at the Commander’s front paws, and they happily stuff their muzzle into the container, eagerly swallowing mouthful of fried potato.
The girl gently strokes their head as they eat. When she suddenly stops, they look up from their fry eating, one stick hanging from their teeth. The people in black armor are coming over, and they don’t... well, the Commander can’t see their faces from behind their helmets, but they don’t smell friendly.
Actually, now that they take another look, these people in the armor smell really weird.
They smell like aliens.
The girl stands up from the bench, picking up her book and sliding it into a bag around her shoulder as the people (?) in the armor approach. She glances down at them. “It’ll be okay, doggy,” she says quietly. “Just be a good dog.”
The Commander stands warily beside her, body low to the earth, muscles tense. The people in the armor are speaking to her now in tongues they don’t understand but that she must; well, two of them are, the ones in black. The red one is approaching them, and before they can react, the person in red armor has grabbed them about the middle and lifted them off the ground. They flail their legs uselessly in the air, and then begin to twist back and forth against the grip, jaws snapping hard at empty space.
“Hey!” the girls shouts, but the two people in black armor move to block her movement as the person in red armor carries the Commander to the black van. They’re dumped headfirst into the back, the doors slamming shut behind them and leaving them breathing heavy in the dark.
This was always a possibility, they suppose, but no one ever knew I wasn’t a person. It’s how I survived the base attack, they were looking for a human. How did they figure it out? Did they figure it out?
Feverishly the Commander hopes this is standard protocol for wild animals. Or, well, all animals maybe. Hadn’t the girl said ADVENT banned pets? And just what is ADVENT, then? Something bigger then fast food name?
Their head hurts, their stomach hurts. The Commander curls up on the cold steel of the van floor as it begins to move. The slow rumble is soothing, despite the anxiety in them, and they find they’re able to slip into a half sleep that’s only broken fully by the van doors being opened.
They squint against the bright lights that are shone directly into their face, and screw up their muzzle in distaste. The lights go away, and there are scientists staring at them. At least, from the white coats and clipboards they assume these humans are scientists.
The Commander stares back from their lying position on the van floor. Can they fight these people? No, there’s some of the people in the black armor behind them, and they’re so weak from malnutrition they couldn’t even really use Psionics as a extra aid. No, the Commander will be a ‘good’ subject and instead sneak away when they can, out of this place and back to the wilds. Yes, that’s a good plan.
One of the scientists nearest them produces a syringe, and the Commander jumps up, skidding on the metal floor of the van. They don’t like needles, they hate needles. They growl at the scientist, who gently shushes them as he climbs into the van. They move away from him, slinking along the wall of the van, but then there are the other scientists blocking the open doorway.
There is nowhere to go.
“Be a good dog, Commander,” says the scientist.
The Commander growls again, ducks under his arms once more as he tries to get a grip on them. The man turns slightly, signals at a fellow coworker, and a second female scientist climbs into the van, and quite suddenly the Commander is cornered.
They snarl, ears flat against their head as the man with the syringe gets closer.
“Be a good dog,” he says again.
The Commander bites his hand as it comes near, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to make him drop the syringe.
“Fuck!” the man shouts, and kicks at the Commander. It catches them in the ribs, making their legs give out, them wheezing from the impact. The female scientist who’s climbed into the van snatches up the syringe and comes at them, grabbing a handful of scruff.
The Commander attempts to lunge, attempts to wrap their maw around her too close face, but they’re too slow and she’s inserted the needle. All at once the two scientists retreat from the van and join the others in...
Watching? Waiting? The Commander isn’t sure.
They’re not... really sure of a lot right now. They need to sit down, so they do, suddenly unsteady. The world feels like it’s spinning, but only just slightly.
Something is wrong. Something is off. Something is...bad.
They slide down from sitting to lie on the van floor, and wonder why there’s a spark of fear in their chest. When the scientists climb back into the van and pick them up, the Commander doesn’t struggle, just watches as the world passes by: they’re carried into some large facility it seems, through white washed halls and then dark ones lit with red.
They’re laid on a table in some back dark room, a bright light shining down from above. Faces of masked doctors (are they doctors? are they sick? they aren’t sure) loom over them, and the Commander thinks they let out a whine when they realize they can’t see what the doctors are holding.
One of the doctors (?) looks at a watch. “How much longer?” they ask.
“Any minute now. Prep the subject.”
The Commander feels hands on their head, which lolls uselessly at the touch. Something buzzing is brought against the back of their head, and it only occurs to them that the fur there has been shaved off after it is done. There’s a sound of things on wheels being rolled in. Something cold is wiped on the exposed skin, and somewhere else they feel pinpricks: in their left foreleg, mostly. There is soft beeping now, in time to the beat of the Commander’s heart.
The Commander has never liked surgery. It scares them, the scalpels and the blood and the masked faces. Are there scalpels here? Why do they need surgery? Is that what this is?
A sudden need to sleep has crept into them, and they suppose if they have to have a surgery, it’s probably better that they sleep.
The Commander closes their eyes—
—and opens then again to see the familiar sheets of their central officer’s bed. They’re curled on the edge of his bed; said man is sleeping, but when the Commander moves, he lifts his head and groggily asks “Are you alright?”
The Commander blinks, stares at the walls, stares at their paws. “I... think so.” Their voice feels raspy, weak, like it’s not been used for years, and they can’t place why. Maybe they yelled at the troops earlier? They can’t... remember.
It probably doesn’t matter.
“You think so?” Bradford is sitting up right now, looking at them.
“Yeah,” they say, “Yeah, I’m alright. I just... had a bad dream.”
“Figures, given the circumstances. C’mere.” He pats the area next to him on the bed, and while protocol demands they sleep on the foot, the Commander decides protocol is stupid and takes the invitation to lie next to Bradford. A arm wraps around them, and the weight is comforting.
The Commander listens to his steady breathing and attempts to calm their racing heart.
Just a bad dream.
Just a bad dream.
///
“An ADVENT burger? Really?”
“In my defense, I was very hungry and very stupid.”
“Jesus Christ, Commander.”
