#07.

Sorry, Commander,  a photographer peers over the retractable scope, culpable. It used to be drones, remote-controlled and fitted with megapixel digital cameras that fed visual data to war correspondents a hundred miles away from the battlefield;   and then the omnic crisis happened, and people stopped trusting virtual-intelligent autonomous machines. Jack looks at the young man, and his eyes are weary and arctic-blue, seems bluer against the dirt on his skin.  “You came all this way to do your job, son, same as me,”  Jack grins, shoulders squaring, as if he had not just survived a fifteen-hour firefight only two hours ago,  “Get my good side, will you?”

The photographer seems starstruck, for a moment; flushes red, and eagerly fumbles with his camera, asking: can I get one with you and the angel?

Jack knows who he is referring to. Pauses, and then turns to look at the makeshift canopy crowded with survivors. Victims. Angela’s bright hair and smooth face stands out like a beacon amidst the bloody bandages and bodies lying prone over cots.  Something inside Jack’s chest curdles, bitter. Publicity is a part of his job, but it isn’t a pleasant part.