#npbc

Blearily, he opened his eyes, his vision fuzzy with sleep. His entire body felt weak and quivery, his wrist aching. He tried to move, but there was some kind of tube taped to him, and it pinched when he flexed his fingers, so he let his body relax back into the cot beneath him.

“Hey, there ye are,” murmured a velvety Scottish brogue. “How ye feel, lad?”

Millen blinked drowsily, the familiar face of Soap coming into focus. The xi tried to open his mouth to speak, but his head was buzzing and his throat was constricted with thirst. The white walls of the infirmary swam as he felt another puff of chemical pheromones from the PAI machine strapped to his face, his eyes watering at the intense alphan scent that ordered him to submit, to lay still and be cared for.

Soap’s lips twitched up into a grin. “Finally awake, then, sleepin’ beauty? Bet ye feelin’ right funky, eh? Here, let’s get that awful contraption off ye face.”

The sergeant reached down to pull the PAI machine away, allowing fresh air to flood into Millen’s lungs. The xi’s pupils constricted, a fresh wave of wooziness washing over him. Soap tossed the PAI mask to the side and then carefully unclasped the scruff clip, making Millen shudder in relief. “Better? Aye, Ah should say so. Them chemicals can make a bloke feel right out of it. But yer already perkin’ up, Ah can tell. The color’s coming back to ye.”

Millen coughed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Ohhh, my head…”

Soap gave him another sympathetic pat. “Paracetamol wearin’ off, is it? Don’t worry, I ‘spect they’ll give ye anuvva dose afore we head out. Ye want a drink? Lookin’ a bit parched.”

Millen nodded. His temples were pounding, but he felt strangely calm, no doubt a lingering effect from the artificial sedation effects of the Pheromonal Additive Infusor. “Yeah, please.”

A glass of water was pressed to Millen’s mouth and he parted his lips reflexively, drinking with gratitude. Once his thirst had been slaked, he pulled away, and Soap set the glass back down on the side-table. The beta helped the xi sit up more fully, one hand on his back for support, warmth bleeding into Millen’s skin. He suddenly realized that he was only wearing a thin hospital gown.

“Where’s my… clothes?” Millen asked, looking around at the monitors connected to him. His bulky thermal coat and desert fatigues were nowhere to be seen.

“They stripped ye down for treatment,” Soap explained, then held up the duffel bag he had packed. “I brought ye a change o’ clothes, though. Ye think ye can manage a shower, or are ye still lightheaded?”

Millen ran a hand through his curls, still trying to shake off the fog. “I’m… I’m okay, I think. What’s this stickin’ out of my arm?” “Esmolol infusion. I think it’s for blood pressure. The doc said ye nearly had a stroke or heart attack or summat. It’s a good thing Ghost had ye stay be’ind from the op.”

Millen felt his stomach drop. “Wh-what?”

Soap was already calling over a nurse to remove the arterial tube in Millen’s wrist, only half-listening. “Yeah, luv, can you unhook him from all these bloody wires ‘n shite? He looks like a robot, trussed up in cords. Mills, ye want all this off, right? ‘Course ye do, come on, hold up yer arm for the bird ‘ere.”

The nurse carefully began to remove the arterial line from Millen’s wrist. He winced, giving a soft whine as she placed a waterproof bandaid over the small insertion site and then moved on to the esmolol infusion. The pinch of pain was unwelcome and reminded him of the days following his accident, when he had been poked and prodded incessantly without much consent. Soap’s fingers slid into his own, holding firm. “Easy, lad. Just a bit of a prickle. Ah know it’s nae fun.”

The nurse finished up and then flashed Millen a sympathetic smile. “All done. Are you feeling any nausea or dizziness?” Millen hesitated. “A… a bit. But I feel… better. Thank you.”

The nurse nodded. “I’m sure the doctor will want to see you before you check out. He might prescribe you something to help settle your stomach and manage your blood pressure. For now, the bathroom is just over there, and there’s a shower and some toiletries. If you need anything, just push the call button.”

Soap nudged Millen forward, helping him to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The xi grimaced, his joints feeling rusted and stiff. His back pulsed with a dull aching, but for now, his knees were alright, since he hadn’t been moving about for a while.

“Come on, Ah’ll help ye strip an’ then stay in case ye need help.” Soap led Millen to the bathroom, which was small but had everything necessary. The shower, thankfully, had a curtain, and a handrail, as well. There was a bottle of shampoo and conditioner sitting on a small ledge at about chest-level, as well as an unopened bar of soap.

Before Millen could protest, Soap was untying the strings that held the flimsy hospital gown in place. Millen’s face went bright pink, the tips of his ears the color of strawberries as he allowed the Scotsman to undress him as though he was a pup. Nudity was nothing new, of course, because they’d both seen countless other naked men in the showers and in the changing room during their military career, but it somehow felt much different when it was just the two of them, and Millen was still wobbly from the past day’s events.

Soap pulled the gown away, leaving Millen completely starkers, and folded it on the counter of the sink. Placing his broad, clever hand at the small of Millen’s back once more, he helped the xi to step into the shower and then pulled the curtain closed. Unfortunately, it was almost entirely see-through, likely so that the staff could monitor patients who needed it, and it only just barely blurred the sight of anything sensitive.

Millen opened the bar of soap, getting it wet under the spray, meager as it was, and began to wash himself. It bubbled up well, and smelled of bergamot and neroli— a strong, citrus scent like orange juice and the crisp wetness of autumn leaves. It reminded him a little of Roach, though Roach’s scent was softer, overlain with those sweet honey-hay tones.

Millen was glad to wash the smell of antiseptic and medicine off of his skin, even if the soap was a bit strong. He set the bar back on the ledge and pooled a good amount of shampoo into his palm, slathering it into the mop of his hair. One by one, he detangled his curls and then coated them with a full half of the mini conditioner bottle. He worked the thick white slop into the broken ends, hoping to revitalize them back into some semblance of moisturization and order.

“Ye alright in there?” Soap called, respectful but wanting to check in.

“Yeah, almost done,” Millen replied, hurrying to wash the conditioner out. “Could– could you hand me a towel?” “Aye, one mo’.”

There was a pause as Soap retrieved a towel and carefully pulled the curtain back just enough to hand the towel through. Millen shut off the water and accepted it with a mumbled thanks. The xi wrung out his curls and then wrapped the towel around his waist before doing a little dog-like shake and stepping out, still quite wet and shivering in the air-conditioning.

Soap held up the duffel bag. “Let’s get ye intae some dry clothes, afore ye catch yer death a’ cold. C’mere, I’ll help.” “I can do it–” Millen began to say, but Soap was already tugging the towel away, making Millen give a short yip of mortification. Soap, however, ignored the noise and began to dry the xi off like an unruly child, scrubbing the fluffy fabric up and down Millen’s freckled skin until he was mostly dried and looking peachier than he had before.

Soap sprayed the xi with a deodorant that made the both of them cough and then wiggled Millen into the clothes he’d brought for him. It was humiliating for Millen to be dressed as if he was still a toddler, shuffled into boxers and sweats and then given a pat on the bottom to signify that they were done.

“Comfortable?” Soap asked, and Millen gave a small nod. The beta returned the nod and then guided Millen out of the bathroom and back to where the bed was. “We stay ‘ere,” Soap said, “until the captain is finished talkin’ tae the doctor.”

Millen rubbed at his arm where the infusion had been administered. The area was sore and inflamed beneath the bandaid, and he couldn’t help but pick at it. Soap gently pulled Millen’s hand away. “Donae do that. It willnae heal proper iffen ye do that.” “But it hurts,” Millen said pitifully, looking up at Soap.

Soap sat down beside him and took Millen’s hand in his own. “Leave it, Ah said. The doc’ll give ye some paracetamol. For now, donae think aboot it.”

Millen leaned against the beta, tilting his head up to press his face against Soap’s neck, inhaling the faint traces of gunpowder still lingering over the woody, moss-like wildness of Scottish gorse and heather. It was a smoky sort of floral scent, not near as musky or rich as Price’s, because of Soap’s secondary gender, but still very strong for a beta, filled with a perpetual kind of keyed-up energy just waiting to be allowed to surge free.

Soap’s eyes widened as Millen nuzzled against him, but then his expression softened, and he rested his chin on the top of Millen’s head. “Ye still tired, laddie? Aye, that’s no wonder. Health scares are a good excuse fer that. If ye don’t mind me askin’, when did ye first start feelin’ poorly? Ah know ye werenae feelin’ top notch afore ye got news of the mission.” “I always feel poorly,” Millen mumbled, his lips brushing against Soap’s shirt collar.

Soap sniffed at Millen’s freshened curls. “Moody, eh? Ah suppose Ah cannae blame ye. It’s been a rough day for ye. But ye’ll feel better soon, an’ then that dark cloud o’er yer head will be long gone.” He began to pet Millen’s back, nudging at the shell of his ear and then further down to the soft peach fuzz on his neck. “Ye smell like that soap. Rather like it. Do ye?”

“Mmm…”

Soap laughed, and nipped at Millen’s neck, making the xi gasp. Millen brought his hand up to the small scrape just above his scent gland. “You could have marked me!” “Couldnae. Would have had to bite all the way down. Ah only barely got ye.”

“But Johnny–” “Hae ye ever said mah first name before? Ah dunnae think ye hae. Wish ye’d say it more.”

Millen withdrew at the quiet, almost sincere note in Soap’s voice. Conflict played across the xi’s face, a confusion of sorts, a flicker of arousal, hesitance. The stinging scrape on his neck was just over the spot where Ghost had bitten him nearly… Millen hesitated, and realized that it had only been a week. It felt like so much longer. It felt like a year had passed, just from the time he was taken in for RTI to the time he had been put on the C-130.

Johnny’s brows knitted together, and he tried to lean towards Millen, but the xi pulled away once more. “Johnny, I–” Johnny let him. “Naw, it’s– it’s awright. Ah’m sorry. Ah, uh, Ah’ll go see if the captain is aboot ready tae head out. Ye stay here, call the nurse iffen ye need anythin’, or gimme a holler, ‘n Ah’ll coom back. Stay here, now.” Millen found himself staring as Johnny stood and retreated out into the hall, leaving him alone sitting on the hospital bed with the undeniable feeling that he had just cut short something that could have been very… well, he wasn’t entirely sure.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, Price was engaged in discussion with Dr. Willman in the doctor’s private office.

It was a small room, the desk cluttered with papers. Willman sat in the chair behind it, with Price in the one before it, his back straight despite the way it made his shoulders tighten up.

“Ah, Captain Price, it’s a pleasure to speak with you in-person,” Dr. Willman said, smoothing out his white coat. “Have you seen your staff sergeant yet?” “Not yet,” replied Price. “Well, briefly. He was still asleep, so I left my sergeant to wake him and get him ready to leave.”

The doctor nodded absently, flipping through the meager file he had composed for Millen, which listed all the medication that had been administered, as well as behavioral notes. “Right, well, I assume you have some questions.”

Price frowned down at the file, trying to crane his neck to look. “Not particularly. Bit confused as to why you were asking about Millen’s secondary gender over the phone last night, though.”

Now it was the doctor’s turn to frown. “Haven’t you noticed how un-alphan he is? Surely you must have.”

“He says he’s a xi. He’s supposed to be socially neutral, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but that’s besides the point. He’s not acting neutral or betan. He’s acting omegan.”

Price rubbed a hand through his shirt beard. “I’m not sure I follow, doc. He doesn’t have heats, doesn't nest, and he’s not submissive.”

“But that is, respectfully, where you are wrong, captain. He has acted exclusively submissive since he was put into my care. He’s displayed prominent fear-aggression, as well as positive reactions to dominant scent. He presents with his head tucked in towards his shoulders, a uniquely omegan posture that protects the scent glands and jugular. He also makes noises typical of omegas. Three different nurses have reported hearing him purring in his sleep within the last few hours. Likely, it’s stress-purring. His body is instinctively trying to replicate the comfort that should be given by an alpha or pack.”

“Are you sure that you aren’t reading too much into it?” Price asked. “Any bloke would posture differently with strangers, especially when he’s sick.”

“That may be true,” replied Dr. Willman, “but in this case, I believe that there’s more at play. I really think it would benefit him to have a full-body physical done by a specialist.”

“Can’t you do that?” Price questioned impatiently. He was eager to get back to base, in case the rest of the team should arrive back early from Eritrea. To him, the doctor seemed like he was making mountains out of mole-hills, psycho-analyzing figments of the imagination to find problems that didn’t exist.

“I’m really not qualified for that,” Willman said with a forced congenial smile. “Though I did offer a physical examination last night, you declined it, and I really didn’t mean one that would focus on secondary gender biology. You would need a biogeneatrician for that. I could refer you to one–” Price shook his head. “No, no, I actually happen to know one. She handles one of my other operatives. If you think that Millen ought to see her, I can phone her and get a second opinion.” “I really do think that would be best,” agreed Willman. “Even if there’s only a small hormonal problem, the staff sergeant would perform much better both on and off the field if given corrective medications, or even transferred into behavioral therapy–”

“Save the medical mumbo-jumbo, doc, alright?” Price cut in as tactfully as he could. “Until something is officially diagnosed, I don’t take much stock in speculation. I appreciate you takin’ care of my boy here, and I’ll keep you updated—“

“But captain, he’s not in a good condition. He’s at least fifteen pounds underweight, and why is he all bruised up? I know you special forces types are very rough during training, but he shows signs of not only malnutrition, but dehydration and sleep deprivation, too—“

“That’s classified, doc,” Price interrupted sternly. “For now, I’m going to take him the staff sergeant back home, get some food in him, let him sleep it off, and then ensure he’s fit for active duty within the week. Cheers, mate.” With that he stood, stretching out aging muscles, and headed for the door. Willman rose to follow, still holding the file pinned to a clipboard. “Captain, if you would, I really think we could talk about this a bit more–” “On the phone, maybe. I really have to be back at base in the next twelve hours, or I get my arse chewed out by the brass. I need me a fag and a few fingers before this day is over. Bet it would perk Millen right up, too.” Willman gave a squeak of distress. “Captain, I must protest! He certainly doesn’t need any exposure to alcohol, nicotine, or smoke after such an attack. It could cause a relapse of his condition!” “He doesn’t have a condition, doc. More likely than not, he got nervous about the op and had a queasy spell that got all blown out of proportions. Ghost really should ‘ave made the call for him to buck up and follow orders, you know, best to get over those jitters quick, or they fester like a dirty wound. I really ought to ‘ave a word with Ghost over makin’ the call he did–” Price was mostly speaking to himself now, as Dr. Willman scuttled after him, shooing away curious nurses as he grabbed several bottles of pills and a prescription form.

“Captain, make sure he takes these, once daily with a meal, and plenty of water,” Willman was rattling off recommendations as fast as he could, hoping that at least some of it would stick. “You’ll need to get this prescription filled by your base pharmacist, if you have one, otherwise you’ll need to send in a form to have them transported in. It’s a mild sedative, nothing heavy-duty. It provides about the same effects as a firm scruffing and a scenting or pack-nesting. Now, he can have up to four of these a day, one or two at a time, not more. Captain? Captain, are you listening? This is important, sir, I must insist that you at least take these along with you.”

Price plucked up the bottles, squinting to read the labels. “Once daily… with meal,” he muttered, doing the classic ‘old guy’ pose where he stretched out his arm as far as it would go to try and bring the small lettering into focus. “I can get him to do that.” The doctor breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, good. Excellent. I suppose if you’re bound and determined to leave now, then I can’t stop you. But I would very much appreciate it if you would call me with an update whenever you get one. This is the most fascinating case I’ve had in months. It’s terribly dreary up here. And if you have any questions or concerns, though I’m sure your on-base physician can handle them quite well–” “Affirm, I’ll phone you,” Price finished for him. He patted Willman firmly on the shoulder. The doctor was almost sent reeling. “Thanks again, doc. He’s a good boy, would have been a shame to lose him so early on. I’ll be on my way now.” Price turned down the hall, and nearly ran straight into Soap, who had been coming to see if it was almost time to leave. “Oi, lad, why the hell aren’t you back with Millen?” “Ah was coomin’ tae find ye. Mills is gettin’ antsy, thought it’d be best if we were awa’. How did it go wi’ the doc?” Price clasped Soap by the arm, leading him back towards Millen’s room. “Well enough. Lot of talk, not much action. He’s a man of words, Willman is. But he seemed decent enough. Just not our type, eh?” “Aye, sir. Thought he was a bit squirrely mahself.” They arrived back in the private room where Millen was still sitting on the bed, looking pallored and dazed. His shoulders drooped and his scent was sleepy with sickness.

He looked up when Price entered, a bit of a flush seeming to return to his complexion. The xi sat up a little straighter. “Captain?” “Aye, son, we’re here to take you back to base. I see Soap helped you get cleaned up. You ready to head out?”

With a bit of difficulty, Millen stood, his legs still feeling like jello. He was a little faint, but then again, he had not eaten in some time– not since Roach had hand-fed him the oatmeal, and he had thrown that up after PT over a full day ago. He vaguely recognized the stirrings of hunger in his belly, but at the moment, he wasn’t very inclined to eat. His appetite was meager, like a small child picking at its dinner before turning its nose up and refusing to take a single bite, even if he would have liked to have a bag of his Doritos.

Soap moved to support the staff sergeant, linking one of his arms with his own. “Ye alrigh’, love? Coom on, ‘at’s it.”

Price snagged the bag that had held the change of clothes from the bathroom, dumping the pill bottles into it before slinging it over his shoulder. He urged Soap and Millen along, down the long infirmary hallways and out into the base beyond. It was a short walk down the main road through the base to the area where Price had parked the Jeep.

As they went, several soldiers pointed out Millen to their friends, whispering and laughing. Millen shrank down in Soap’s shadow, his cheeks flaming red. Why were they all looking at him?”

“Hey, we’ll buy you something at the BX food court if you’ll throw up on the Group Captain again!” somebody called out, waving.

“Yeah, that was great! He’s still shrieking about it to his secretary!” another added, jogging up alongside them.

Price offered the trailing crowd a stern glare and a flare of intensely dominant scent that had them backing off as fast as they could. “Oi, you jackals, scram. You’ve all got duties to attend to.”

“Sorry, sir,” one of the men, a smaller omega, replied though the rest continued to follow at a distance. When Price, Soap, and Millen got to the Jeep, there were many cries of goodbye. Millen had apparently become very popular within the last day, and would be forever known as the random guy who had vomited all over the base commander.

“Come back soon, mate!”

“Yeah, and eat a big lunch right before!”

“The offer still stands for the BX! That was epic, man!”

“Hope your fresh start as an anabaptist goes swell! Peace be with you, or whatever those folks say.”

Soap helped Millen to get comfortable in the backseat, having to nip at some young alphas who were straying a little too close for comfort, clearly very excitable and eager to get a sniff at the infamous Chunk-Blowing Conversionist.

Millen found the attention flattering, though he ducked his head shyly and stayed low in the seat. There was no such thing as bad publicity, after all, though he had no idea that he’d become famous overnight. One of the mechanics or loading crew must have witnessed the scene, and how those people do love to gossip. It must get boring on the tarmac, for them to chatter on the way they do, like old biddies at bingo.

“So, ye’re converted, are ye?” Soap asked as they all buckled in and Price revved the engine.

Millen glanced up. “Huh?”

“The whole anabaptism thing. Doc told Price on the phone that he had some sort o’ religious awakenin’. Ye gonnae be a Quaker now?”

“Oh—“ Millen fumbled for some way to explain that he had very much gone off the deep end trying to justify why he had basically committed treason by way of cowardice. He knew that they thought Ghost had kept him from going on the mission because he was sick, but what would Ghost say upon arriving back from Eritrea? Perhaps Millen could beg him not to speak up. If he had Gaz and Roach on his side, he’d have the majority.

But Ghost had been so horribly disgusted with Millen’s behavior. It had been devastating, the way he’d looked at the xi. There was simply no chance Ghost wouldn’t bring the issue to light.

However, Millen had no want to have to live as a pious man for the rest of his military career. He doubted that he could get down on his knees to pray, anyway, what with his bad back. So he’d have to plead brief insanity brought on by illness.

“Um…” He fiddled with the plaster on the inside of his elbow. “Well, no. I’m definitely not doing that. I didn’t really know what I was saying, I guess.”

Soap shrugged. “Awright. It’s no’ much difference tae me. But iffen ye ever want tae coom tae mass, Ah know the priest on base personally. He’s a friendly sort, doesn’t judge.”

Millen hesitated. “You go to mass, then?”

“Aye, Ah’m Roman Catholic— was raised it, anyhow. Donae do much tae called mahself it now, though. I ought tae go tae confessionals more, but, well, the box is a bit small for a big lad. Excuses, Ah know.”

“My avó — my grandmother on my mãe’s side — is Roman Catholic,” Millen said, his cheek pressed against the window of the car, which was cool from the air outside. It fogged up as he breathed out. “She’s a very churchy sort.”

“Is she, now? She teach you any aboot it?”

“A little. She doesn’t speak much English, and I don’t speak much Portuguese.”

“Ye christened?”

“I think so,” Millen said after a moment of thought, his brow furrowed. “I know my oldest brother was. He went into the church after college, and avó said it was because he was properly christened, so we were being granted honor, or… something. I’m not really sure. Anyway, he’s a clergy now. Or I assume he is still, anyway; I haven’t talked to him in years. It’s weird to hear people called your brother ‘ father .’”

Soap glanced back at Millen, swiveling in his seat to do so more easily. “Ye donae talk tae him? Och, laddie, that’s a shame. Kin is most everythin’ in life. It’s important. Don’t ye talk tae the rest o’ yer family?”

Millen avoided the Scot’s gaze. “Well… not much. They aren’t really… family people, at least not most of them.”

“How do ye know?” questioned Soap. “Iffen ye no’ talk tae ‘em. Ye got tae at least gi’ ye mam a call every once in awhile.”

“She’s busy,” Millen mumbled. “She doesn’t like to talk, unless it’s about herself.”

Soap waved a hand. “Och, everyone loves tae talk aboot themselves, pay that no mind. Really, though, phone ‘er, lad. Or at least drive up tae Stratford on your next leave. Time spent wi’ kith ‘n kin do wonders fer the soul.”

Millen stared out the window, thinking on the sergeant’s words. He’d never been particularly close with any of his family, though he could recall a handful of especially pleasant memories— baking at Christmas with his sisters, curling up in his father’s lap when he was small, bundled together with his littermates by the fire, going to a few sports events, footy and rugby, for Millen’s two other brothers, Adán and Nole. They were older than he was by three years, and were twins, his mother’s second litter. They hadn’t much cared for Millen, as he had been too young to play their rough-and-tumble games, and by the time he was old enough, they were in their last years of school and weren’t interested in letting their kid sibling tag along. And he’d steered well away from them— they were too loud, too big, too forceful. But it had been a very long time since he had heard anything from them at all, and his curiosity was piqued.

“Maybe I will call them,” he said quietly.

Soap grinned. “Aye? It’s settled, then.”

They were all quiet for awhile. Millen closed his eyes, his head still resting comfortably against the tension of the seat belt. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, the brief conversation having sapped him of what little strength he had regained.

He must have dozed off, because he was woken as the Jeep pulled to a stop. He blinked drowsily, looking around. Price was talking to someone, the crackle of a speaker being heard as the person replied. The Jeep pulled forward a few feet, stopped, then pulled forward again and stopped.

Millen sat up, his back throbbing. Thankfully, though, his knees were relatively painless, since he was sitting and hadn’t been walking much on them. “Soap? Where are we?” he asked, his voice still sleepy and confused.

Soap, in response, handed a fast food bag to him and then tossed him a bottle of water. “Eat up, love. Hope ye like chicken nuggets. If ye don’t, we can swap, aye?”

Millen perked up, looking in the bag. Sure enough, there was a ten-piece nugget meal, an order of spicy potato wedges, and a side of hearty mac-and-cheese. “This is for me?” he asked excitedly.

Price glanced in the rearview mirror, his mustache bristling as his lips twitched up into a small, fatherly smile. “Eat up, son. You could use some meat on your bones. Didn’t want to wake you up to ask for your order, but figured that nobody can go wrong with potato wedges.”

Millen quivered happily, his stomach choosing that moment to give a loud grumble. It seemed that his gut, no matter how twisted up it was with anxiety, was displeased with how few nutrients his body was getting. His appetite flickered in interest, like a fox coming out of its hole and sniffing the air to smell all the good things on the breeze.

Price chuckled, adjusting the mirror and shifting the Jeep back into drive. “Guess I made the right choice for you, then.”

Soap nodded sagely through a mouthful of fries. He’d gotten a bacon cheeseburger meal with a root beer to drink. “A true U.K. staple, taters.”

“You sure you’re not Irish, Johnny?” teased Price, to which Soap gave an offended huff and choked on a bite of cheeseburger. It took him several minutes of coughing and a few pounds on the back from the captain before he recovered enough to speak. “Phew, think Ah jus’ lost one o’ me nine lives there.”

Millen munched happily — and much more slowly — on his own food, his stomach feeling full to bursting by the time he was finished. He left two chicken nuggets and a potato wedge, and since Soap was eyeing them in the mirror, he handed them over to the Scotsman, who flashed him a debonaire smile and swallowed down the food like a python.

The xi sipped at his water, already feeling sleepy again now that he had some food in him. When Price had Soap hand him one of the blood pressure pills and one of the sedatives, he took them without question, curling up longways in the seat and unbuckling his seat belt so it wouldn’t pull.

Soap tossed his jacket over Millen, and the xi purred faintly as the beta’s scent enveloped him in a cocoon of familiarity.

“I brought ye one o’ them Halo books ye like,” Soap told him. “Iffen ye want it.”

“No, he needs some rest,” Price cut in, his gaze focused on the road. “It’ll be about another hour and a half until we’re back at base, son. You sleep until then. You feelin’ alright?”

“Mhm,” Millen mumbled, pulling the jacket tighter around himself and burying his face in his bicep. He was warm and surprisingly comfortable, despite being unable to stretch out his legs. He was already half-asleep.

Once Soap thought that Millen was dozing all the way, he looked over to Price. “What did the doc say?”

Price tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, giving a low grumble. “Said he needs to see a specialist.”

“What, fer ‘is blood pressure?”

Price shook his head. “No, to see about his secondary gender. I’ll call up Melinda.”

“Melinda who Simon goes to?” Soap asked in surprise.

Melinda O’Dell was a specialized biogeneatrician, meaning that she had a doctorate in understanding, diagnosing, and treating secondary genders. Biogeneatricians typically could provide HRT for hormonal imbalances caused by damaged scent glands, ones that underfunctioned or overfunctioned, either from injury, medical defect, or other reasons, as well as diagnosing and treating injury to or malfunction of omegan slick glands or omegan prostate, or the anal glands that secreted the unique odor specific to stress and fear-scent. Blood work was often involved, to measure the specific amounts of gendered chemicals in a patient’s body, and sometimes, a biogeneatrician would work together with instinct-related behavioral therapists or psychologists, since so much of the secondary gender was mental.

Simon went to Melinda’s office three times a year, every four months, to receive hormonal infusions that replaced what his body could no longer naturally make. She was a kind woman, very professional, but still retaining a firm compassion for all her patients. She had a good relationship with the 141, since she took such good care of Simon, as well as giving each of them their required yearly physical examinations and vaccinations against sexually transmitted infections and diseases and several other preventable illnesses, like chronic hyper-nesting syndrome or growling cough.

“The very same,” Price replied to Soap. “She always gets us an appointment quick, and I take all you boys to her for your yearlies. Might as well get Millen used to her, and we can see if what Willman said has any substance to it. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Soap sighed. “Millen won’t like that. The first visit is hell.”

Price gave a low chuff of laughter. “You were so nervous that you were shaking.”

Soap puffed up defensively. “It’s awful, and ye know it is. Havin’ tae strip naked in front o’ a complete stranger, an’ a woman, tae boot! Ah know it’s all sterile an’ detached, an’ such, but Ah hate it all the same. That damn examination recliner.” He shuddered, recalling the first time he had been taken to Melinda. To satisfy the brass’ constant need for confirmation that each member of the service was free from any medical hindrances, he had to have a prostate exam and gland expression, because he’s never had them before, meaning he’d had the doctor’s finger shoved up his arse for a good ten minutes while his legs were spread wide and buckled down to stirrups, like those found on a gynecologist’s chair. He’d been muzzled, too, since he’d tried to bite out of reflex when the doctor had pressed against some of his more intimate bits to check for any lumps or bumps. “It’s torture, is what it is. Ah dread it every year.”

Price hated it just as much as Soap did, though he’d never admit it. It was a necessary part of staying in perfect health for their high-intensity job, to ensure that everything on the inside was working just as well as the things on the outside. A soldier could appear to be in peak condition, but if their heats or ruts weren’t lined up correctly, or if there was another hormonal or pheromonal deficiency or surplus, then a trigger out in the field could mean death.

“You survived, though, didn’t you?” Price reached over to pat Soap’s arm, one hand still on the steering wheel. “Millen will, too. Melinda’s trustworthy. Better her than some doctor that none of us know.”

“Aye, Ah suppose. Still, don’t tell him about it beforehand. He’ll pitch a fit, won’t he?”

“Likely. You did. But Willman said he needs it, and I can’t let Millen back on active duty in good conscious without him getting the green flag.”

“At least we can line up Simon’s appointment wi’ her wi’ takin’ Millen. Might as well do it in one trip. Bloody glad Ah donae have tae go back for another few months.”

“Don’t whinge, Johnny, it’s unbecoming,” Price chastised gruffly. However, he clearly didn’t mean it seriously, so Soap just grinned and settled back down in his seat.

“Awright, ol’ man, Ah’ll shut me gob. Ah know when tae haud mah wheesht.”

*  *  *

They arrived back at base an hour later with the sun still overshadowed by the thick rain clouds. It was drizzling, a thin fog clinging low to the earth.

Security let them in without much ado, since they knew Price by appearance. He parked the Jeep with the precision of one who had been driving for more than thirty years, stepping out to open the door for Millen, who was still fast asleep.

“C’mon, son, time to wake up.” Price carefully pulled the xi up to sit, tossing the coat that had been covering him back to its owner. Soap caught it deftly, waiting for Millen to step out of the Jeep before slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Awright?”

Millen nodded. His legs were sore and cramped from having been tucked into the seat for so long, but at least the pain wasn’t so bad as it sometimes was. He could stand without Soap’s help, and walking actually felt good after so long prone.

“Soap, take Millen back to your quarters, see that he takes it easy. Millen, I expect you to report to my office at 0800 hours tomorrow morning so that I can assess your condition. You’ll be allowed to return to half-duties if I think you’re recovered enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Millen said, feeling a twinge in his lower back at the thought of having to go back to work. But the prospect of getting to sleep in his own bed tonight was a comfort. “Thank you, sir.”

Price nodded at him. Soap took Millen by the hand, leading him towards their quarters, the walk taking them twenty minutes because of the size of the base. Thankfully, though, Millen was still relatively anonymous there, unlike back in Kent.

Finally, Millen and Soap stepped into the room they shared with Gaz, though the third of the trio was still away on the mission with Ghost and Roach. With the absence of the British beta, Millen felt a pang of guilt and shame. Was the team safe today? Were they hard-pressed by the deduction of one of their numbers, or did they not really need Millen either way? The xi wasn’t sure which would be worse.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, smoothing his palms over the blankets. They were a little rough and scratchy, army-issued, but they still smelled faintly of the pack, despite Millen having not slept there since the night before he’d been abducted for RTI training.

His stomach curdled with the memory of the training course, his skin feeling cold and crawly all over. He was still bruised from how he’d been pushed around, fading dapples of blue and dusky purple tinged with a yellow the color of rotting lemons. Phantom hands tugged cruelly at his shaggy locks, and he brought his own hands up, tangling, his hair curly, thick from having been taken care of well for the first time in weeks. His shower that morning had done wonders for his split ends.

Soap moved to stand in front of him. “Ye could do wi’ a haircut. Gettin’ past regulations. Wouldnae want ye gettin’ in trouble for it. Ah could cut it for ye, ken.”

Millen looked up. “Would you? Tomorrow, maybe? I don’t like it so long.”

“Aye, Ah’ll make ye up tae be right bonny. No’ that ye’re nae bonny now, though. T’would look proper purdy iffen ye could let it grow oot all the way tae ye shoulders, an’ take care of yer curls.”

“It would take forever to take care of it that way. It’d be a tangled mess. Besides, like you said, regulations.”

“Just a thought, for iffen ye e’er retire.” “Retire?” Millen’s nose wrinkled. “Should I be thinking about that yet?” Soap shrugged. “Ah dunno. How old are ye? Thirty, thirty-five? Not forty yet, Ah’d wager.” “Thirty-five last March.”

“A pisces, then.”

Millen tilted his head. “A what?”

“Ye ken, the zodiac sign. The fish.”

“Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

Soap shrugged. “Mebbe Ah do, mebbe Ah don’t. Have tae admit, it fits ye. Most Catholics donae have dealings with astrology, but Ah love me stars, an’ the stories that go wi’ ‘em is just a bonus.”

“So what sign are you?” Millen eased himself to lay belly-down on the bed, resting his chin on folded arms, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

Soap puffed up his chest proudly, looking rather smug. “Aries, the ram. Ah was born in April, that’s why.”

“Mm.” Millen shifted, sinking further into the mattress. His words were barely more than a murmur. “Bully for you for knowing all about it. You’re smart, Johnny. Cleverer than I am, anyway.”

Soap gave a bark of laughter, crawling onto the bed with Millen and sidling right up against him. The beta radiated heat like a furnace, the soft, slightly scratchy hair on his arms tickling against Millen’s skin. “You’re plenty clever, Mills. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Anyway, pretty people donae need tae be smart, so ye’re fine.”

“Dunno why you call me pretty,” Millen mumbled against Soap’s shoulder. “You don’t have to lie. S’not like it’ll hurt my feelings when I already know the truth.”

“Ach, nonsense. Ye’re oot yer mind if ye donee see how bonny ye are, but Ah’m no’ one tae argue. Ye should get some sleep. Price’ll probably put ye back into PT tomorrow. Some exercise will make ye feel better, Ah’m sure.”

Millen would have disagreed, but he was already asleep. He dreamt of his littermates, concrete cells, and constellations.

*  *  *

“ JOHNATHAN PRICE, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE? ”

Price jerked, and nearly dropped the phone as Laswell’s angry American accent blasted into his ear. She had called him out of the blue, which usually meant trouble or another op, so Price had steeled himself for intensity, but more like that of a hot stove turned down to low, simmering slowly under the surface of smooth black glass-ceramic, but this was an oil fire, blazing angry and demanding attention, shooting up to the roof.

“Kate, what— slow— slow down, what the bloody ‘ell are you on about? Who did what?”

“Mission’s been scrubbed, damn those fools at HQ. Your boys are on a plane back right now. But the more important thing question is why there’s only three of them! What gives, John? The staff sergeant was supposed to be with them, that’s the whole reason we set up RTI for him, so he’d be fully qualified and prepped for field work. So where the hell is he?”

Price pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. His ear was ringing from the sudden barrage. Shifting the phone to his other hand, he leaned back in his chair. “He got sick right beforehand, Kate. Simon held him back, couldn’t risk him being a liability. Next op, he goes out with us no matter what.”

On the other line, Laswell paused, as if baffled. “Held him back? Held him back ? John, Simon just got ahold of me, pissed off beyond all belief, blowin’ his top that the staff sergeant refused direct orders to complete the jump!”

Now it was Price’s turn to halt. His brows pulled together. If Simon said that Millen had disobeyed orders, then there was no doubt that Price would believe the san over the xi. Price had known Simon for a decade now, and his word would always take forefront in terms of credibility. But the captain had thought that Millen was ready for the mission, that he could handle it. Millen had been in active duty before, after all, even in combat, or so the compact, precise file Price had received — minus the formal medical records, but he was looking into recovering those — when Laswell had first shipped the staff sergeant to Task Force 141. What could have gone wrong?

“I was under the impression that Simon deemed him unfit for health reasons,” Price said, his voice clipped. He felt like a fool, having been played by a conniving man with a false ace up his sleeve. Carefully constrained anger rolled from him in waves, his scent blocking off the entire hall as a danger zone in which there was a very, very irate alpha of high authority and strength. “The staff sergeant had a hypertensive crisis up in Kent yesterday afternoon. Doc there by the name of Willman said that he almost had a heart attack or a stroke, or both.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that,” Laswell conceded begrudgingly. “But that’s not the reason your man wasn’t with the rest of his team. Simon’s exact words were that the staff sergeant displayed disgraceful levels of cowardice and incompetence, and that his dignity and self-discipline failed to remain intact. I believe the lieutenant also said something about volunteering to be a part of the firing squad, though you know how he lets his mouth run.”

“I just can’t make sense of why Millen would act like that,” Price sighed heavily. “He’s well-trained, he’s experienced, he seemed like such a good fit for the team. And he’d know that the consequence for that sort of behavior would be heavy discipline, risking court-martial. The only thing I can think of is that there must have been some kind of misunderstanding between Simon and Millen.”

There was silence on Laswell’s end for a solid thirty seconds, so long that Price thought she might have been disconnected. “Kate? You still there?”

He heard Laswell moving around, the rustle of papers, then she spoke up again. “I’m lost, John. Who’s Millen?”

Price stopped. His lips tugged downwards. “Pardon?”

Laswell was starting to sound irate again. “Can’t you stay on topic? Who are you rattling off about? Millen who? We’re talking about Judgel here.”

“Judge? Judge who?”

“For god’s sake, John, Staff Sergeant Richard Judgel, the guy we’ve been talking about for the past five minutes. The guy I sent you five weeks ago. The guy who chickened out on the mission. The guy who Simon is screamin’ my head off about!”

“Kate, have you been drinking?” “Have you ?” Laswell shot back. “Because it’s either that, or you’ve suddenly turned senile.”

“I think we’re on different pages here, Kate. I’ve never heard of a Richard Judgel. The bloke I’m talking about is Millen Coelho-Grey.” “Grey? Grey? John, there’s no Coelho-Grey in the 141st.”

“Kate, Millen is in his quarters right now with Soap, what the fuck do you mean he’s not registered under the 141st?”

“I mean that the man you’re supposed to have on your team is named Richard Judgel, not Millen Coelho-Grey. I’ve never heard a damn word about this random. I don't know what the hell happened, but Grey isn't supposed to be there, and the staff sergeant who is supposed to be there isn't."

Millen was partially reclined in his seat, eyes closed so that the tears of despair threatening to well up would not be allowed to do so. There was an OXYJUMP NG system already set up over the bulky thermal coat he was wearing, under which was a full combat uniform crafted for desert environments– a dull greige-and-brown pattern with a plethora of pockets and clasps.

The OXYJUMP NG system was a dual-cylinder oxygen rig attached to his chest, lightweight but durable, made to endure the harsh environment below. There was a boxy regulator clipped onto the curved hoses that arched up to join the mask fitted snugly over Millen’s nose and mouth, delivering pure oxygen in systematic bursts. It was one of the few things he remembered fondly from his paratrooping days– the crisp quality of the air, the increased sense of alertness that came with the bubbles of nitrogen in his blood being flushed out. He’d been connected for about twenty minutes now – the entire team was – to prevent the risk of decompression sickness and hypoxia during the rapid change in altitude during the jump.

They had been cramped together in this wretched aircraft for nearly five hours now. Millen had slept most of the time, until he’d had to wake to start gearing up at Ghost’s orders. The lieutenant had gone into complete ‘mission mode,” which meant that gone was the smirking side-glances and grumbly indulgence of his subordinate’s shit-eating behavior; if they screwed up now, it could cost all of their lives. And that meant that it was Ghost’s duty, as acting commanding officer, to keep each of them in line and remain level-headed for what was to come.

“Grey!” barked Ghost, because he couldn’t be bothered to take the time that the two more syllables that Coelho would take to pronounce. His Manchester gruff crackled through the built-in mics in their masks that fed audio through a wire snaking up around their helmets, to be compatible with standard comms and radio. “Eyes open. I told you to check over your gear. ETA is in seven minutes ! Get a move on!”

Millen sat up, cutting a glare at Ghost. Why wouldn’t the san let him wallow in his misery?

“Wipe that look off of your face, Grey!” snapped Ghost, slamming one big paw-like hand down on the back of the seat. Millen jolted, hunkering down. His scent went tined with fear.

“Oi, Ghost, lay off,” Gaz spoke up from where he was giving his semi-automatic a last-minute clean. He was keeping his hands busy and his mind sharp, breathing professionally through the usual case of pre-mission jitters. “It’s his first big mission. Let him prepare in his own way.” “He needs to be ready,” growled Ghost, shoulders flexing. He stalked back to his own seat, though, and Millen could relax fragmentally.

“He’s ready,” Gaz assured the lieutenant. “Hell, he’s probably done more jumps than we have!” Millen shook his head, fumbling to buckle down his rucksack, his thigh holster cutting into the flesh of his leg. “They were static line jumps, not freefall. I was connected to a thin cord to pull the D-bag out of place as soon as I was out of the plane, then the jumpmaster drew the line and bag back in and I was safe floating like a puffy cloud.”

Ghost snorted. “Pansy’s version. It’s high time you take your kid gloves off, Grey.”

Millen’s hands shook as he checked the seal on his mask for the hundredth time. He swallowed hard and still felt like he wasn’t able to draw a full breath, despite that what he was inhaling was the most clean, untainted form of O₂ known to mankind. He felt so cold and yet so hot all over, and reeked of stress like an omega in pre-heat.

Roach, who was sitting beside him, reached over and inspected the parachute that the xi had suited up with. It was of the highest quality, but to Millen it was like flimsy silk.

“Roach, I can’t do this,” he whispered harshly. His fingers clasped at the omega’s sleeve. “Gary, I can’t. I’ll fall.” “You won’t fall,” Roach murmured. “I’m checking your ‘chute right now. It’s brand-new and in perfect condition, I promise.”

“It won’t hold!” “It will .” Millen wanted to believe him, but he was back in the sky again, feeling himself being flipped over and over, buffeted by the wind, as his lifeline tore open at the seams and the ground sped up to greet him. He clutched at his own chest now, his vision blurring. “Gary, my oxygen, it’s not working–”

“Millen, it’s working fine, I can read your oxygen levels from here. It’s at ninety-eight percent, almost ninety-nine.”

“It can’t be, Gary, I can’t breathe,” Millen gasped out, pawing at the mask. He craved the natural taste of the pressurized compartment of the C-130. “Please, I can’t do it. I can’t do it, I’ll die.”

“The hell is going on over there?” Ghost asked, standing again. “Grey, get your head on straight! This isn’t a goddamn game, staff sergeant. Be ready to jump in four minutes or I’ll boot you out the door myself.” “Lieutenant, please–” Millen’s voice rose in pitch, breaking at the end.

“That’s an order!”

The intercom system spat to life. “Get ready ta drop, boys. We’re ‘ere a li’l earlier than expected. Yew ‘ave sixty seconds before we’ll ‘ave passed our mark. Good luck down there. ”

The team all stood abruptly. Gaz shrugged on his own parachute and Roach did the same, both checking each other’s before slinging their rifles over their shoulders and strapping them into place so the guns wouldn’t be torn away by the gusts.

Millen tried to cower down in his seat, but Ghost forcibly hauled him upright and shoved him towards the rear cargo ramp, which would be opened remotely by the pilot, as they had no jumpmaster on board, then the vacuum would be closed back off.

A scream ripping from his throat as the reserve failed. The main ‘chute finally tearing open. 

“Get your sorry arse into position,” Ghost snarled, baring his one jagged fang from behind his own OXYJUMP system. He wasn’t wearing his balaclava, since it would obstruct the flow, but he had one tucked into his front harness for as soon as they landed.

The dismayed exclamations of his former team over the radios. It was the last sound he heard before the crunch of his own bones slammed him into darkness. 

Millen scrabbled to free himself, a sob surging up from his belly. “No, no, no, no, no –”

“Get ahold of yourself!” Ghost shook him roughly, as if to unjumble his head.

“Ghost, maybe we should—“ Gaz began worriedly, looking back at the cargo ramp, where a bright red light was flashing to signal that they needed to take their places before they were too far off course to right themselves while dropping.

The pilot’s voice sounded again. “What’s the holdup? Ramp opening in fifteen seconds.”

Millen was no longer thinking clearly. He clawed at Ghost’s arm, begging through gasps for the mission to be scrubbed, for them to go back to the safety and comfort of the base. Even with the operipholomin patch on his neck, matching the rest of the team’s, muting their scent to the enemy, Millen’s pheromones were going off like bottle rockets, in bursts of abject terror.

“Millen–” Roach tried to reason with him. “Millen, stop, I promise that it’s fine–” The omega took a step forward, attempting to rest a hand on Millen’s shoulder, but the xi snarled at him, hunkering down again.

Ghost’s eyes blazed with anger, but he seemed to come to a decision. He shoved Millen back into his seat, quickly buckled him in, and then stalked back over to the ramp, dragging Gaz and Roach with him. He gave their equipment a glance-over and then looked back at Millen.

The sheer disgust in the lieutenant’s eyes made Millen’s heart feel like it was being wrenched apart. He tried to grasp at the buckle, shame rising into his throat like a noxious slime.

Ghost gave him a look that could shatter bulletproof glass. Millen’s hand slowly dropped.

The ramp opened, a gaping maw exposing the dusk-streaked sky like an open wound. The sun glistened with blood as it was swallowed up by the horizon. The three soldiers stepped out into the emptiness and disappeared.

After the stunt he had just pulled?

Millen doubted he would ever see them again.

*  *  *

It would be very awkward to have to explain to the crew why he was still there.

The pilot was a reedy little ferret of a man measuring less than five two three at one hundred and twenty-five pounds. He had jet-black hair that he kept buzzed to hide the fact that he was balding, and he squinted terribly, because he was a stupid little shit who enjoyed staring into the sun every time he flew. His name was Oran, though he claimed it had originally been Orion instead, but because of his accent, which was some bastardization of an Irish mammy and a Soviet father twice her age, it had been misunderstood.

He infested the cockpit like a weevil in a biscuit and blasted Hatsune Miku from a battered Bluetooth speaker. His co-pilot, thankfully, was mostly deaf. She was a girl of about twenty-three that had gone through basic training with her parent’s permission at sixteen and been accepted into Sandhurst at eighteen, graduating as a commissioned second lieutenant and completing her Bachelor’s Degree remotely while serving in the Royal Air Force. After a battle with meningitis, she had lost 80% of her hearing and been trained as a RPAS, meaning that she could work remotely from stations that had BSL translators as she commanded drones like the common Reaper. However, she occasionally was placed with a more seasoned operator, such as Oran, in the role of co-pilot, when the usual staff was stretched thin.

They didn’t have an on-board engineer, because the usual fellow that Oran requested was down with the flu, and the mission had been too sudden to call in someone else. There was no navigator, either, since Oran was qualified for the role, and no loadmaster, as there was no actual cargo.

So it was just Oran, the co-pilot, and Millen, except the xi was too miserable to speak up, and they had no idea he was still there. He pulled off his OXYJUMP mask and cradled his head in his hands, muting his mic and switching off his radio as he fell to weeping softly.

Millen wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time he had cried out all his tears. The hyper-pop music was still going, and the night had closed in around them.

He suddenly realized that he had no idea if the Hercules was headed back to base, or if Oran was flying elsewheres. If so, Millen would have no way to get back without explaining that he had been a coward.

He was spared the ordeal of entering the cockpit by Oran appearing, the pilot intending to pay a visit to the “honey-bucket”: a fold-down plastic toilet that served as the best commodity available on the Hercules. “ Akh, ne stoilo mne pit eto kornevoye pivo … Phew, mo dhroichead …”

Millen, eyes swollen and sticky from crying, looked up at the exact second Oran stopped dead in his tracks staring at what should have been an empty seat row.

“Why the ‘ell are yew still ‘ere?” Oran asked in utter confusion. “Yew were s’posed to go with the rest! It’s too late now, we’re ‘alfway back to England!”

Millen was at a loss for words. He just stared, and gave a miserable hiccup. His scent was like the saddest candy one could ever taste.

Oran blinked. “What’s wrong with yew? Y’know what, no, I don’t care. Do yew have any idea how much work youse just ‘eaped onto me? Now I gotta explain why yew aren’t on the coast of Eritrea right now!”

“Where?” Millen asked, his voice faint.

“Eritrea, yew numbskull! Cá háit eile? No wonder you’re still here, yew don’t even know where the ‘ell y’was s’posed to be dropping! Feckin’ Brits. Nelepo! Idjits, the lotta yew.”

“I– I’m sorry, I didn’t intend the inconvenience, it all happened so fast–”

“Why am I never told about any ‘a this? I’m the pilot! Vy, rebyata, takiye nevnimetalnye . Yewr captain will ‘ave something t’ say about this, no doubt.”

Millen blanched. Price would be furious. The xi had jeopardized the mission’s success right off the bat, and now Ghost, Gaz, and Roach were one man down and would be harder-pressed if under enemy fire. What Millen had just showed was a terrible display of disloyalty.

Would Price have him court-martialed for cowardice and incompetence? Or even for disobeying Ghost’s orders? Perhaps there would be a way out of repercussions.

Wracking his brain, Millen tried to come up with some excuse that might explain why he had refused to comply. Maybe he had suddenly turned pacifistic!

Millen’s mother came from a strictly Roman Catholic family, so he could use that to his advantage. He had heard about the Just War doctrine, but that promoted war for a morally justified cause. Still, he could say that he didn’t think there was a need for… whatever it was the 141 was supposed to be doing in Eritrea. And plenty of the popes within the last century had argued for functional pacifism, what with Paul VI and his “no more war” and Francis with his “just peace.”

His near-death parachuting accident had… reintroduced him to… revived… no, had rekindled… rekindled his devotion— too exaggerated: his passion for his faith. That sounded quite convincing, at least in his head.

Yes, that would work well. Except Millen didn’t have any proof of his Catholicism, because he didn’t actually consider himself to be one. He didn’t even have a rosary or bible, but then again, he could claim that they had been lost during his transfer into the unit, and since he had not yet had a day or weekend pass to leave the base with, he hadn’t been able to purchase a new one. Oh, how delightful it was how he could scheme! His brain had kicked into overdrive, processing stimulus by what seemed like the nanosecond as his thoughts branched out like a fast-growing oak, splitting off into a dozen different possibilities and probabilities, with explanations to go along with each one, and how he could spin his words around those explanations until nobody could be uncertain that he was in the right. Would he play the cripple veteran card, if it came down to it? Most definitely.

After all, it had been a terrible ordeal. It was only right that he should have some sort of trauma that could have smudged some of his memories. That was why he didn’t know the full Hail Mary or what the bloody hell transubstantiation meant.

“Oi!”

The impatient, aggrieved voice of Oron snapped Millen back to attention.

“Are yew even listening to me?

Millen’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came. All of his perfect excuses vanished into thin air.

Oron waved a hand. “Bah! Youse screwy. There’s more than one cog loose in yewr brain, mark my words. Lay in yewr bed, you made it. Now, I gotta piss, so yew jus’ keep yewr pretty face turned the other way, and we won’t have no issues.”

*  *  *

Despite his fear and shame, Millen dozed through most of the rest of the flight. He had only meant to close his eyes to refocus, but then had fallen into a fitful sleep plagued by the sound of his past self’s screams. Fragmented phantasms of white-clothed doctors and a dripping IV line haunted him like a decades-old sin.

He woke up choking. His vision was grey and hazy, his lungs feeling shrivelled. He’d forgotten to remove his OXYJUMP system, and the four liters of oxygen split between the dual two-liter tanks had finally run out, with the seal preventing him from taking in any air out of the cabin.

Something was beeping rapidly, warning him that his saturation levels were down to just below nighty percent. A first-aid course from back in basic niggled its way to remembrance: anything into the eighties was very close to critical.

He tore away the mask, ripping several tubes in the process, and felt like he was surfacing from a deep pool under the surface of which he had been submerged for too long.

With ragged breaths, his sight cleared, though he was left dizzy and disoriented. There was a bone-jarring thwump as the plane juddered through turbulence, and then began to steadily angle downwards. Millen looked out the window to see a downpour of rain, heavier than he’d seen in a long while.

“Oran?” His voice was scratchy, and when there was no reply, he realized that he had turned off his mic and comms. He cleared his throat and tried again, speaking through the plane’s private channel. “Oran, where are we?”

“Comin’ down in county Kent, jus’ east ‘a Canterbury,” Oran informed him, speaking over the dull roar of the engines. “There’s a hangar there where this ol’ hunk ‘a junk is meant to go in for retirement. Don’t worry, I’ve called in about yewr sitch-ee-ation. Yew’ll get an escort back to yewr home base after a debriefing. Couple higher-ups ain’t too happy ‘bout whatever the feck yewr li’l stunt here was.”

“What about my team?” Millen asked. “Has their been any news?”

“ Ponyatiya ne imeyu . No idea.”

Millen’s shoulders slumped. He had no information as to if Ghost, Gaz, and Roach were safe. All manner of things could have happened to them. Shot down by enemy forces, captured or injured upon landing, been led wrong by falsified or inaccurate intel. Or worse, they could have landed in the completely wrong area because of the delay Millen had caused them, which could in turn put them too far away from their target and then the subsequent exfil after the mission had been completed.

What if one of them were hurt? What if they were taken into custody by the Eritrean authorities? What if it sparked an investigation into British espionage and led to an international belligerency?

Millen very well could have just put a third World War into motion! Nations would take sides, and hundreds would be drafted, channeled into compressed boot camps, sent to the front lines without proper training—

And it would all be Millen’s fault; he would be put before a jury as a terrorist and sent to death row! He would be electrocuted! Hung! Guillotined! Forced to face a firing squad!

Would he even be buried under his rank? Would he be cremated, his ashes forgotten in some dusty morgue, never scattered? Would his parents even come to his funeral, or would they be incarcerated for their relationship to him, or even driven from their lovely Stratford-Upon-Avon home by the mobs, hunted for the shame he had brought down upon the family name? His mother could lose her position with the realty company she had worked so hard to gain a partnership with. His father would be so angry, and probably couldn’t be convinced that Millen was too too old to belt for his mistakes.

He felt sick. He always felt sick, but in this moment particularly so. His hands rubbed his knees, and he nearly moaned aloud. His back was throbbing from sitting in the same position for so long; a deep ache was settled in the curve of his spine, slivers of pain sparking outwards like the red-hot flakes from a welder’s torch, showering down to fizzle against the floor of his pelvis.

“How long until we land?” Millen questioned, hoping that he’d be able to get into contact with the team once he had access to a phone. He had seen Ghost slip a burner phone into his pocket. Maybe the lieutenant would call him, or he could call the lieutenant. If Ghost would even entertain the idea of speaking to Millen again after today.

“Five minutes, tuck ili inache ,” relayed Oran, then a pause. A female voice, surprisingly clear but with the slightest round quality around the edges of her pronunciation, spoke up, “Ten. Oran undercalculates.”

“I thought she was…?” Millen began.

“Deaf?” Oran asked. “She is. Most ‘a the way. I repeat what yew says and she reads my dashingly handsome lips.” “Your lips are thin and chapped,” the co-pilot sniffed.

Millen’s mind swam with slush. “But how is she talking?”

There was a moment of silence as Oran moved his mic-piece to the side to repeat the question to the co-pilot. Then there was a decidedly female snort of annoyance. “I went legally deaf when I was twenty-one. I am almost twenty-four now. I can still remember how the words sounded and how to form them on my tongue. You should look into it, staff sergeant. It seems that you need to educate yourself.”

Millen felt his face heat up at the chastisement. This day just kept getting worse and worse. Now he was being told off by a girl over a decade younger than him. But a superior officer was a superior officer, no matter if she was stinking up the place as a delta. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

He could practically hear Oran roll his eyes. “Yew don’t needa ma’am the woman. She’s just a pup.”

“Might I remind you, Oran, that I’ve accomplished more in the past seven years of my short life than you have in the past twenty years of yours. Jealousy doesn’t suit a man of your advanced age.” “Bah, whelp! An-mhíréashtrach. Mind my words, Jessica, that mouth of yewrs will get yew in trouble someday.”

“Shtsk. As if anyone would ever get angry with the poor deaf veteran.” “Yew’ve never even seen ground combat!” “Neither have you, you mustelid.” “The feck is a moosty-lid?” “Mustelid! Ferret, weasel, otter–” Oran choked. “Otter? I beg yewr pardon, but I’m not gay!”

“You told me yesterday about how you shagged the medic from Essex, don’t pretend you don’t like a taste of arse as much as cunny. Besides, I mean the animal otter, not the slang. Don’t be such a dolt.”

The Hercules shuddered again, dragging through a patch of rough air like the snags of velcro across a fine wool. “Coming down presently,” Oran said grumpily. “If this blasted female will quiet down long enough for me to think. Swear, there’s no proper ladies left in the world no more. A delta, hah!”

Millen felt his stomach roll over like a piece of dough being kneaded as the plane began its descent in earnest. He grabbed at his seat belt, bile rising up to the back of his throat to sting his nose and eyes. He keened softly and tried not to be sick.

He couldn’t stand much longer being up in the air much longer, but the moment he landed, he had no doubt that he would be hauled in for questioning. Would he be locked in a cell? Paraded around in handcuffs? Tarred and feathered?

He could only hope he would have time to convince them of his rapidly-assumed new moral beliefs. But he’d still have to face Price back at base.

The Hercules banked steeply, wheels slotting out to make contact with the tarmac. The aircraft rolled to a sudden stop, jerking Millen forward. The empty OXYJUMP cylinders clattered to the floor, sliding over towards the curtain surrounding the honey-pot.

With quivering hands, he undid his seatbelt and tucked the metal bit back into place just as Jessica, the co-pilot, stepped out from the cockpit. She looked him over briefly with a keen eye, and he gave a wobbly salute.

She nodded curtly, satisfied, and then jabbed a thumb towards the ramp, which was opening up, her meaning clear. Out. 

Millen gripped the back of the seat, using the leverage to push himself to his feet. The movement came with an immediate flare of pain so intense that he nearly doubled over, his back cracking loudly and both his knees popping like two kernels of corn in a kettle. He swallowed back the black spots dancing in his vision, pulling in air through his nose and gritting his teeth. Oh, fuck .

His legs refused to work, his feet dragging. Everything from his lumbar vertebrae down was almost fully numb. His skin tingled. Fear shot through him as he stumbled down the ramp, cold rain pattering down against his head and shoulders. Heat flashed stark white in his skull, but he wasn’t sure if it was lightning from the storm or not. His eyes were wide open, but everything was blurry and dark, as if he was squinting fiercely.

Maybe the lack of oxygen had gone to his head, or he had come down with a case of altitude sickness. It was uncommon, but possible, during flights. He reached for his OXYJUMP system, then remembered that it was empty and he had shed it in the plane. Looking around, he struggled to focus his sight, the world slipping in and out of a fuzzy haze around him.

“Staff sergeant!”

A displeased, deep bass voice barked out to his left, and Millen staggered towards the sound. There was a stout man in the uniform of a Royal Air Force officer, his alphan scent sour with anger. He had a bit of paunch and seemed a little long in the tooth, but his arms were corded with old muscles. “Care to explain why the hell you’re here and not with your team?” Millen stared dumbly at him. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, voice slurring. He didn’t even realize what he’d said until the officer was fluffing up like a bantam rooster.

“You watch your mouth, boy! I don’t know if you’re blind or just plain retarded, but I’m the goddamn Group Captain of this base, and you will show respect, or I’ll get ahold of your CO and have him kick your miserable arse out of this man’s army! Don’t think I don’t know Price personally, the old bastard. That’s just like him, rearin’ a foul-mouthed, ankle-bitin’ pup and callin’ you a soldier. Stand up straight!”

Millen straightened out of reflex. Pain seized his back in a cramp-like spasm and his ears were pealing with a terrible noise like an American EAS warning. He actually looked around to see if there was some television or radio blaring out the sound.

The Group Captain – his rank equivalent to that of colonel if he had been in the army instead of the air force – was still ranting, becoming progressively more red in the face, but his words were one long stream of nothing to Millen, whose breathing had become short and quick, his lips tinged a blueish-green.

The xi’s thoughts were pollen on the breeze, wafting aimlessly to land on delicate petals that curled under the weight. Why was this man yelling so loudly? What had Millen done to upset– oh .

Team. Fear. Shame. Jump. The words were just barely strung together, as if by a cord worn down to the last thread, straining and beginning to frazzle. The ground rolled beneath him, his limbs weightless and leaden all at once. He tried to steady himself on something, but the space around him was empty. His skull thumped in a steady drumbeat, the front of his head aching with trapped pressure. His sinuses were killing him. The Group Captain was going off like a firecracker, his voice a roar. “And another thing! I was in the middle of a meeting, when Oran contacts me and says he still has a passenger? Why the hell are you even here? I sure as hell wasn’t told about this! Well? Are you going to speak, or just stare?”

Millen’s head was pounding. Something hot was dripping down his face. He brought his hand to his nose and it came away bloody. What was his excuse? He’d had such a good one, something about pacifism and religious doctrines, and how he was going to avoid a dishonorable discharge, except he couldn’t say that last part or they would know he’d made it up. And the hail mary! He had to add that in. And that bit about how his mother was a Catholic. Would his records be brought up? Would they know he didn’t attend Mass weekly? That he didn’t go to confession? Maybe he could pretend to be some other religion. He wracked his memories for any knowledge of non-violent religious groups. Were there Quakers in the UK? Or Amish? Maybe he could be a Jehovah’s Witness, they didn’t even salute the flag!

He didn’t have time to figure it out and he had to decide now. Maybe if he said he was a really big fan of Ghandi, they would believe he was a Jainist. Jainism was pretty big on peace and love and all that, right?

For a heart-stopping second, he couldn’t remember why he needed to come across as a conscientious objector. His mouth opened and closed several times. Rain drizzled down his face.

Court-martial. Coward. Incompetent. 

It rushed back at once. His systems overloaded. His brain was boiling.

Say something! Speak!

“I’m an anabaptist now,” he croaked out, and then folded double and was sick all over the Group Captain’s polished boots.

*  *  *

Millen struggled against the nurses as they held him down against the bed, his arms being strapped down. Someone was putting a silicone oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, turning a small black nozzle to let a flood of omegan pheromones through the device. Millen thrashed, eyes rolling back up into his head. An arterial tube was taped to his wrist, a screen warning that his blood pressure had just spiked and was one-ninety over one-fifty: entering a hypertensive crisis.

The pheromones made his head spin. It was the scent of an omega soothing a pup or mate, replicated via chemical means to be produced for hospitals to use as a mild anesthetic and a calming agent. The device pumping the chemical gas itself was known as a Pheromonal Additive Infusor— a PAI.

Millen whined, his chest heaving. He couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. He didn’t want an omega. This ‘omega’ wasn’t someone he knew. It wasn’t Gary. Millen didn’t want a mate, didn’t want to be coaxed into a nest of only two. He didn’t want to have to bond them and dominate them and be a provider and protector all in one. He wanted to let go. Please, let him let go.

There was a doctor snapping out urgent orders to the nurses. “Get a bolus injection with a loading dose of esmolol, 500 mcg/kg, then prepare the 50 mcg/kg/min infusion to be administered directly after. Switch off the PAI, he’s reacting negatively. Reload it with alphan scent instead.”

“But his tags say he’s an alpha subclass,” protested one of the nurses. “It would aggravate him further—“

“I wasn’t asking,” the doctor cut her off. “His tags could be misprinted, we don’t know. What we do know is that the patient is experiencing extreme distress when in contact with intense omegan pheromones, so switch it to alphan unless you want the heart attack he’s about to have to be on your guilty conscience!”

The nurse paled, hurrying to switch out the PAI machine with a heavy alphan pheromones. With a deep breath whirrrr , the system reset itself and started back up.

The moment the scent reached Millen’s bloodied nose, he went rigid, and then relaxed against the bed, his body slack. His eyes, still half-open, glazed over. The scent was rich, with undertones of musk and salt, and something earthy. Cedar. Warmth. Like the comforting rumble of a storm in the heat of a summer midnight. Like Price.

Alpha. 

Millen’s blood pressure dropped a noticeable several points, his heart rate slowing from its racehorse speed of almost two hundred beats per minute. It momentarily spiked as the injection of esmolol was jabbed into the crook of his arm, but then some sixty seconds later, began to steadily decline as the beta-blockers busied themselves with their work. After about two minutes, Millen’s eyelids slipped shut despite the brief poke of pain as the infusion was put into place. His breathing evened out after another five minutes, his heart rate now beginning to settle at a bpm of one hundred and five, the organ fluttering beneath his paper skin like a songbird exhausted from flying against strong winds. His blood pressure leveled at ninety over one-twenty-five— still not completely ideal, but no longer requiring urgent medical attention.

The doctor and nurses all breathed a sigh of relief. A nasal cannula of oxygen was clipped into place on Millen’s nose, the PAI mask adjusted so as not to press against the tubing. The xi was tremblingly finely, just barely conscious, in a daze from the continuous supply of pheromones. His head was lifted up momentarily so that a clip-like device, padded on the inside ends and flat at the axis, was affixed onto his nape, pinching gently down onto the nerve endings– effectively scruffing him. Millen instinctively curled in on himself, giving soft, contented little whimpers, like a pup cuddled in the safety of its mother’s nest.

One of the senior nurses shook her head. “I don’t understand. He doesn’t smell like an alpha, and he doesn’t smell like an omega, either, but he’s certainly acting like one. Alphas stop responding to scruffing anywhere from three to five years old.” The doctor gave a hoarse gruff of laughter. “Well, I think he might be a little older than that.”

“But his tags still say alpha,” said the nurse who had argued with the doctor earlier. “And they’re quite worn. If it were new tags, I’d understand the misprint theory, but wouldn’t he have had it corrected by now?”

“I’ve no idea,” the doctor replied. “And it isn’t our place to question it. From what I heard from the Group Captain, this man here is from the 141st. He’s Special Air Services. They’ve got all kinds up there.” “So what do we do now, doctor?” the senior nurse asked. The doctor inclined his head towards Millen. “We monitor his vitals, make sure his blood pressure remains where it is now. Someone will get into contact with his CO and inform them about his condition. I’m assuming that the reason the staff sergeant is here and not with his team is because of being temporarily medically unfit for duty. We’ll need to run some labs, see if we have any underlying surprises here to work around. Any number of things could have contributed to the fluctuation in blood pressure and heart rate: motion sickness, altitude sickness, a failed rut, or just plain stress. Hell, he could have the flu and just be reacting badly to it. But if he has a chronic hypertensive condition, he’ll need to be kept on a dosage of esmolol for the next twenty-four hours until we can get his full medical history. We aren’t a big enough operation to treat him here if he is hypertensive or tachycardic.”

“Shall I add that as your official diagnosis when his commanding officer is contacted?” the senior nurse questioned.

The doctor shook his head. “No. No, I have a feeling that there is something in motion far more complicated than something strictly physical. We’ll get him on an IV of paracetamol for now to lower his fever and alleviate any pain he might be experiencing, and keep the PAI machine running. Lower the pheromonal saturation after twenty minutes, then see how he does. I’ll update the Group Captain and see if we can’t get word from the rest of the 141st– or their captain, at least.”

*  *  *

Price had just sat down at his desk, back at base after a long, long reconnaissance drill with a group of rookies that barely knew left from right, when his phone began to ring.

He paused from where he had been about to light up one of his best aged cigars, the lighter flicked open in his hand still dancing with a small flame. With a heavy sigh, he clicked it back shut and set down the cigar, reaching for the phone.

“This is Captain Price of the 141st,” he said, voice rough with tiredness. “Who’s this?”

The voice of the doctor filtered through after a moment. “Captain Price, this is Doctor Curtis Willsman from the base up in Kent. I’m the head physician of our facility. We have a man of yours here.” 

Price stiffened. One of his boys was hurt? He’d heard nothing out of the team since they departed. Was it possible that one of them had been injured upon landing and had been evac’d without his knowledge? “You sure about that, doc? All but one of my boys are out on a mission. They aren’t set to be back for four, five days yet.”

“Quite positive, sir. This man has a 141 patch on his coat. His tags name him as Staff Sergeant Millen Coelho-Grey, is that familiar to you?” 

“Bloody ‘ell. Affirm, that’s one of mine. What happened?”

“He had a hypertensive crisis. His blood pressure and heart rate were through the roof. He’s resting comfortably now, though.” 

“He— what? He’s never shown signs of problems before.” Price frowned, pushing up the brim of his dirt-stained boonie hat. Ghost must have realized that something was wrong , he figured, and ordered Millen go stay behind from the mission . “You’re sure that’s what it was?”

“Completely sure, captain, though it might also be contributed to by other factors. According to multiple sources, he was delirious and talking about having a religious awakening and then he vomited on our base commander’s boots. We took the staff sergeant in for immediate treatment and he’s now stable. We have him under observation for now, but it’s likely that he’ll feel very poorly for several days or possibly even have a relapse. Do you have his medical file on-hand? If you could fax it to us, it would be highly beneficial for the staff sergeant.” 

Price opened a drawer in his desk, rifling around through various papers, but came up empty-handed. “Let me put you on hold for one second, doc.”

He set the phone down, taking a key from the drawer and crossing over to his filing cabinet where Roach liked to hide. He unlocked the heavy metal doors and swung them open, thumbing through manila folders stamped SENSITIVE CONTENT. Most were the files of his team, along with a few mission reports, but none were the medical files for Millen. Price’s frown deepened, and he returned to the phone. “Yeah, doc, I don’t have ‘em. I don’t think they were ever given to me.”

There was a pause, and Price could practically hear the doctor pursing his lips. “Well, that certainly isn’t optimal. Is there anything you know about the staff sergeant that might be relevant?” 

“He’s got a bad back and knees. Parachuting accident, before he was assigned to my unit. That’s all I know.”

“And he was allowed to return to active duty with these injuries?” 

“He seemed fit enough. He never complains of pain. I wasn’t given any special instructions regarding him, so I made a decision based on necessity and performance.”

“Ah. Well, I will not quibble over things that are over and done with, captain. The staff sergeant is still sedated, so it falls to you to make decisions regarding his autonomy. Would you like us to give him a full physical evaluation while he’s under our care?” 

Price nearly said yes, but a feeling deep in his gut told him to hold his tongue. He scratched at his short beard, then replied. “No, no, I don’t think he’d like that. I’ll arrange for the physical myself with my preferred physician here at our home base. Anything else you need to do, just do it. When can he be released?”

“Like I said, captain, we’re keeping a close eye on him. It would be best if he could remain here for the next twenty-four hours. However, you’re welcome to come here to Kent if you would like to speak in-person. I think seeing a familiar face might be good for the staff sergeant, and there’s more I would like to discuss in private.” 

Price swallowed the catch in his throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. You take care of my boy, now, understand?”

“Of course, captain. We treat all patients with the utmost courtesy, I can assure you. When can we expect to receive you?” 

“I’ll be there by tomorrow morning,” Price said, already heading down the hallway towards the room that Soap shared with Roach and Millen. The allergy medication that the Scottish sergeant had taken had long since worn off, leaving Soap ready and raring to go once more. Price stopped just outside the door to wrap up his conversation with Doctor Willsman.

“S’that all I need to know?”

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “What designation did your staff sergeant present to you as, captain, upon your first meeting?” 

Price grunted in irritation. “As a xi. A socially neutral alpha. You should be able to figure that out, or are they not teaching secondary genders in med school anymore?”

“A xi?” The doctor sounded surprised. “Really?” 

“Yes, really. You think I’m lying?”

“No, captain, of course not. It merely causes a bit of confusion on our end. Your staff sergeant reacted quite negatively to our PAI machine on an omegan pheromonal setting, seeming to much prefer the alphan instead.” 

Price’s brow creased in confusion. “So what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure yet. It is not a subject of any real concern. The body can react most strangely when under stress. That is all I know for now, captain.” 

“Right. Well, thank you for keeping me informed. Tell him that I’ll be there soon.”

“I can do that. Good day, captain.” 

Price grunted again and ended the call. Raising one heavy fist, he beat thrice on the door. “Johnny! Open up. We’re headed out.”

There was a scuffle of footsteps before Soap opened the door, dressed in sweats and a black compression shirt that was several sizes too large, likely belonging to Ghost. “Aye? Where to?”

“Kent. Millen’s got himself into a pickle.”

Soap’s stunning blue eyes clouded in confusion. “Ah thought he was with the L.t. and the rest? Whit’s he doin’ up in bloody Kent?”

“Sod me if I know. From what I can gather, Ghost must have caught on that Millen was starting to come down with something and told him to stay behind.”

“Sick, eh? Ye ken, Millen was actin’ awful sick when I last saw ‘im,” agreed Soap. “Acted like he was close to chuckin’ up his brekkist. He said he was fine, but Ah was no’ sure. Ah guess Ah should hae said summat.”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny. I didn’t have any idea that there was anything wrong, either. Hopefully it was just that the heat got to him, or he came down with a bug, or the like. But I told the doctor that I’d be up there by tomorrow morning to collect him. I need you to pack a bag with a change of clothes for him, then meet me out by the Jeeps in twenty.”

“Aye, sir. Will do.”

“Atta boy. We’ll get all this sorted out, then be back in time for you to meet Simon on the tarmac when he gets back from Eritrea. I’m sure he’ll be able to give a full sitrep on what happened in the Hercules.”

Soap nodded. “Poor Mills, sick as a dog an’ we didn’t notice. Ah’d bet that he wanted to complete the mission anyway, but Ghost wouldn’t let him. Ah, well, there’s always next time.”

“Mhm. Go on, now, get his bag ready. Bring one of them Halo books he likes so much for him to read on the drive back home.”

“Yes, sir.”