Igraine had off the next day , and so she played the waiting game , sat inside her bottom bunk , curtains drawn as she slouched against the pillows she had put behind her , waiting for the appropriate time to try and call . Texts were nice , left her feeling okay with how things were , but she missed her family and friends . It wasn't easy being seven hours ahead of all of them , even if they worked night shift . So into the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning she watched her phone until she thought someone would answer .
She propped the phone against her shoulder , fidgeting with the blankets she did have . The dial tone was all she heard until voicemail .
âťť Hey , I just wanted to hear your voice , but I know you're busy . Um , just send me a text later , âťž she rushed out . âťť Things are fine here . It's not urgent . Actually don't worry about it . I'll try again next week . âťž
No sooner had the phone dropped onto the bed , she felt the vibration of it , hands scrambled to pick it up , quickly tapping accept with her thumb and putting it to her ear . She sighed in relief letting out a soft , âťť Hey .âťž
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Igraine can realistically call about once every two weeks for a video call. She can text before bed or in the morning. Calls come when she gets a few moments to herself, and are mostly voicemails because of the time difference.
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They were spread across the block like pieces on a chessboard, tucked into the shadows and obscured by broken sightlines alongside another unit. The city around them breathed in muted noise — distant engines, barking dogs, the occasional shout drifting up from the street below. Dust hung in the warm air, and every rooftop smelled faintly of concrete baked all day under the sun.
Henry was two clicks down on a secure rooftop, prone behind a low parapet while he waited for Briggs’ next instruction. Igraine and James were one click south of the target, posed at a street checkpoint with rifles slung and expressions bored enough to pass for routine security. One click north, Edwards and Briggs watched the target building through optics, mapping exits and counting windows.
They weren’t moving in yet. Today was reconnaissance, just testing security, identifying alternate escape routes, and watching how those in the building moved. Whatever was inside mattered enough for their platoon to spend days circling it like wolves around a campfire.
James shifted his weight beside Igraine, broad shoulders brushing hers as they kept their eyes on opposite ends of the street. To anyone passing by, they looked like soldiers killing time. "You know," he said casually, "Lottie started dating."
Igraine snorted softly, her back still to his. "No, she didn’t. Isn't she, like, fourteen?" The idea made her grimace. She had missed too much back home, but there was no way James and Monica were letting their daughter date that young.
Henry’s dry voice crackled through the comms. "So, have we killed her boyfriend yet?"
A quiet laugh passed through the channel.
Edwards chimed in next. "I don't think that will go over well with Lottie."
James gave a low grunt. "Nineteen. And no, I haven’t killed the boyfriend. He’s terrified of me, though. The problem is I’m six thousand miles away from where I can throw him out of my house, and Monica’s gone soft."
"Girls," Briggs hissed over comms with mock irritation, "as much as I’d love to continue this riveting discussion, what do you see up there, Private Granger?"
Henry answered immediately, professionalism sliding back into place. "Negative. No further movement. They’re taking longer on the third floor."
Silence settled again, but it was the familiar kind.
Igraine tipped her head back slightly to glance at James. "It must be weird having a grown daughter. Like… she’s gonna go to college, maybe get married, have kids." Her mouth curved into a grin before she teased him. "Henderson, you’re gonna be a grandpa."
James shoulder-checked her hard enough to make her stumble sideways. She immediately bumped him back with equal force, earning a quiet laugh from him.
"Careful," he warned. "You have one kid, and your whole world changes." His voice softened in a way it only did when he talked about his daughters. "I remember holding Lottie right after she was born. I’d just cut the umbilical cord, and they handed her to me after the checks. Monica had a C-section, so I stayed with Lottie while they took care of her. She was my little silvery fish, that's what she looked like. You never forget the first time."
The memory clearly lived close to the surface. Igraine could hear it in his tone. "Everything shifts after that," he continued quietly. "Everything you’re doing, everything you’re building — it’s for them." For a second, the war and the city and the mission faded, replaced by the image of a much younger James standing in a hospital room with a newborn in his arms.
Igraine softened, then ruined the moment on purpose. "Well, if I ever get there, I’ll let you know."
He barked a laugh. "What do you think I’m training to be an EMT for? Someone’s gotta drag you into the ambulance and remind you of your lifetime commitment and your terrible decision not to wear a condom."
She wrinkled her nose. "That is not the inspirational speech you think it is."
"And when you insist the wolves just want tummy scratches while we’re camping?"
"They looked friendly," she defended.
"They looked hungry."
Edwards laughed openly over comms this time. "I’m with Henderson on this one. They did not look friendly at all, even Daisy was shaking in Beck's arms."
"Traitor," Igraine muttered.
The banter cut the tension the way it always did. They all knew why it mattered: if things went bad in the next few minutes, these were the voices they’d trust without hesitation.
Then Henry’s tone changed instantly, all business. "Hey, dickwads, unfuck yourselves. Motion detected. Target leaving now," Henry called across comms.
