Behind the tents, the wind whistles like a warning. I’ve cornered a quiet young recruit named Mair. Fresh ink on his rank patch. He agreed to speak off-record. I flipped off the camera and started with softballs—where he’s from, what made him join, favorite field rations.
Then I ask, low and calm, “Did you see any civilians at Rusan Pass?”
He stiffens. Doesn’t look at me. “We weren’t briefed on civilians.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He shifts his weight. “Ma’am, I don’t think?—”
“You don’t have to think,” I cut in, gentle but firm. “Just tell me what you saw.”
Then I hear the footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.
Darun rounds the corner like a stormfront with legs. His golden eyes burn through me as he grabs Mair by the shoulder and barks, “Dismissed.”
Mair bolts like a frightened rabbit.
I fold my arms. “Subtle.”
Darun looms closer, heat rolling off him like an open furnace. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Talking.”
“To a kid who barely knows which end of his rifle fires.”
“He saw something. I could see it.”
“Don’t dig holes you can’t crawl out of, reporter.” His voice is a growl. “This isn’t some debate hall. It’s war.”
I step up, toe-to-toe. “Then maybe you should stop acting like a weapon and try being human.”
He flinches. It’s subtle. But it’s there.
His jaw works like he’s chewing glass. “You’re a liability.”
“And you’re a coward.”
That lands. His nostrils flare. For a second, I think he’s going to yell, or punch the wall, or walk away. But he just… stares.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says finally. Low. Ragged. “You think because you read a few casualty lists, you understand what this is?”
“No,” I admit. “But Iwantto. And you’d rather die than let anyone see the cracks.”
We stand there, chests heaving, silence burning between us like a fuse.
Then he turns on his heel and disappears behind the next row of tents.
The mess hall smells like reconstituted salt and body heat. Metal trays clatter. Boots scrape. The hum of voices is just white noise under the buzz of overhead fluorescents.
I slide into a corner booth and flip open my holopad. Pull up a loop of the interviews. Watch Varr’s fake grin. Telya’s haunted twitch. Freeze-frame on Mair’s wide eyes.
I try to focus, but the food in front of me—some sort of protein paste on flatbread—is shockingly not terrible. I take a bite and groan aloud. “Oh my gods,” I mutter with a mouthful. “Flavor. Actual flavor.”
Someone across the room snorts.
I glance up.
Darun’s sitting with a group of grunts, his tray untouched. He’s staring at me like I’ve got a second head.
