The Mouse and The Monarch

25

~MOUSE~

The dimly lit bar was tucked off the rugged coast of Asia and seemed to pulsate with laughter and music as Ophelia laughed and sipped her drink.

The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of alcohol, mingling with the tang of salt from the sea and the humidity of the country.

The booth, worn but comfortable, cradled their team as they drank and talked.

As the night wore on, the small, weathered bar became a sanctuary for them.

The neon signs outside cast colours over their expressions, turning the dim space into a kaleidoscope of colours that danced on their faces.

And as each colour danced across their faces, Ophelia felt herself assigning that colour to each person.

Laughter echoed against the walls, blending with the low hum of conversations from other customers.

The clinking of glasses and the bartender's rhythmic shake of a cocktail mixer provided a backdrop as they all told stories about their lives.

A lot of the stories around the room were totally inappropriate sex tales or stories about extreme violence.

But that was the life.

The team, already a few drinks deep, revelled in the camaraderie that only those who shared the battlefield could truly understand.

The energy around them buzzed with the shared history of missions completed, close calls, and the unspoken trust that bound them together.

Even O'Conor seemed to be drawn into the infectious environment.

His usual glares softened as he shared in the laughter.

At that moment, Ophelia didn't hate him.

In the revelry, she learned more about Oni.

And his behaviour finally made sense.

He was a father, responsible for two little girls waiting for him back home.

Her smile widened as she listened to him talk about them, the light in his eyes almost blinding as he thought about them.

As she sipped her fruity cocktail, the taste of tropical sweetness mingled with the salty air, she couldn't help but feel free.

The tension of their dangerous profession momentarily dissipated, replaced by the simple joy.

The clinking of glasses, the rise and fall of laughter, and the interweaving of personal narratives transformed the mercenaries into something more.

For that fleeting moment, they weren't just skilled professionals bound by contracts and missions.

They were just people.

Flawed, complex, and seeking connection amidst the chaos of their chosen lives.

Normal people.

The buzz of her phone cut through the laughter and clinking glasses, prompting Ophelia to divert her attention downward.

The screen illuminated with a message and she froze as she read it.

The cold, impersonal tone contrasts sharply with the warmth of the bar.

COL: Where are you? It's 0000.

Ophelia couldn't help but roll her eyes at the military precision of the timestamp.