ARC10

Chapter 4.2

Sometimes, my dreams are memories from the battlefield or memories of training or memories of death and blood and dismembered humans crawling into the URE.

Sometimes my memories are mixed with the deepest fears I try to keep locked away from my conscious thoughts.

Thanks to the ever-lingering symptoms of my PTSD, deformed memories fester into nightmares to plague my sleep. I continually dream of when I was admitted to the clinic after one of the worst missions of my life.

I remember the sterile stainless steel of the tables splotched in dried blood and Medics covered from head to foot in pieces of organs smeared across khaki uniforms. I remember them running around with humming and beeping machines.

I remember one Medic with blood up to his arm. He was grabbing hands of the patients until he heard the high pitched beeps over the cries of the mingled patients. He would then check that the data was received before moving on to the next outstretched arm.

In my dream tonight, I observe from a corner in the room, where my hand is holding another that has only four fingers attached. Our hands are bloody. His face is gone. I know it's Simon, but in my dream, I can't cry for him.

Blood pours out of his eye sockets. I'm almost grateful for it because Warren approaches behind me and rips the shirt off my chest. As I hold Simon's hand, his life slipping away slowly, Warren shoves the mouth of an infant to my breast. The infant bites me, and where he's suckling, red milk dribbles from around his chin.

Warren relaxes in a chair and oversees while resting his metal prosthetic leg on a nearby gurney. Dean is in the background. He is the one running around, collecting data from the PAHLMs.

I scream as the infant bites harder on my breast and falls to the floor with a crack. The plush creature shatters as if it was made of glass.

My eyes fly open when the image of the broken baby sends its own shards across an imaginary floor. Dream becomes reality as I throw my hand out to catch it, causing my weight to shift and my cot to topple over. I crash to the floor.

Another night, another reality of the post-traumatic stress that haunts me.

Fully awake, I stare across the room at the underside of Simon's cot. He's not home.

Fluorescent lights from the common access hallways throw harsh white beams across the floor in sharp panels as if shredded by the broken shades of our bedroom. Simon is already out and probably at the Kitchen Sink preparing breakfast for the first round of patrons.

Disoriented, I shake my head to erase the images of the dream. Push them down. Move on.

I tip my cot around and recall the night before with Dean's unease and the choices I have in front of me. After a little sleep and few unfocused moments of ruminating while pulling my nightshirt over my head, I find clarity. I don't fully understand his hesitation, because for me it's black and white.

Pregnant?

Or Mission?

And it isn't a difficult decision beyond that. There's simplicity in the decision that firms my resolve--yes.

Mission. Always mission.

My reflection in our room mirror catches my attention. Running my fingers through my dark hair, I work through thick clumps to untangle the knots. A simple braid is good enough for the close combat training today. As I concentrate on the movements, I peer at the face returning my passive gaze. The view of my parted lips reminds me of Dean's rough kiss before I fell into the nightmare. I grimace. He better not think he can start taking romantic liberties with me now that he's broken past my personal barrier again.

I toss on my work gear and push myself against the scrap metal door of our room. The day begins with a brisk jog to Level 1 to warm up for the day's close-quarters combat intensive training session. As I reach the training facility, I slow so as not to bump into the other militiamen lining up for the day's events.

Defensive strategy again. From the looks of it, we've become a nation in survival mode. For what? If the Invaders finally decide to leave their ships and stroll up to us while on a salvage trip? I roll my eyes as I watch feet fly through the air, followed by a hollow thud to the padded ground. The aliens don't walk on the ground. They only hover above it like demented storm clouds with laser rain. Supposedly the aliens have prominently sensitive spines. Not that I would know first hand. I have never actually seen one of the little shits up close. Or big shits. I'm still not sure.

Above the heads of the other soldiers, I catch a glimpse of Dean. His focus his own sparring partner. He's honed in and combat ready, just the way I like him.

I scan the area, noticing everyone acting normal, nonchalant, oblivious, as if they hadn't just heard the human race was about to be torn from their underground dwelling and moved to another planet, that is, Lady knows, how many galaxies away, all while being escorted by some kind of benevolent alien alliance.

Taking a second glance, it seems in this battalion only the two of us had attended the meeting yesterday.

Today, I train with renewed vigor. With purpose. I pore over each strategy with concrete resolution. I will be the best. I will lead my ship to safety. I will live to protect humanity and give it my best damn effort. The First Sergeant comments on my performance. Apparently, my ass has never been sharper.

It's then I realize he was not at the meeting last night either. I turn to leave the battalion. I wonder why Hayomo finds me more preferable to lead this mission than someone who has been teaching us his entire repertoire of knowledge for the last ten years. What kind of trouble are we getting into?

While pondering this after a full day of training, I jog to the locker room where fresh clothes and a shower are waiting for my tired limbs. Before charging headfirst into the changing room, I recognize a thick figure blocking the doorway.

Kai chuckles and puts on an air of surprise. "Well. Fancy meeting you here."