Schemes. Machinations.

The dim interior of the ready room comes alight with color, for only but a moment, as the secure entranceway slides open, making way for a figure of imposing size and state of harness. The figure–a woman with a loose ponytail of brown hair and features as though carved in ice–steps inside, coming to present herself before the lone, regular-sized man within the room, speaking only after the hatch secures itself shut behind her.

“J-3-20 reporting as ordered, sir.”

Wearing upon his collar the blackened badge of an officer on deployment in the emblem of a displayed eagle, perched upon a sheaf of arrows to denote the rank of Colonel, the man turns away from the only source of light in the room, a projector. Col. Hawthorn faces the large, Naval Special Operations Group operator, taking a tense, long look at her before pointing to the projection on the screen.

“Do you see this?”

The recording silently plays the event on repeat as three shells of 135mm HE pound a structure and reduce it down to rubble, silencing the large base of fire being exchanged between it and the men on the road directly in front of it.

The man continues with a simple question. “What do you make of this?”

J-3-20 observed the recording but she could not see anything of specific note beyond the ordinance itself.

“...NSOG called it in–it looks like, sir," she began. "It appears Pegasus must have been given coordinates for that strike.”

Pegasus is the callsign of one of the extreme-altitude, loitering gun platforms which may orbit above NSOG’s battlespace when conducting combat operations. Its pilot, Gunther, has owed J-3-20 $200 for two weeks now and, if he wasn't able to pay up because he shelled a hospital again, so help her, she would strangle him.

The man pauses another moment before delivering his reason for calling her there.

“...Pegasus was given a vector for this strike that was considered out-of-bounds by my recommended rules-of-engagement.”

The super soldier breathes a sigh of relief for Gunther’s sake, if that's all it is.

“...But sir, is that really all that out of the ordinary? Are we not able to conduct operations in the city at our own discretion any longer?”

The colonel shakes his head. “It’s not the fact that someone signaled outside of their lane that’s trouble to me. It’s why.”

The operator furrows her brow, still not understanding. Hawthorn continues.

“Look at the coordinates of the reporting operator,” he said, letting 3-20 inspect the code.

“...It's near the strike,” she says.

What is he getting at?

The colonel holds up a remote and clicks a button, bringing up an image file that begins to load, coming to view as he speaks.

“The one who called that in was operator K-2-18.”

“Huh!?” Questioned the operator.

Wasn't her assigned area of operations kilometers away?

“What was she doing all the way over there?!”

The colonel looks back at the operator…

“That's what I want you to find out.”

…And then clicks the remote again, bringing up another video–this time of a squad of infantry Marines–before freezing on a still shot of one in particular.

“This man has recently become heavily involved with her, seemingly able to direct her into watching over him at the slightest hint of trouble. Highly unusual behavior for one of NSOG's operators. Records place him among Third Battalion, Fifth Marines; a lance corporal by the name of Waters…”

The operator narrows her eyes at the boy in the photo. He doesn't look particularly extraordinary…

“I want your opinion,” Col. Hawthorn continues. “Do you have any suspicions of what might be going on?”

The operator thinks, a disgusted scowl on her face.

“...He could be foreign intelligence, using dirt he gathered on her as blackmail to keep him safe!”

The older officer furrows his brow at that.

“...You don't think it might be voluntary?”

The operator thinks for a moment.

“...You're right. She could easily dispatch him if he was blackmailing her. She must be sympathetic to his cause.”

The officer tilts his head, even more skeptical at that assertion.

“No, I mean what are the odds that the source of this influence might be out of affection?...”

The operator simply stares at Hawthorn.

…And then busts into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.

“Sir!” She says. “You can't possibly think that! After the kind of inhibitors your people placed in us?!"

The operator slowly calms herself down from the hilarity of it. The thought was so ridiculous that even she was able to laugh through the effects of her implant, which nearly entirely dulled her hormonal responses–and, consequently, her emotions. Every NSOG operator was given one shortly after ‘recruitment’.

The colonel looks troubled after that kind of response.

“I suppose you're right…but then that would make this interaction between them potentially deeply concerning,” he says.

“...Follow him. And then report back to me on what you find.”

The operator, with an expression of determination upon her face, receives the command with a firm, “Yessir,” and then snaps to attention in preparation to exit, but he stops her.

“One more thing!” He says, his tone growing sharp in its inflection.

“This investigation is top secret, not to be discussed to anyone outside of this room right now. If anyone were to find out that members of NSOG might be compromised…there's no telling how Earth might react to this information…”

The operator remains at attention, her silence acknowledging his directive.

“...Dismissed.”

------

I stumble and fall backward as the figure beside me instantly goes from a man pointing a rifle at me to a loose collection of pieces, leaving a fine, pink mist behind where they used to be.

I was preoccupied in my thoughts again and seem to have narrowly let it be my end.

I wipe my face and look back to the far distance behind us, using the optic on my rifle to get a better look at the dark silhouette of what appears like a vaguely person-shaped dot on a rooftop nearly one-and-a-half klicks away from us. I almost think I might be seeing things until the figure lifts a hand in a solitary wave.

Anti-material rifle.

I suppose that makes four times she's saved me now. Or is that five?...

I can't help it that my thoughts are so preoccupied. I just feel wrong after what the guys said to me…

------

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE FOLLOWED YOU?? TELL US WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!”

Cpl Chavez had pulled me aside with the rest of my fireteam after the airstrike incident and they were grilling me hard about the little rendezvous Kiyomi and I had at the mini-PX.

“Well, I got my stuff and that's just when she came up to me wearing civies…”

“...And?” Said Torres.

“...And we…talked–I guess.”

“–All you did was talk to her?!?” Shouts Rodriguez as he violently shakes me by the straps of my ballistic vest. I have to pry myself away from him just to get him to stop, and then I watch him lament after I do, complaining, “Some men dehydrate while others drown!”

I ignore him as Torres continues asking questions.

“So, you just talked to her…and she did all of this?”

I shrug. He carries on.

“...So, are you going to see her again?”

I rub the back of my neck.

“Aaah…we exchanged numbers but I don't know if I really should after all of this. There's no way this is ethic–”

“–You mean,” Chavez snaps, “that all you have to do to have the creepy, sexy, amazonian lady protect all of us from dying is DATE HER?!?”

…

…I mean, when you put it like that…

“I-I-I–”

I stammer, unable to handle this development. I can't do that! Use her for her protection over us? That's just wrong!

“I–...I'm not about to–”

Chavez looks at me with sincerity, “Waters. I'm ordering you...The next time you see her...”

He pats my shoulder in a firm hold of brotherly encouragement, looks me in the eye, and…

“ [ - (°~°;) - C E N S O R E D - (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) - ] ”

“–WHOA! I AM NOT DOING THAT!”

I violently pull myself away from Chavez who laughs at my expense.

“Just think about it, dude! Think of all the guys you might be saving! You'd be our hero!”

------

…And from then on, I couldn't help but to think of it. I thought of it while having chow, I thought of it while patrolling, I even thought about it all the way to my barracks room at the end of the day as I stared up at her number in my phone screen with the brightness turned up too high.

…

…I'm not doing that.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I click the button to lock it again and plunge the room back into darkness…

…Only for it to vibrate and shine in my eyes once again with the notification of a text message, causing me to drop it onto my face and then awkwardly have to retrieve it from off of my nose to read it.

[ “...Hey” ]

…

I stare at the text message from the familiar number for another full minute…

…And then open up to reply…