NOP: The Rejects of Sillis (5)

Oh boy this chapter is really late. If you pay attention to it's word count, you might understand why.

Hopefully y'all don't find it interminable to read, but I decided that this chapter had to cover ground so I could move the plot on to better things. Nonetheless, enjoy!

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The Nature of Predators Universe was originally created by u/SpacePaladin15.

Chapter Five: Theft is Only Tactical Acquisition If You Don’t Get Caught

Content Warning: This chapter contains two mentions of S.A., and a depiction of a panic attack.

Memory Transcription Subject: Lieutenant Isaac Yankovic

Date [standardized human time]: October 26th, 2136

As the eternal saying goes, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

If I had gone through the proper bureaucratic channels to get authorization to use the guns Nedelin rightfully stole, I would’ve been mired in paperwork for days. The process might have even involved getting the Russian government to relinquish its claim on the equipment–an unlikely prospect, to say the least. Therefore, to avoid all that crap, I did something I’d need to ask forgiveness for.

I expected to be explaining myself to a dozen military police, my commanding officer, or the base’s commander as a consequence, not all three at once.

However, the military police waited for me to come to them. That meant they were ordered to be here by someone. If they were acting on their own initiative, they would have trekked through the rain to come get me and made me lay face down in the mud while they tightened the handcuffs.

Captain Andrews was quite unhappy with me, judging by her crossed arms and the narrowed eyes she pointed at me, but I knew she wasn’t the type to involve the MPs when her subordinates got out of line.

Thus, the orders for my arrest could only have come from one place: the colonel that was currently glowering at me. He was this operation’s linchpin, and getting absolution from him was as good as victory.

Luckily for me, he wasn’t the most formidable of opponents. Most of the colonels I’d met were in their forties. This base commander’s graying hair and stress-wrinkles indicated that he was over fifty. His paunch exceeded what was acceptable under even the Army's lax fitness standards for someone his age. From these facts, I gathered that he was recently recalled to active duty from retirement. That meant he didn’t want to be here in the first place and preferred to do the minimal amount of labor necessary to fulfill his duties.

If I can’t get his forgiveness, maybe I could convince him that prosecuting me is more work than it's worth.

“Good afternoon, Colonel”–I narrowed my eyes to read the name patch on his chest–“Rainach. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked this with the best shit-eating grin I could muster. “I’d salute you, but my hands are currently cuffed behind my back.”

“You know damn well why I’m here, Lieutenant,” Rainach snapped.

“Forgive me, sir, but I genuinely don’t,” I replied with feigned innocence.

Behind the Colonel, Captain Andrews’ palm met her face with a light smack. She thought my strategy was to play dumb. She wasn’t far off–it's easier to forgive stupidity than malice.

“Don’t lie to me, boy. I could send you to Fort Leavenworth right now for trespassing and stealing government property.”

He didn’t mention destroying government property, so he must not have noticed that I cut the locks open. Good.

“Trespassing? I don’t see any signs indicating that this warehouse is off limits, sir.”

Rainach opened his mouth to counter but faltered when he realized I was right.

I took the opportunity to continue. “And this stuff isn’t US government property. It used to be the Russians', but the United Nations confiscated it, correct? Meaning that it either belongs to the UN via seizure or the Russian government because they’re its original owner. If it’s the former, using this equipment isn’t an issue because I signed an agreement with the UN to do just that. If it's the latter, then the Russian government can’t enforce its property rights in the United States, making their claim essentially null and void.”

I concluded my argument feeling quite proud of myself, but Colonel Rainach was completely unmoved. “ I’m still not letting your men carry weapons on my installation. They’re all criminals.”

I failed to see the relevance of his point. “Of course, they’re criminals. They smuggled weapons across multiple borders.”

The base commander laughed. “They’re not just smugglers, you idiot. They served in the 49th Combined Arms Army. Do you have any idea what that unit did to civilians once they rolled into Grozny after shelling it for months? They raped and they pillaged to their hearts’ content and killed anyone who resisted them. I don’t know about you, Lieutenant,” he said, leaning closer to me and lowering his voice, "but I don’t trust people like that with guns.”

I already suspected my men’s past crimes went beyond theft–the Russian Army didn’t exactly have the best reputation–but acknowledging that wouldn’t get me out of these handcuffs any faster, so I feigned ignorance. “The recent conflict in Russia wasn’t something we studied in Officer Candidate School, sir.”

“I didn't need to study it, Lieutenant; I was on the ground with the peacekeepers when it happened,” Rainach growled.

“You sat on your asses and let it happen, like peacekeepers always do.” Nedelin suddenly interjected from my side, bringing the scent of smoke and lavender with him. Before Rainach could respond, he asked me a question: “Did our documents mention reason we were ejected from the Russian Army?”

I thought for a moment. “You guys stole a lot of crap, but all of your documents cited failure to execute orders as the reason for your expulsion.”

My Platoon Sergeant looked the officer dead in the eyes. “Colonel, what orders do you think we declined to follow?”

Rainach glowered at him. “I don’t care if you refused to fight all together. You were part of the same army that raised Grozny to the ground and considered my mother’s ventilator a legitimate target for a cyberattack. My point still stands; you can’t be trusted with weapons of any kind.”

Nedelin’s expression softened. “I am very sorry for your mother, sir, but Satellite Wars were before my time. You cannot blame me for that.”

“Your condolences mean nothing to me, Sergeant. Even if they did, and I trusted you, I don’t trust this species traitor right here.” Rainach jammed a finger into my chest. “Why are you working with xenos, Lieutenant?” His eyes briefly fell on Raksim, the headache-inducing avian that insisted on constantly following me around. “ Shouldn’t we be putting humanity first?”

I fought to keep myself from breaking his nose with my forehead. “Because I’m stuck with him,” I said through gritted teeth.

The krakotl in question hissed and got into the officer’s personal bubble before the MPs could intercept him. “Let me make something clear, you dumb, bloated ape,” Raksim began. “I am the traitor to my species, not Lieutenant Yankovic. He is trying to serve your wretched species the best he can, despite being burdened by inferior troops and poor leadership.”

Rainach looked down at him contemptuously. The cops prepared their batons and another pair of handcuffs. The Colonel waved them off. “Back up, Turkey, or I'll send you to the brig too.”

Raksim got even closer. “I’m not just any krakotl, flesheater; I am employed by the United Nations as an advisor. Your government had an agreement with them to train these troops, useless as they are, using this equipment. If you continue to obstruct that agreement, I will contact the UN and inform them of the fat, waste of prey flesh that’s standing in its way!”

The two men stared each other down for a long moment, and I held my breath. Either Raksim just won this engagement, or he just talked me from a prison sentence to the firing squad.

The Colonel let out a low, sadistic chuckle and pulled folded papers from his breast pocket. “Here’s your deployment orders, Lieutenant. Have fun playing with your pets and war criminals. You'll be in the shit faster than you know it.” With that, the officer slipped the document into my pocket and started back to his ‘important’ office job. He signaled for the MPs to follow.

I wanted very much to show my middle finger to their backs, but they didn't bother undoing my handcuffs. “What a prick,” I said to no one in particular.

“Agreed,” My Platoon Sergeant said flatly. “How did you know that would work, Turkey?”

Raksim snapped his beak with annoyance, knowing that his new nickname had been bestowed. “The best way to threaten someone with that physique is with more work.”

“That was my Plan B,” I muttered offhandedly.

“It should have been your first plan!” The krakotl snapped.

Nedelin chuckled quietly. “You are more clever than you look.”

The avian ignored the Russian’s stealth insult and turned an accusatory eye on him. “Did any of your men participate in what he described? Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“Two sergeants of mine assaulted woman when we occupied Grozny,” the Russian said while casually lighting another lavender cigarette. “I shot them and let dogs eat their bodies.”

“So no one here did any of that stuff?” I asked.

“No, Lieutenant. They would not be alive if they did.”

One of the Russians, a corporal, approached me with the pair of bolt cutters I pilfered from the tool shed. “Nedelin is being truthful, sir. I saw him do it myself.” He held the tool in front of him and clicked its jaws together. “May I?”

“You may,” I said politely.

The corporal moved behind me. A moment later, I felt and heard my bonds fall to the floor. I took a step back and kicked them into an obscure corner of the warehouse, where they likely weren’t going to be found again. On their way there, they sailed past Captain Andrews, who looked rather irritated.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. What can I do for you?” I asked as pleasantly as I could, so she’d be less mad at me.

She wasn’t any less mad. “You’re an idiot, Yankovic. What exactly were you trying to pull off?”

“Act first; get forgiveness later. But Raksim rapidly implemented my second plan.”

“That’s not a plan!” The Captain’s hands got halfway to strangling me.

“What did you expect me to do? Spend weeks dealing with Army and UN bureaucracy?”

Andrews’ hands went to her temples. “Fine, you solved one of our problems in the most headache-inducing way possible, but we’ve got another issue. Look at our deployment orders.”

I pulled the document from my breast pocket, unfolded it, and began scanning through. Most of it was verbose government speak that bored me to tears, but one sentence made a cold feeling settle in my stomach as I read it. By order of the Secretary-General, Volunteer Company Foxtrot Uniform is ordered to active duty for combat operations under the United Nations Expeditionary Force for the period of 27 November, 2136, to 27 November, 2137.

“We’re deploying on the twenty-seventh!” I shouted. “That’s barely enough time to complete basic training!”

“I know. I’ve asked Rainach to put his word in so they’d push it back, but he refused.”

The paper crumpled as my fist clenched around it. Because he’s trying to fuck us on purpose.

“You good, Yankovic?” Andrews asked with an eyebrow raised in concern.

Without a word, I scanned the warehouse for something to take out my boiling blood on. When my gaze fell on someone, they took a cautious step backward. Eventually, I found the rustiest, piece-of-shit AK I’d ever seen. My soldiers parted as I made my way toward it. I picked it up and tested its weight.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Yankovic,” my Captain warned.

I hefted the rifle over my head and swung its buttstock into the concrete as hard as I could. The wood splintered and shattered into kindling.

Those UN bastards are going to use my platoon as meat for the grinder.

I lifted the AK again and slammed it back down. The receiver cover broke off of it.

They’re sending good soldiers to die, and they expect me to oversee it.

I threw the weapon as hard as I could. It spun end-over-end into the warehouse’s wall.

I’m going to see my platoon die again.

That thought passed through my brain like an errant piece of shrapnel. My heart was hammering, beating so hard that it radiated from my chest into my ears. Bile crept from my stomach into my throat.

No. Not again. Pull yourself together.

“Isaac?”

I looked toward the sound and met Andrews’ eyes. Everyone was looking at me. My hands were trembling.

Do not let them see you like this.

I shoved a Russian out of the way and rushed toward the shipping containers on unsteady feet. When I made it inside one of them, I closed the door behind me.

I stumbled in the dark and fell hard onto my hands and knees, knocking over a stack of rusty helmets.

My chest hurt.

Stop. Get your shit together.

I grabbed one of the helmets by the chin strap and whipped it into the metal floor, producing a metallic clang that bounced around the inside of the container.

Stop.

I held the brim of the helmet with two hands and brought it down again.

Stop.

But it didn’t stop. My heart kept pounding, hammering against my ribcage and thrumming in my ears. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Stop. Stop! Stop!

The helmet slipped from my trembling grasp, but I kept swinging and my knuckles met unforgiving steel several times. When the pain finally reached my nervous system, I clutched my hand and rolled onto my back. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I laid on the cold steel floor and let it sap the warmth from my body.

I’m going to get another platoon killed.

A muffled voice from outside the container drew my attention. “Is he usually like this?” It was high-pitched and squawky. Raksim.

“He’s always been a little hot-headed, but never this bad.” Andrews’ voice responded.

“Either way, this behavior is an issue,” the krakotl said.

“Just wait here; I’ll speak to him.”

There was a small knock on the door of the container. I said nothing and stared at a small crack of light on the ceiling. After a moment, it began widening, forcing me to close my eyes so they could adjust to the sudden brightness. Andrews was crouching next to me when I opened them.

“You okay, Yankovic?” She asked awkwardly.

Of course, I’m not okay. I’m losing my fucking mind. “I’m good; I was just having a moment.”

“That was a bit more than a moment.”

“No shit. I’m running the biggest clusterfuck of a military unit ever put together .”

Andrews extended a hand to me. “What can I do to help?”

I accepted it, and she helped me up. I looked at the mess of helmets and other gear around me. “First of all, I need protective gear that isn’t a hundred years old. I doubt these would fit the aliens anyway.” I held one of the SSh-68s up to show her and felt blood trickle from my knuckles down my shirt sleeve. “And body armor.”

“Your Platoon Sergeant didn’t steal any?”

“I haven’t checked, but would you trust Russian body armor?”

Nedelin chimed in while casually leaning against the container’s entrance, “I wouldn’t.”

“Okay…” Andrews said. “Getting surplus ceramic plates and helmets for the Russians shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Headgear that fits the aliens, on the other hand…” She thought quietly for a few seconds. “I might be able to get some through the UN. Maybe stuff from their own species’ militaries. Do they even wear helmets in combat?” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll get something, Lieutenant; don't worry.”

A little bit of weight lifted off my shoulders. “Thank you.”

Nedelin spoke again: “Speaking of equipment, Captain, we will need uniforms that fit them as well.

Andrews found a crumpled-up shirt in the chaotic piles of equipment around us. She held it up over a venlil that was milling about the warehouse. “It can’t be too hard to fit a shirt on an alien. I'll talk to the clothing repair specialists and see what they can do. The bottom wear might be an issue, though–because their legs are different.”

“Shorts may work for them,” my Platoon Sergeant suggested.

The Captain nodded. “Not a bad idea.”

Now that my adrenaline was coming down, I could actually absorb and process what I was seeing inside the warehouse. While I was gone, the Russians unpacked all the weapons in the conex box and arranged them on the floor by type. Nedelin and his boys hadn’t just stolen dozens of AK-74s and a handful of their shorter variants; they had an arsenal–PKM machine guns, PP-19 Bizons, RPG-7s, a crate full of handguns, optics, and under-barrel grenade launchers–all in various states of rust and disrepair.

It was an impressive sight, but my eyes were drawn to a group of firearms that were set aside from the rest. They were somehow cruder and older than the Kalashnikovs, but better preserved. Most prominent among them was a machine gun made of three primary components: a metal box, a metal cylinder, and a wheeled carriage with a shield attached to it. “Sergeant, what the hell are those?”

Nedelin smiled and beckoned for us to follow. “That, my friend, is Sasha. She is Maxim gun. Her sisters are Shpagin submachine guns and Three-Line rifles–1944 models.”

“That would make them nearly two hundred years old!” Captain Andrews said in disbelief. “Do they even work?”

Nedelin confidently strode up to the machine gun and pushed the charging handle forward twice. Then he pressed the trigger, producing a sharp click from inside the weapon. “Yes ma’am. Museum took wonderful care of them.”

I’m fighting space-faring aliens with guns from World War Two. I took a deep breath and cleared the thought from my head, lest I burst a blood vessel. “We still need to get half this crap up and running. Can you speak to the armorers and see if they can help?”

“I’m actually working with them right now to get First and Third Platoons’ weapons gauged. I’m sure they’ll be able to work on yours tomorrow,” Andrews said reassuringly.

A little bit more weight was lifted off my shoulders. “That’s good to hear.”

“Do your BTRs need maintenance as well?” Andrews asked.

“They could use… preventative maintenance,” Nedelin said.

I sensed he was hiding the true extent of their issues. “I want to see them run.”

He smiled knowingly. “Perhaps you have had enough disappointment today, Lieutenant.”

“I’d rather not deal with more tomorrow. Start them.”

“It will be to your detriment, sir,” my Platoon Sergeant warned.

“Start them.”

He relented with a shake of his head, “Remember that I warned you, sir.”

Nedelin gave orders to his men, and they set about their work. One of them disappeared inside of one the BTRs’ through a side door. After a few seconds, the machine’s engine stuttered and coughed for all it was worth, but failed to come back to life.

One of the Russians cursed about the machine being a “stubborn bitch” and climbed on top of it to open the engine compartment’s hatches. His bald head and pale skin made it obvious who he was: Corporal Anton Grigoryev. The poor bastard who spent his youth in a superfund site and came out looking like a skinhead. He wasn’t a Nazi, though–people in that ilk don’t join anarchist militias.

After fiddling with the vehicle’s internals, Grigoryev told the driver to try again. The engine still chugged and struggled to turn over, but this time black smoke billowed from the exhaust tubes at the rear of the vehicle. It came so close to running, only to backfire loudly and cause everyone in the warehouse to jump.

I felt my irritation growing. Andrews must have as well, because she put her hands on my shoulders and began messaging them. “Remember to take deep breaths, Lieutenant.”

I followed her advice while glaring at Nedelin.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,” the Platoon Sergeant said.

I sighed in defeat. “If those BTRs are going to take weeks to get running, we don’t have time for them.”

Nedelin nodded in agreement. “I understand, sir. If they do not work, they will make great RPG targets.”

Two more Russians had joined Grigoryev on top of the BTR–not to help but to yell at him for it not working. The aliens were giving them and the vehicles a wide berth because of all the noise they were making– all except one.

A gojid watched the Russians as they swore at each other. She stood mid-stride, her quills raised slightly in apprehension. I could easily pick out who she was on account of her completely cream-white fur: Private Halvah. An internal debate played out in her gray eyes and nubby ears. Finally, she closed the gap with the BTR and called up toward the Russians. “Hey!”

They stopped their arguing and looked down at her.

“Let me look at the engine.”

“What do you know about diesel engines, hedgehog?” Grigoryev said dismissively.

“I maintained a fusion drive,” the gojid boasted. “I think I can get an internal combustion engine working.”

The Russians looked at each other and shrugged. One of them jumped down to the warehouse floor and gave Halvah a leg up. She immediately began examining the engine compartment. After a moment, she grabbed a wrench from one of the humans and squeezed herself so far into the engine compartment that only her quills could be seen. She popped back out with a rusted component in her claws, her fur stained by oil and grime. “You got a new one of these?”

A private nodded and quickly retrieved a part from the conex box of spares. He tossed it up to the gojid, who barely managed to catch it. She disappeared back into the engine compartment for a minute before extracting herself. “Try it now.”

The vehicle shook like it was possessed and finally let out a mighty roar as the engine came to life. Halvah crossed her arms and looked up at the Russian, as smug as can be, but her ego quickly deflated when the vehicle sputtered and turned off again.

“Perhaps we shouldn't give up on BTRs, sir?” Nedelin proposed.

“Perhaps.” I shrugged off Andrews’ massage and walked within earshot of the mechanics. “Halvah, can you get these running again?”

The gojid scoffed as if it were even in question. “Of course I can get them to run. It’ll just take time.”

“How much?”

She scanned over the vehicles with her eyes. “I’d say three days for each of them.”

“You have 96 hours to fix both. Get to it.”

I whistled to get the attention of the rest of the platoon. “Everybody, listen up. My first day in command went poorly for everyone–I’m willing to admit that–but things are about to get much worse. The UN has given us barely enough time to complete our basic training. So, starting tomorrow, we’ll be working harder and faster than ever before to get our shit unfucked. First order of business: does anyone know how to sew or work with textiles? Step forward.”

A gojid, two venlil and two Russians followed my directions. Kaero and Daego tentatively joined them after a moment. The latter said something about suturing and sewing not being that different.

“Good, you will be working with the 92 Sierras to get the Platoon’s uniforms fitted and design something usable for you aliens. Not right now; the Captain will inform me when they’re read for us.”

“I used to help my mother with sewing,” Nedelin added. “Should I help as well?”

“Yes. Having an NCO there will keep them on task.”

I moved to the next topic, “Has anyone other than these guys–” I gestured to the people working on the vehicle behind me–“done mechanic work?”

Two venlil raised their paws.

“Well, don’t stand there; I need them running yesterday.”

They made some kind of gesture with their tails and tentatively approached the BTRs. I didn’t blame them; the Russians were still bickering and yelling at each other while Halvah was the only one getting actual work done.

“The rest of you are cleaning guns until 1800. After that, everyone goes to the barracks, showers, eats, and goes to bed. Understood?”

A tired chorus of “Yes, sir” came from them.

“And we’re not doing morning PT anymore.” A few ears perked up at that. “You’ll be sprinting everywhere with how tight of a schedule we have now.”

The Drill Sergeants tried to protest, but I quickly shut them down. “Just fake the scores; that’s what we do half the time anyway. Also, no more of the ‘hurry up and wait’ crap the Army does. If they don’t need to be somewhere at that exact moment, they’re going to be learning something, not standing around.”

They grumbled and signaled their agreement.

I think that covers everything, except our little issue on the firing line.

*“*Where is Private Tiel?” I called out.

Everyone looked around for the venlil in question. Then they started snickering.

“Private Golem was too tired to continue, sir.” One of the Russians pointed to a white mass that was slumped over in a steel folding chair. He held a cleaning brush in one paw and his rifle’s gas piston in the other. The rest of his weapon was disassembled and laid out on the floor in front of him.

In all likelihood, he had closed his eyes for just a second to rest them and accidentally passed out. I didn’t blame him–he looked absolutely exhausted on our march back from the firing range– but he still deserved a reprimand. Just this once, I would go easy on him.

All three drill sergeants began moving toward him with malicious intent, but I held them back. “I’ll handle it. Keep everyone else on task.”

“Oh, I gotta be around for this,” Andrews said excitedly.

We stalked toward Tiel, making our footfalls as quiet as we could. His mouth was hanging open, dripping drool onto his chest. He snored lightly, despite the armored vehicles’ noisy maintenance routine. That steel chair must have been more comfortable than any bed I’d ever laid in.

Captain Andrews made a small squealing noise as we stood over him. “They’re even cuter when they’re sleeping!” She whispered excitedly at me. “I have to say, I’m a little bit jealous that you're the one who gets to work with them.”

My brain told me two things when I saw a venlil: cute and protect. But I couldn’t protect them. It was my job to lead them into harm’s way, with their only defense being body armor and what me and the sergeants taught them beforehand.

How could I prepare them? I couldn’t even keep my last platoon safe.

I shoved those thoughts away. “Yeah, they’re pretty cute.”

“Can I do it?” The Captain queried.

“Go for it.”

Andrews drew in a breath and shouted two words that could raise the lower enlisted ranks from the dead: “At ease!”

Tiel’s baby-blue eyes opened in an instant. He groggily tried to stand up, only to fall back into the chair and drop what he was holding. Eventually, he was able to overcome the fog of sleep and stand with his paws behind his back. Everyone in the warehouse laughed at this display.

“Morning Private, did you have a nice nap?” Andrews said it in a way that was cheery but vaguely threatening.

“Yes, I did, sir–ma’am!” He quickly corrected himself, "I apologize, ma’am!”

At least he’s not trying to lie. “Word of advice, Private. Don’t fall asleep again, or it won’t be me waking you up.” I pointed to one of the drill sergeants.

“I understand, sir. It won't happen again.”

“Good. I need to speak to you about Vil.”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “What would you like to know?”

“How long have you known her?”

“We served [two years] in the Space Corps together.”

“So you know each other pretty well. Has she always been…” I searched for a nice way to put it: “...nervous?”

“Yes… but she’s improved a lot! When I first met her, she couldn’t even look at a gun without almost fainting.”

“What was her issue today, Private?”

The venlil swiveled one of his ears in thought, choosing his next words carefully. “She almost fell from the top of the confidence climb this morning, and it really scared her. Usually she’d be able to recover, but you and Raksim kind of tormented her all day.” He winced and prepared for a reprimand. “Raksim did most of it, though.”

Andrews had to speak for me because I was staring and imagining all the creative ways I could turn that annoying avian inside out. “We appreciate your honesty, Private.”

I cleared the murderous ideas from my head. “Thank you, Tiel. You are dismissed. Put your rifle back together and start cleaning one that actually needs it.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked tense as he gathered up his weapon’s parts.

“Send Vil this way too,” I added as Tiel began moving away.

“Why does he smell like lavender?” Andrews asked once he was out of earshot.

“He shares a room with the Platoon Sergeant.”

She cocked her head. “That’s… odd.”

“I thought so too. Given our base commander’s dislike of Russians, he’s probably blocking Nedelin from having the same privileges as the other NCOs.”

The Captain nodded. “That’s probably it. He could file an EO complaint against the colonel.”

“Like anyone’s going to care right now,” I said dismissively. My attention was drawn to the black venlil that was approaching us. Her flattened ears and the tail she wrapped around herself portrayed her anxiety. “Are there any time slots open with the psychologists?”

“They’re swamped right now, because… y’know,” Andrews gestured vaguely to not bring up the touchy subject. “But they might be able to fit another person into their schedule.”

One more person? Just my luck.

Tiel was friend-shaped and huggable–most venlil fit that description–but neither of those came close to portraying Vil. Humans have a thing called cuteness aggression. If they find something overwhelmingly adorable, their brain short circuits and defaults to hostility. This venlil’s big orange eyes, small stature, and the poofy bun she tied her head wool into made her so goddamn adorable that it made me want to kick down a door and fistfight someone on the other side. Is that a normal reaction? Probably not.

Vil stopped at a safe distance from us. “H-hello, sir. Ma’am. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I want to speak to you about your performance today.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” she said quickly. “I get really nervous sometimes, and I can’t stop myself from thinking bad thoughts, and I can’t calm myself down–”

“Vil,” I said, stopping her. “You have nothing to apologize for. You had one bad day. That doesn’t make you a bad soldier.”

Her ears perked up. Cute.

“However, what happened today cannot happen while we’re deployed. I want you to visit the psychologists' office tomorrow and see if they have time in their schedule to help you with your anxiety. If they have a time slot open every day, then take it. If not, try to get one every other day. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Good. How can I help if it happens again?”

Vil fiddled nervously with the tuft of fur at the end of her tail. “I just need to be left alone for a bit, so I can calm myself down.”

“I can accommodate that.”

“Thank you, sir.” She took a small step away, eager to leave the situation.

“One more thing before you're dismissed, Private. I found it odd how insistent you were that you didn't want to go back to Venlil Prime. Would this have something to do with the death cult your file mentioned?