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The night was warm. They always were. It felt like he could never be cold again. Normal people were walking around in coats, some even had scarves and hats and gloves, but it felt good to him. In fact, if it weren’t for the sidelong looks he was tired of getting, he wouldn’t even be wearing a jacket. These people didn’t know how good they had it, clear air right there to be felt on skin. And it was still warmer than almost bleeding to death. Nothing matched that cold.
He didn’t know quite where he was going, just glad to be out of that damn room, with everyone sharing their stories, and the half-assed counselors make suggestions and comments, and then asking for everyone else’s comments. He was so sick and tired of these group meetings. Yes, they had all seen people die, some in truly horrible ways. Some had been just as wounded as he had been. But losing one or two squad members to enemy fire, or losing a limb, it didn’t compare. No one understood the stress his squad had been under, first recon on planet after planet. And the last mission. First on, last off, four of them in body bags. The seventh, well, they couldn’t find her. Still listed MIA, but he really hoped she wasn’t feeling anything anymore, from the wounds she had the last time he had saw her.
Sure, they nodded their heads sympathetically, one even had the nerve to thank him, some bullcrap about how the intel they sent back had saved lives. Thanked. Him. He had walked out, the urge to kill the grateful idiot almost overwhelming.
The only good thing about the meetings were the donuts and coffee. Better than the food at the shelter.
He pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets and stared at them as he turned them over again and again, looking for something familiar. Umber skin, long fingers, too long fingernails. The calluses that had formed even through his underarmor from holding a knife or his sniper rifle had almost faded. He didn’t have a way to keep them. He wasn’t legally allowed to own weapons anymore. Apparently, he was too unstable to be trusted with them. They had labeled him with an alphabet soup of mental and emotional disorders, and then told him he couldn’t fight anymore. His war was over, or so they said. He ran his hands through his hair, and then over the new beard. It was something they all said they would do once they got out and the war was over, grow out their hair, and facial hair if they could, and it was annoying. It was the only thing he could do for them now. But it made it harder to see himself in the mirror. That had to be it. He couldn’t have changed so much that he had trouble finding himself, right?
He finally stopped and looked around. He was back at the harbor again. He’d been finding himself here a lot. Mostly staring at the city lights across the water. His family, the genetic one, were scattered around in it, comfortably full and sleeping in comfortable beds. He knew they had tried to understand, knew they still loved him. But they were scared of him, too. His sister wouldn’t even let him meet her kids. He had never been violent to any of them. But they said he looked scary. That his eyes were empty. That he was too sad.
He walked to the edge of the water next to the dock. It was a good fifteen foot depth down there. It’d be easy. They had trained themselves to sleep standing up. Just back up so he hung off the edge by his toes, and go to sleep. No more trying to fit into their world anymore. Maybe this time, he’d dream of a happy moment. It would be nice to see them laughing and joking again, before the last mission. Really nice.
Happiness seemed to be another perk of civilian life denied him.
“Enjoying the view?” The voice paralyzed him. He heard it every night, screaming orders and enemy position after the sergeant went down. The scent came next. That nasty-ass expensive cologne that had managed to waif through the stench of battle as they had propped each other up, and while he was dragged to the extraction point. Movement of the corner of his left eye had him reacting, turning and grabbing at the-
Sandwich? Confusion freed him from the red haze that had dropped on him, the need to kill the threat. “Whoa there, big guy. Just bringing dinner. You are hungry, right?” Sam's eyes rose from the most beautiful sub he had ever seen, traveling up over the bare arm covered in scars to Gates' face. Frowning, because, even thought it looked like roast beef and pastrami and black olives, it smelled like heaven, Sam snatched it out of the smaller man’s hand, watching him smirk. Gates' clothes weren’t ratty like his. They looked new and clean, and so did everything else about him, even the duffle bag he was carrying. Just like everyone else he had passed on the streets.
Isaac Gates looked weak. Soft. An easy target.
“Thanks,” Sam grumbled, finding a nearby crate to prop himself against. He had the sub between his lips when he realized Gates was watching his every move. And the little punk was wearing a tank top, but there was no sign he was cold. And that ridiculous hair was long enough to have waves, and the beard was a joke. “Talk.”
“What, can’t a guy bring an old friend a sandwich anymore?” Gates moved over to another crate. “I just thought-”
“We’re not friends,” Sam growled through the food in his mouth. He felt his nose wrinkle, not in anger with the prick who had hopped up onto the crate across from him, but because he couldn’t stop himself from talking without swallowing first. Gates always brought out the worst in him.
“Fine. An old squad mate, whatever,” Gates said, propping one foot up halfway the crate, and leaning back on his hands. “Anyway, it looked like you were having a rough night.” That statement got the glare it earned. “What, you aren’t the only one who’s been ordered to these things. What a bunch of whiny little shits.” Isaac's head fell back so he was staring at the sky. “Seriously, thanking you? They have no fucking clue what kind of sacrifices we made to save some lives. Not that we really did. That was a clusterfuck from the word go.”
“You haven’t been here before,” Sam accused. “I heard you were on New Carthage.”
“Eh, now and then,” Gates shrugged, then hopped back off the crate. “Took a trip out to New Harmony. And I do a lot of jobs here and there. Gotta pay the bills, you know?” Sam knew. It was the reason he was in the shelter, and why he was treating a sub sandwich with olives and pastrami like a New York Strip. Nobody would hire a vet with a great big DAMAGED stamped across his record. And looking at Gates' shiteating grin, the asshole knew he was in trouble, too.
Sam ignored the bait about New Harmony. He wouldn’t have gone to the memorial service even if he had had the money. Too much emotional baggage down that rabbit hole. “What jobs?” he asked.
Gates' smile twitched a little, obviously disappointed, but answered the question. “I went freelancer,” he explained. “It’s a great big galaxy, and not every war is being fought by governments, and not every fight is on huge battlefields.” The little shit started pacing, his hands becoming more animated. “In fact, I’m supposed to be meeting a client in the morning. Supposed to be a small infiltration thing, but there’s been rumors it’s been tried and failed. Like, a bunch of times.”
“Mercenary work…” Sam mulled, and Felix’s eyebrow shot up. He just shot him a look. “I’m not an idiot. Find someone else.”
“You know, I thought of that, but then I heard you were having a rough time, and thought what better partner to have on this than someone I know I can count on.” Gates walked toward him, and Sam let go of the last bite of sandwich with one hand. “It’s the same on every planet. You know how many guys doing our job came back, let alone functional? Not very many, and all of them are paranoid as hell.” Gates gave an ugly laugh, and Sam felt a small ugly half smile of his own answer. “Now you, I know we can at least work together if shit hits the fan. I don’t have to take the time to learn about you, and you about me, and start going steady and all that shit.”
Sam popped the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and stared at the hand Gates had placed on his upper arm, and then glared at him. Gates didn’t move it. “You, I know where I stand with you. Like you said, we aren’t friends. And since we’re being all honest, I still don’t like you. But we don’t have to like each other to work together. In fact, it’s better if you don’t do business with friends. Especially this business.”
Sam shrugged off the offending hand and walked back to the edge of the harbor. He stared out at the cityscape lights, his fingers already trying to curve around the non-existent stock of his sniper rifle. He thought about his family. He loved them, but he had been out of place. They loved him, but they didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, why he was so distant now. They would never understand, thank God. They were safe. But he just didn’t fit there anymore. Hell, he didn’t fit in this life anymore, walking around without a care in the world. He didn’t know if he ever would again.
The little fuck was right about one thing. They knew each other. The fact that Sam hated pastrami was a running joke among the squad, as was the fact that he had refused to eat some fresh olives they had stumbled upon on one colony because he thought they were gross. They had made sure that any time they had fresh rations, Sam ended up with any they had. Isaac was the only one who saw the same horrors out there, saw them picked off one by one. Heard her screaming for them to save her as they turned and ran for the extraction point.
Isaac Gates damn well knew why being friends with people you go into battle with was a bad idea.
He looked back at Isaac out of the corner of his eye. Most of the scars were knife wounds. The fucker loved his knife, and had always said if you’re going to fight with a knife, be ready to be cut. He knew Isaac had a couple jagged ones across his stomach, too, punctures from tripping a trap wall and not moving fast enough. The idiot was always so eager to get up close, it was a miracle Isaac had survived as long as he had. Guilt and amusement shot through Sam as he remembered her, in that stupid altered male voice, chiding them all to be more careful, she wasn’t going to waste foam on flesh wounds, even as she shoved Felix back against a tree again to secure the bandages.
He didn’t want to feel anymore. It hurt less when it happened than it did now, and that didn’t make sense, no matter what the counselors said.
And there was the clear, perfect, new patch of skin on Isaac’s right shoulder. Regrown flesh from the laser blast he took shielding Sam. Isaac had been a demon that day, unstoppable in his drive to get them to safety. It had still been bleeding when he dragged Sam to the extraction point, collapsing on top of him as soon as he saw help.
Isaac Gates had been so cold.
He looked back down at the water. Gates was still going on, but not saying anything worth hearing. Sam held up a hand, and Gates actually stopped talking. “Two questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Yeah, you don’t even have a gun.”
“I don’t need a gun to kill you.”
“Your questions?”
“First, is this the only job you need me on?”
Gates grinned. “We complete this one, there’s no telling what doors will open up.” His eyebrow rose. “Enough that you won’t be living in a stupid shelter, eating whatever that slop was.” He nodded slowly, and Gates' grin disappeared. “Not all of them are going to be clean, though. Hell, from what I understand, this one isn’t, either. But they know we’re coming. If they’re good enough, they’ll stop us. If not, eh, oh well.”
Sam looked back at the water. “Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
Isaac looked surprised, then suspicious. “Because it’s too fucking warm. Seriously, I’m hot just looking at you.”
Sam felt his own small shiteating grin start. “Hot? You’re not my type. Besides, I don’t do business with friends.”
“That’s not what I meant! I meant that I was getting sweaty- Don’t you look at me like that! I meant I think…” Gates' hands were going a mile a minute while he chuckled at the little shit’s attempts to undo the damage, all the while just making it worse.
“Keep digging, you may find gold,” he said. “I take it you have equipment for me? Weapons and armor?”
Gates stopped abruptly, as if he just realized what Ortez said about working with friends. “Of course. As close to your old armor as I could get. Oh, and this.” Isaac put the bag on the crate and opened it, pulling out a sniper rifle, one that looked very familiar. Ortez had thought it was gone, still on that god-forsaken planet.
He shut everything out as he glanced at the harbor one more time, took a deep breath, and turned his back on them all. Ortez gently took the gun, and felt the mental armor he had been trying to shed slide back into place. Peace.
Isaac Gates' smile was the first genuine one he had ever seen.
“That’s better, partner. Now, let’s get back to our rooms and get cleaned up. We can’t be looking all scruffy for our new boss.” As they headed to Gates' rental, Same Ortez could not shake the feeling that the devil on his left shoulder had taken a much larger form, and had brutally mutilated the angel on his right. It did not matter. Weapons did not need a conscious. Suits of armor did not need emotions. They just needed to do what they were made to do.