Time had this funny, bipolar little habit— it turned five minutes into five years, and then turned a whole week into a single day. Not that Yavul was counting. It felt more like a continuous loop than anything else, a push to wake up, a moment to bite back his tears and then onto putting on some manner of human suit to face the day and get the job done. Even that wasn’t anything new— he’d been here before, in the day that never ended, but it felt more a struggle this time around than it ever had in all thirty five years of his life.
Wait. No. He’d turned thirty six last year. Hadn’t he? Yes, he had, that had been his thirty sixth birthday and Dyna—
Yavul tossed an empty beer can into the recycling bin, and ignored when it bounced right out from lack of space. He was too busy cracking open a new can, anyway.
Thirty five or thirty six, the sensation remained. Get up, shower, uniform, office, equipment checks, inspection, drill, drill, drill, all the way until quitting time and then… and then that’s when time switched tactics again and made the whole thing drag until Yavul was sure he’d been pranked and someone had just installed tinted windows to make it seem like it was still evening.
Harley helped. The little kulshedra Pilot had practically moved into Yavul’s living room floor. There were little bowls stacked up on the coffee table, empty save for the small pools of water from melted leftover ice. It wasn’t like there was anything in them, and so Yavul felt less pressed to get his shit in order and wash the bowls out. The last time he’d used a fork that wasn’t disposable it’d taken him ten minutes just to get it clean for how much he spaced out with the sink running.
Takeout boxes were a saving grace, honestly. Bowl and a plate all in one and the only utensils needed were a set of chopsticks. Plus this way he could honestly say he hadn’t eaten at JJ’s in a week— and he really hadn’t. By the time he got home every day there was so little left. He couldn’t muster the same quick energy like usual, but he had to be there for his team. His duty. They all had a duty, he to his squad and his squad to Aedolis’ security and Grisham had a duty,
has a duty,
has not had—
Yavul crushed the newly empty beer can in his hand and tried again to toss it to the top of the recycling bin, and gave a little fist-pump when it actually stuck the landing.
“Ten points,” H said from somewhere over on the couch, picking at his own takeout box and yet, somehow, avoiding actually taking a bite. None that Yavul had seen, anyway. Which was way worse than his own, totally-having-eaten-at-least-a-quarter-of-it, box. But beer was filling, so at least he had an excuse. Yavul opened his mouth to say something equally snide, but was interrupted by a sudden dizzying sensation and the sound of his recycling bin cascading across the floor.
“Fuckin’ shit,” Yavul grumbled, setting down his own takeout in order to deal with the sudden sea of beer cans that was formerly his kitchen. That’s what he got for holding off this long, he guessed, setting the bin back upright and scooping the cans into it with both arms. Only to have the bin fall over again as another, much more solid rumble hit. One enough to make Yavul reach out to the kitchen island to keep from toppling sideways and cracking his skull open.
Even if it would be terribly beneficial. Maybe then he’d stop going into a panic every time his comm went off. Can’t freak out over standard memos and alerts if you’re in a coma! Even H flinched a bit when the rumble passed and Yavul’s comm gave an insistant, loud
ding.
“It’s just telling us it was a minor earthquake,” Harley said, too quickly for the assurance to be natural. Yavul’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the beer, took a deep breath and pulled the comm close, flicking through notifications and alerts, none of which had to do with the rumble in the building. But, much to Yavul’s continual relief, it also had nothing telling him that a skiff had burned up on reentry, or had crashed, or, or, or—
Taking a deep breath to steady himself and steer away from that particular black hole of a thought, Yavul pulled up the Pilot chat to see if it was just Solarta or if that had been a multidome occurrence. But it didn’t seem like anyone had felt anything at all. Or at least, that wasn’t the current stressor of the evening. Yavul furrowed his brows hard, thumbing up and down the conversation from where two other Pilots lost connection and then…
Havanah: It better be a fucking glitch
Cinna: Wasn't when mine did that.
Raz: Not helping.
Soba: I have tech running through surveillance. If it is, we'll have coding to comb through and you all get a shiny new update to your software.
Cinna: I'm not trying to help keep anyone calm. We're Pilots. We should be able to do that on our own.
Raz: I know that. Just....yeah. I'll be back, have some pacing to do. Later.
Razzle Dazzle. That Heather Bannister had been his Candidate, hadn’t she? He was pretty sure. Or had that been someone else? Either way, it was clear Razican was upset as hell, and if Razican was upset as hell, and the only ones getting shook up was one very specific section of Pilot housing, well. Yavul might not have been the smartest bean in the barrel, but he was capable of putting basic puzzles together. He set his comm down onto the island again, and gave a nod towards H.
“I’ll be back in a bit. Gonna check out what th’ shakin’s all about.” If it was what he was thinking, Yavul wasn’t terribly concerned, and aside from a few beer cans it wasn’t like any real damage had been done. “Actually eat some a’ that while I’m gone, how’s that sound?”
“I
have been eating it. See? There’s pieces missing.” H retorted, showing off how much the food had been mixed up as if that actually proved anything.
“Eat.” Yavul said again, pointing at him even as he strode out the front door and headed for the elevators. Harley probably would just stir the box up again, Yavul was pretty sure, but right now he had a bigger meltdown to deal with and limited “Deal With” left to dole out. And if he couldn’t hold it together enough for his squad, then what fucking use was he?
Yavul jammed at the elevator buttons for the floor he was sure he needed to get to (pretty sure), and tried not to think of just how much Grisham would be disappointed in this crap. They were soldiers, they needed to carry on no matter what, and if one soldier going off course— not missing not dead just off course, Dyna could fix off course— was enough to send Yavul in a spiral then what kind of commander was he? Certainly not one worth the title, and certainly not the sort of thing Dyna would be doing in his place.
Yavul’s stomach twisted, and for the few seconds he was in the elevator, he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. Commander. Commander. Act like a commander. Another deep breath, and he straightened his back just as the elevator doors opened. It didn’t matter that he was still in his casual wear, flip flops slapping with every step, the point was body language, and at least pretending like he still had his life together. Especially when it seemed like one of his own didn’t. Adding his own weakness to this was a disaster waiting to happen.
He reached the door he distantly remembered as belonging to Dazzle, and rapped his metal fist against the surface in a solid knock, before pushing the wall comm and speaking into it.
“Open up, Pilot.”
