Antoine Bitters knows way too much about nuclear fallout.
One of those damn phases you go through as a kid, you know? Horrified fascination at the atrocities of war, the cocky feeling like if you can just understand something well enough, you can keep it from happening again. He'd even spent a few very nerdy teenage years reading up on nuclear physics, learning about multistage cascading and efficiency augmentations. Discovered, inevitably, the videos of past explosions, the eyewitness accounts of survivors.
And now he's sitting on a crate, staring up into the clear blue sky above the crash site, trying very hard not to think about Armonia, not to superimpose the visions of historic devastation with his own memories of the place. Fresh holes in local ecosystems, long-term effects on the microclimate.
"I could really use a drink," Jensen says.
He didn't hear her come up behind him, but he's too tired to be startled, just turns to look at her. She's got her helmet under her arm. Her eyes are puffy, her face going blotchy, but her lips are pressed into a firm line. Palomo and Smith are trailing after her, Palomo dragging his feet, Smith walking at a neat clip with his spine ramrod-straight. "Hey, guys," Bitters says. "Welcome to the end of the world."
Palomo is quiet a moment, then gives him a little punch in the arm. It's pathetically weak. "What the hell," he says. Sniffles. "You didn't get in the evac ship with us. We thought you'd been left behind."
Bitters blinked. It honestly hadn't occurred to him. "There wasn't room on your ship, so I got on the next one."
"You ass," Jensen says, and rests one hand on the top of his helmet, pressing down in a gentle shove. "Glad you made it."
Bitters says, "Yeah," and some shitty part of him makes him add, "for however long it lasts."
They're quiet for a moment, contemplating the notion of complete planetary annihilation. Genocide, basically.
Jensen says, "I could really use two drinks."
"They'll come through," Smith says. "They always do."
Bitters is on his feet, shrugging off Jensen's hand, before he's entirely sure what he's doing. "Yeah man, I'm not sure if you noticed, but we're a little beyond waiting for our valiant captains to come up with a way to beat Felix in training. Do you ever give the blatant hero-worship routine a fucking rest?"
He feels bad the instant he says it, the second he looks at Jensen's furrowed brow, the moment he sees Palomo looking down at his feet. But Smith only shrugs. "No," he says. "Do you ever stop the tired cynic routine?"
Bitters sighs. Feels some of the knots between his shoulderblades loosen. "No," he says. "Okay. Point taken." And, after a moment: "Sorry."
"No hard feelings," Smith says, and holds something out to Bitters.
Bitters stares.
"You," he says, "carry a flask."
Smith shrugs. "Not exactly regulation, but sometimes it's a necessary evil."
"Trust me, man, I am not complaining. Thanks." Bitters grabs it, yanks off his helmet, and takes a long swig.
Stops. Blinks twice. Hands the flask to Katie, who takes a sip and, similarly nonplussed, hands it off to Palomo. Finally, Smith takes the flask back with all due solemnity.
It takes Bitters a full twenty seconds to recover the power of speech. "It's Kool-Aid."
"Yes," Smith says. "And I'll thank you to keep quiet about it. I wouldn't want to get into the kind of trouble that would reflect badly on my commanding officer."
Bitters opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares at Jensen, who also appears to be doing her best gaping-fish-mouth routine. "Wow," he says. "Okay. You know what? That's probably exactly what we needed right now."
"It was pretty good," Jensen admits. "Blue flavor is the best."
Bitters snorts and pulls on his helmet. "Okay," he says. "Armed with Kool-Aid, we move forward. Certain death and destruction awaits."
"Certain victory," Smith says.
"Certain bravery," Jensen says.
There's a moment's pause, and then Palomo says, "Wait, guys, are we doing a thing? Why didn't anyone tell me we were doing a thing! I don't have anything prepared!"
Bitters laughs. It feels strange, not-quite-right, but he could get used to it. "Good enough."
Out in the open, an amplified voice echoes. General Kimball. "Excuse me. If I could have your attention, please."
Bitters takes a breath and a step forward. "Here we go," he says, and knows the others are by his side, the one final thing the blast hasn't touched.