A wilting silver flower looks like crinkled aluminum foil, with small brown spots. It was dimly lighting the inside of Hicks's duffel bag, and you could see its noxious fumes rising ever so slowly. I took a step back, pulling my shirt up over my nose and mouth. My heart was hammering against my ribs as I remembered that dark laboratory on the space station, lit only by rows upon rows of these tiny little demon plants.

Hicks looked at me, gray-green eyes red and watery from exposure to the flower. "Don't just stand there, Drake, we need to get it out of here!"

"I'm not touching it! I can't!" I shouted over the memories playing out in my brain. I could hear the glass door shattering as Doctor Delhoun busted into the lab to get me out. I could hear the voices from my hallucinations. I could feel my throat and my chest tightening. I felt like someone had their hands wrapped tightly around my neck.

I really couldn't breathe.

I scrambled to get out of the room, and fell into the hallway as a result. Unable to take the tension anymore, my stomach lurched, and I started throwing up on the clean floor. I was a good distance away from the flower, but the stink of acid mixed with everything I had for breakfast wasn't much better.

Hicks had to step over me as he left the room, staggering as he jogged to Apone's office. Unfortunately, he barely got two words out when his knees buckled, and he collapsed in the doorway to vomit. Either he was effected by the flower, or he was one of those people who puke if they see someone else puke. I hoped it was the latter.

"Not even home an hour and already shit's going down?!" Apone stormed out of his office to see me half-outside Hicks's room, over a disgusting puddle of vomit. "Of course, you're involved, Drake."

I coughed. "Hey, Sarge."

"What the hell's going on? Do I even need to ask?"

"There's a silver flower in Hicks's gear bag. Don't go in there."

Apone peered in the doorway, seeing the faint fumes emanating from the bag. "I'll go get Bishop. Get your ass up, Drake."

I wasn't that surprised that Hicks and I still felt nauseated that evening. At least, for me it was a combination of I got violently ill several hours ago, and I'm not so sure my body's ready for me to go back to eating bland rations. Hicks being equally queasy was a perfect cover for me to not look like I was too good to be eating the Goddamn cornbread.

Hudson and I both spent about a week with Delhoun at his Annexer rehab facility because we're not able to go into cryosleep until we're cleared of the silver flower toxin. To sum it up, we ate pretty good there. However, Hudson was wolfing down his cornbread and ham (which tastes like it's been soaking in saltwater) like it was just plain old Cheerios and milk.

"How do you not feel at all sick?" I asked, trying to suppress a gag.

Hudson shrugged, and muttered something incomprehensible with his mouth full.

Apone was, naturally, not impressed with Hudson's lack of table manners. "I was about to say that we missed you, Hudson, but I'm changing my mind."

Unable to stop his laughter, Hudson spit cornbread all over his tray. Next to him, Hicks was shaking his head, still looking pale from his ordeal earlier today. I know Delhoun said that one silver flower doesn't do much, but I wondered if a rotting one was much more dangerous. That also depended on how much of the fumes Hicks had breathed in. It can't have been that much, but I could hear rasping and mucus popping with every breath he took, almost like he had a chest cold.

At least Bishop was able to remove the flower, but as a safety precaution, we had to burn Hicks's bag. He lost five shirts, five pairs of shorts, four pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, and the USCM technical manual, all of which Apone offered to replace. As a joke, I offered to give Hicks my technical manual, and Apone said, "Why? Because you've memorized every single page? We all know how much you enjoy reading it."

"The only time he reads anything is when he's in the bathroom," Dietrich said, without looking up from her tray, "and I don't think he reads the tech manual."

"Well, you're right; I don't read the tech manual," I replied. "I read the labels on all my medicine bottles because I generally don't bring reading material in the bathroom. That's only if I'm slow. In boot camp, we had to be fast when it came to using the latrine. You could never sit there and really enjoy the feeling of losing a good five pounds."

"Alright, that's enough, Drake!" Apone shouted. "I don't want to hear anymore bathroom talk outta any of you."

"Sorry, sir," I mumbled. "I take it you didn't miss me, either?"

Hudson grinned. "Yeah, Sarge, who'd you miss more? Me or Drake?"

Apone glared at him. "I didn't miss either of you. Shut your trap and eat your chow before I put your face in it."

Hicks gave a forceful, wet cough. I was the only one who glanced at him, but I didn't ask if he was alright. He'll be fine. It was one flower.

Actually, I wasn't the only one who looked at Hicks. Hudson glanced at him and said, "If you're not gonna eat, can I have your tray?"

Being thrown back into routine didn't have the bittersweet feeling I was expecting it to have. In fact, it was more bitter than sweet, and I was experiencing some déja vu; much like when I returned from D.C., everyone was perfectly content with resuming treating me like garbage. It's something I should be used to, but there are too many things on my mind for me to just take it and sling it back like I've done in the past. I mean, it's not anyone's fault that they don't know what's going on inside my head, and I don't want them to know, period.

You still have no idea if you're suffering from PTSD. I sighed as I got in the shower, letting myself sink into the depths of my brain. Any idiot who looked through my journals would notice that in the span of time between going to Delhoun's and coming back, I didn't really mention my fear of having post-traumatic stress. I had flashbacks and put myself in situations that made me feel like I was back on that orbital hospital, but I never had a deep conversation with myself about whether or not I have PTSD. My guess is that . . . I put it on the backburner. With Delhoun, I'm OK with telling him how I feel. I actually feel like I'm making progress when I'm with Delhoun (or anyone else who gives a damn, for that matter), but now that I'm back with my squad, I'm shoving all that progress back down my throat. Why? I'm not comfortable with exposing myself to them, except for Vasquez.

And maybe-maybe-Hudson.

I've never really talked to Hudson about the possibility of having PTSD. I'm not sure I want to. I'm not even sure if our relationship is going to remain the same. Now that we're back in the swing of things, is he going to revert back to being loud and obnoxious? Is he going to throw away all that we've done for each other? There's only one way to find out.

When I finished my shower, I pulled on a pair of shorts before going next door to Hudson's room. I could hear the water running as I knocked, and then heard Hudson yell, "Hang on, man, I'm almost done!" The water turned off, the shower door opened and closed, and a towel was yanked from a rack. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered. The door opened, and Hudson stared at me with a towel wrapped around his waist. "Hey, Drake. What's up?"

I took a breath. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, man. Come on in. Here, sit on the bed, and I'll go get dressed." Hudson disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. "Something wrong?"

"I . . . don't know, to be honest. It's just . . . something that's been bothering me for a few weeks."

Hudson emerged from the bathroom, wearing shorts and a green T-shirt. He dropped his dogtags on top of the dresser, and said, "About the flowers?"

"Connects to them, yeah. Remember how . . . Hicks brought up post-traumatic stress disorder a few days before he and the others left, and how he wanted us to say something if we felt like we were having a problem?"

"Yeah."

I bit my lip, wondering if this was a good idea. "Well, I'm . . . I'm afraid . . . that . . . I have PTSD."

Hudson clearly wasn't sure what to say to that. He sat on the bed, and put his arm around my shoulder. "How come you didn't say anything before?"

"Because I could get kicked out of the Marines. At the time, I really didn't want to admit to Hicks that I have a problem. It's . . . not that difficult for me to suddenly feel like I can't breathe. I know you were having a similar issue, but . . . you're dealing with it better than me."

He nodded. "Yeah, I've noticed the nightmares have kinda gone away. They're not gone-gone, but they're not happening every single night. I took your advice, man; I'm pushing against it uphill, but I'm pushing it."

I sighed. "Why are you dealing with it better than me?"

"I dunno. Maybe it's because I'm not carrying so much emotional weight on my head."

"Makes sense." I fell silent after that, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

"I take it you don't want me to say anything?"

"Exactly."

"Then, I promise I won't say anything. I'll leave that up to you." Hudson grinned, patting my shoulder. "Did you ever get a chance to talk to Hicks?"

"No. I should probably go do that." I stood up, unable to understand why I didn't feel much better. I guess being reminded that Hicks didn't keep his promise (though, to be fair, it wasn't his choice) increased the weight I felt on my shoulders. "See you in the morning, Hudson."

As I headed down to Hicks's room, I could hear him coughing, and although there was a part of me that doubted the rotting flower was serious, I also felt like he was in a lot of trouble. What made it worse was that once I entered the room, I realized that the whole place needed to be sanitized after the flower had released its deadly toxins; I could smell something rather sickly sweet. The air was heavy and somewhat humid. Hicks was sitting up in bed, and then I didn't have a doubt in my mind that wilting flower had done some damage. He was about as pale as Delhoun, and his eyes were bloodshot.

"Drake," Hicks said, struggling to maintain a calm composure. "I need to get to sick bay." He drew in a ragged breath. "I can't walk, I'm . . . I'm gonna faint."

I lifted him out of bed, and carried him to sick bay. He was very warm, and hot sweat was running down his face. Again, I had this feeling like I had done this before. Oh, yeah, I've done this with Hudson.

I stood outside the room, watching through a window while Bishop and several corpsmen tried to get Hicks breathing regularly again. The good thing was that his heart was fine; they didn't have to bust out the defibrillators like with me and Hudson. Despite that, I was anxious, and my mind kept sending me back to the orbital hospital station. My anxiety morphed into nausea, and I began slowly making my way back to my room, where I lay down in bed and tried to endure the waves in my stomach.

The best way I can describe how I felt is this: it was like I was on a small boat on the ocean, and it wouldn't stop rocking, even for a second. Combined with that were the awful memories associated with the silver flower. Why did I have to watch someone else get sick because of it? First Hudson, and now Hicks. Was it pure coincidence? Poor luck? Or was someone gunning for every Marine in this unit?

Wait.

When Hudson was poisoned, it was a complete accident. With Hicks, that damn flower was in his bag. Obviously, Hicks didn't put it there. Someone else did, and I highly doubt it was someone in this unit. As my thoughts began focusing on why the flower was in the bag, the nauseous waves began to calm. I forced myself to stand up, and left the room to find Vasquez. Maybe she could tell me if she saw something suspicious while they were on the Moon.

I was baffled to see she wasn't in her room. We had over an hour left until lights-out, and it wasn't like her to wander around with no good reason. After a few minutes of searching, I found her in the armory. Her smartgun was on the floor, and the piece that connects the weapon to the armored chestplate was also on the floor, but snapped in two. Vasquez was sitting on the bench, covering her face. She hurt her left shoulder while on the Moon with the others, and although it was just a sprain, she couldn't do much of anything. I noticed her sling was off, and laying next to her. Closing the armory door, I walked over, and was about to ask what happened when I saw she was crying.

Vasquez glanced at me, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Jesus, I don't know what I would've done if it hadn't been you who walked in, Drake."

I decided to start with an obvious question. "What . . . happened here?"

Sniffing and swallowing past a lump in her throat, Vasquez went back to covering her face. She sobbed before answering. "I thought I could pick it up."

"Your smartgun?"

She nodded. "I thought I could just . . . push past the discomfort, but . . . I can't."

I sat next to her. "Are you OK? You didn't hurt yourself further, did you?"

"No. I dropped it before that could happen, and look." She gestured to the connecting piece with her boot. "It broke when I let go of the gun." She took a breath. "God, Apone's gonna scold me for breaking equipment, and Dietrich's gonna scold me for trying to lift something I shouldn't."

I picked up the sling, trying to think of a good response. "Here. Let me put this back on you." I was a little surprised Vasquez let me help her back into the sling. "Why'd you think you could push past this?"

"I don't want to sit and do nothing for three weeks! I can't! I don't want to feel like I'm back in prison!"

I nodded a little while adjusting the Velcro on the sling. "I get it. It's OK to feel that way. Trust me, I've had that same feeling for the last several weeks. Why didn't you just say something?"

"Because I'm going to be told that I just have to sit and wait and worry about recovering."

I put my arms around her, and pulled her close to me. "Well, were you expecting something different?"

"Not really."

"It's either you wait, or you push yourself too hard and your hurt yourself to the point where you could get discharged." I kissed her cheek. "I know you, and I know that's the absolute last thing you want."

More tears rolled down Vasquez's face. She didn't say anything, but I had the feeling she was glad I was there, listening to her and holding her. No one else could've comforted her like me. No one else could've comforted her, period.

We sat there in silence for a few minutes. I then nuzzled her forehead, and whispered, "Let's go to bed, and worry about this in the morning, OK?"

She nodded, but had me put her smartgun back on its rack. "Let's put the connector piece in my locker. No one'll know."

"And what's gonna happen when you need to use it and don't have time to get a new piece?" I asked. "Leave it where it is, and we'll worry about this tomorrow."

I woke up fairly early in the morning, and realized Vasquez must've had a restless night; I was covered in marks from where she had jabbed me with her elbow or squeezed me a little too hard, not to mention we had stopped cuddling at some point after we drifted off to sleep.

"Hey," I whispered, shaking her awake. "Good morning."

Vasquez stretched before reaching up to put her arm around my neck. "'Morning."

"Did you sleep OK? You were tossing and turning a lot."

"I was fine, Drake. How about you?"

"For my first night back, I slept pretty good." I looked towards the door. "I think you better get going before everyone else wakes up."

"Yeah." Vasquez sat up, then kissed me. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For . . . trying to help me last night."

"You're welcome, then." I smirked. "I love you."

Vasquez looked like she wanted to smirk back, but resisted that urge. She got up, and left the room, glancing over her shoulder at me before going next door to her own bedroom.

Once the door was closed, I decided to get dressed. All the while, I had the feeling that there was more to the story than just "she wants to push past the pain in order to not feel useless." I don't know how early on in the mission she hurt her shoulder, and I think the timing of it all has something to do with it. Plus, she got hurt and had to wait almost a week before seeing me again. I can imagine it was difficult finding someone who'd listen the way I do, unless she didn't even try. If that was the case, I needed to be extra nice to her, because I certainly wouldn't want to be ignored or neglected if I got hurt and had to wait to see someone I loved again.

Oh, wait, haven't I done that multiple times already?

Almost an hour later, we were called down to the mess hall for breakfast. It was a little strange that we didn't see Hicks there, but the table didn't have an empty spot; sitting near Apone was Doctor Hornby, who looked completely exhausted. His typically neat hair was messed up and sticking out in certain places, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He offered a weak smile when he saw me, and gestured for me to come over after I got my tray.

I was handed a tray with a single waffle, a pitifully small cup of syrup, and two sausage links, with milk that I knew was in powder form a half-hour ago. Sighing with disappointment, I sat across from Hornby, who was holding a cup of coffee. Before saying anything to me, he gave Hudson the same gesture, and waited for him to sit down.

"Lemme guess," I said, "you were called because of Hicks."

"Exactly," Hornby replied. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"Um . . . good news."

"Well, the good news is that Hicks is alive. The bad news is that he needs to be sent overseas."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Hudson go pale. "To D.C.?" I asked.

Hornby nodded. "Don't panic, please. I can assure you he'll be treated immediately. Now, Bishop said it was a rotting silver flower that you found in Hicks's gear bag?"

"Yeah. Is that just as bad as a living one?"

"Bad, if not worse. When the plant dies, it expels its fumes all at once. Mixed with bacteria, it's just as dangerous. Hicks is lucky he didn't put his face that close to it. The best we can do is get him to Washington as soon as possible, while I work on a stronger medication."

I frowned. "'Stronger' means 'more Annexer hormones,' right? That means he could become more aggressive than Hudson."

"I'm glad you expressed that concern, Drake. Delhoun's coming with us-"

"Wait, 'us?'"

"Yes. I want you and Hudson to accompany me and Delhoun."

"You didn't say anything about taking them away." Apone glared at Hornby.

"It shouldn't be for that long. It's bad enough I have to take Hicks away, and I'd rather have him wake up surrounded by people he's familiar with than with nobody he's familiar with, especially in a strange place."

I sighed. "I don't want to be separated from here again."

"You don't have to make a decision right now. I'm meeting Delhoun for lunch later on, if you two would like to come and talk about this."
I glanced at Hudson. "Sure. We'll . . . We'll come and talk."

Neither of us could argue that Hornby had a good point when it came to why he wanted me and Hudson to go with him and Hicks, but the one question still on my mind was how and why a dying silver flower ended up in his duffel bag. Again, there's no way that any of the Marines in this squad did it, so that left two other options: someone working in the Weyland-Yutani complex on the Moon, or one of the Marines that replaced me and Hudson. I doubted it was either of the Marines, but what would someone from Weyland-Yutani have to gain from poisoning Hicks? In the big picture of things, he wasn't that important. Then again, someone might have a personal bone to pick with him over something in the past, but Hicks doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd piss someone off.

However, that doesn't mean that somebody hasn't misinterpreted his intentions. I could've been that somebody if I wasn't lost in my head all the time, but I don't think I'd go so far as to want to kill or seriously hurt him.

After breakfast and morning exercises, I headed to sick bay to see how Hicks was doing. The corpsman in charge wasn't too keen on removing the breathing mask, but I insisted it was only for a few minutes. Once the mask was taken off, I was left alone. I wanted to ask about when we would have a chance to talk about our problems, but that wasn't something that would take less than five minutes. I couldn't push Hicks, but I didn't want to wait. A familiar and horrid voice in my head told me that, once again, this was all my fault.

"What do you need, Drake?" Hicks asked.

Every word was stuck in my throat. What did I want to say? I couldn't remember what I was going to say when I came in here? How fucking hard was it to say "How're you feeling?" Somehow, I couldn't do it. The voice screaming that this was my fault kept pummeling the inside of my head, preventing me from developing a rational thought. Instead, I broke. Tears rapidly choked me, and I hung my head, my body racking with every sob.

Hicks didn't say anything further. I wasn't sure if he was confused or concerned, but I felt him touch my shoulder.

I guess whether or not that means something is up to you.

Question of the Chapter: Is Hornby making a good point with his reason for why Drake and Hudson should accompany him to Washington? Given Drake's history, would going back be a mentally healthy move for him?

Author's Note: This is the first time I've really dove right into the action of a plot in the first few sentences of a story, but it was kinda necessary because the last book ended on a cliffhanger. I'm surprised that this chapter was fun to work on, but I hope the introduction of multiple conflicts and subplots doesn't make it feel overwhelming. The goal is for Drake to feel overwhelmed, not the reader. Enjoy - Cat.