Last night was the first time that I didn't have being unable to breathe as the focal point of my nightmares. It started off rather calmly; I was walking in a suburb, along a street lined with trees. The street was neat and trim, a peaceful place where people clearly lived happy lives. I was feeling immensely empty, as always. A squirrel ran past me, but not in its usual carefree run-it looked panicked. I looked ahead to see something perched on top of a trash can, and it wasn't a raccoon or stray cat.

It was Hicks. He was completely overtaken by the Annexer hormones in his medication. He was hunched, like an animal waiting to pounce. His hands were curled tightly, and bloody claws were extended from them. White foam dripped from his mouth, and his teeth seemed to be filed into razor-sharp fangs. He hissed at me, and I started backing away slowly. Suddenly, he leaped, tackling me to the ground and digging his nails into the base of my neck. The foam was falling on me, creating disgusting patches of warm wetness all over my neck and face. Hicks's lips were pulled into a horrible smile. The fangs glistened with silver saliva. His eyes were narrowed into slits, and they seemed to glow with rootless rage. A low growl was coming deep in his throat. The fangs parted slightly, and he lowered his head. More spit was running from his mouth as he sniffed the area where my head ends and my neck begins. Was he looking for a good spot to bite?

My heart was pounding hard. "Are you gonna do something or not?" I asked.

Hicks didn't answer. He lifted his head slightly, still tilted downward at me, prompting more saliva to drip down his chin. I could smell a horrible infection on his breath. It was coming from deep in his chest; I could hear the gurgling and popping of mucus. Anxiously, I continued to stare up at him, wondering if he'd recognize me and leave me alone.

That didn't happen; the dream ended after Hicks turned his head to bite down on my neck. Blood spurted around his teeth as they sank into my skin, and I watched him eat my throat out.

When I woke up from that awful dream, I immediately touched my neck. It was still intact. Sighing, I got out of bed, and grabbed a pair of shorts and a T-shirt hanging off the top of my dresser. It must've been early, as I heard nothing out in the hallway. Peering out the door, I could hear the gentle hum of the generators that keep the base operational.

Out of curiosity, I left my room, and headed down the hall to Hicks's. The door was unlocked all the time now, so the doctors could go in and out quickly if something went wrong. Sure enough, Hicks was still lying in bed, appearing lifeless.

He's been like that for a few days.

He expelled a lot of energy after getting mad at everyone for fighting (naturally, the reason everyone was fighting was me), and he returned to his room, only to never emerge. For several hours, every Marine on base feared he'd died, but a doctor came out and announced Hicks was simply in a very deep sleep. His sickness, combined with the medicine he's taking to expel the remnants of the silver flower poison, rendered him very weak, a skinny shadow of his usual leading persona. Hudson and I were both poisoned as well, but we didn't catch a cold or the flu or whatever-this-is afterwards, not to mention Hicks's exposure to the flower wasn't as extreme as ours.

The point is that it didn't take much to completely knock him out, and I feel like it may partly have to do with the fact that he's been working hard and doesn't put in a lot of time for rest. He's a lifer, he cares about his duties as the squad corporal. He's not bent on going home like some of us.

After observing Hicks's even, clockwork-like breathing, I left the doorway, and looked over my shoulder to see everyone else had left the comfort of their beds. Hudson had his hand up his shirt and scratching his chest while yawning. He glanced at me, saying, "'Morning, Drake. Why're you up so early?"

I shrugged. "Just checking on Hicks." After everyone else headed to the mess hall, I walked up to Hudson, whispering, "I had a nightmare last night. Hicks attacked me, and just hovered over me before eating my neck."

Hudson thought about that for a minute. His gray eyes were still a little bleary with sleep, but he could still comprehend everything I was saying to him. "OK."

"He went nuts. Like you did when you were on Hornby's prototype pills."

"OK. I didn't try to eat anyone, though."

"I know, and that's a good thing."

"Hey, it was a shitty dream, man. Hornby gave Hicks a pill with a low hormone dose, right? He's not gonna attack anyone."

"We don't know that. He hasn't been active enough for that hormone to become stimulated. What if it's . . . building up inside of him, and anything that makes a sound or touches him will make him insanely violent?"

Hudson shook his head. "I don't think so, man. You're spending too much time in your head again."

My mind was stuck on that nightmare. I wanted to know what it meant, or if it was just a stupid conglomeration of random thoughts and fears. I was so focused on it that I didn't notice a man with a heavy Irish accent and a stark-white lab coat entering the mess hall and saying, "Private Drake, when you're finished, can you come down to sick bay?"

I swallowed a piece of food in my mouth nervously. It slowly slid into my stomach, which was knotting tightly, not wanting to perform its normal function at the moment. "What for?" I asked, not wanting to be left in the dark.

"Routine exam. Find out if you're clear of the silver flower poison." The doctor left without another word.

I felt Vasquez touch my knee under the table, and Hudson looked at me. "Gonna see if you're fit for full duty, man. I got, what, two weeks before they do me."

I shook my head. "I don't think I'll pass."

"That's bullshit, man. You're healthy. It's been more than a month."

"I may be physically healthy, but-"

"They don't give a rat's ass 'bout your mental health, Drake. It's sad, but, hey, you won't get kicked out today, OK, man?" Hudson took a bite of his bread, giving me a reassuring smile as he chewed.

Over the last few weeks, I've come to trust Hudson with many of my personal problems. I don't understand how he handles keeping all this a secret, but he's somehow managed it. He even knows about my relationship with Vasquez. That was definitely something I didn't want him knowing about, but I felt like he had to know in order to build a better bond between the two of us. Since then, he's become a little defensive of both me and Vasquez-he tries to stand up for us whenever he can. It can be a little annoying, but I've also really never had someone try to defend me before, so I also welcome it. Somewhat.

I was slow with my breakfast, but I tried to be reasonable with my time, especially since Apone was giving me dirty looks. After finishing, I gave my tray to Bishop, and headed to sick bay, my heart still pounding.

The Irish doctor was sitting at a small desk, which was covered in empty tubes, alongside a cup. I gave a silent sigh when I saw the cup, because I knew I'd have to piss in it. The doctor glanced at me, and gestured for me to sit. "Private Drake, how have you been feeling since your last treatment for the effects of silver flower poisoning?"

My last treatment was a large injection after I developed toxic discharge. "Well . . . I've been feeling OK."

"Any silver coloration in your bodily fluids, including blood, saliva, urine, or sweat over the past three weeks?"

"No, sir."

"Have you felt nauseated and have you vomited in the last three weeks?"

"Yes, sir."

The doctor picked up a pen and clipboard. "Describe the incident."

"The day Hicks discovered the rotten flower in his bag. I . . . I was overwhelmed, and I guess my stomach couldn't handle it."

"Ah. Natural reaction." The doctor crossed something out on the clipboard. "How have your bowel movements been in the last three weeks?"

"I shit at least once a day."

"Are they soft or discolored?"

"No, sir."

"Have you had incidents of unexplainable chest pain?"

"No, sir."

"Have you experienced hallucinations?"

"No, sir."

"Dizziness or fainting for reasons you don't believe are related to stress, dehydration, or lack of nutrients?"

"No, sir."

"Any concerns regarding your mental health?"

The knot returned in my stomach. I swallowed past a lump in my throat. Should I lie? I don't trust this guy. I should lie. "No, sir." The lump became painful, and I suddenly had an urge to cry. Here was a chance to present my fears to a professional, but I just didn't feel ready. I knew I was beyond ready, but I didn't trust this doctor, and I was terrified that I could be kicked out of the Colonial Marines.

The doctor nodded. He wasn't making eye contact with me, which meant he wasn't observing the roiling emotions beneath my surface. "Remove your clothing down to your underpants."

I frowned. "You're not checking my-"

"No. Not today. Just get undressed."

I shrugged. "Alright." I hate it when they check your private parts, so, thank God I wasn't getting that checked today. Maybe I could trust this doctor.

He had me stand on a scale to check my weight. His eyebrows furrowed as he glanced between the scale and a document containing my weight records over several months. "You've dropped again. Not by much."

"Is that bad?"

"No. Not necessarily. You're still within a healthy range for your height and age. If you drop another, say, ten-to-twenty pounds, then we need to start implementing some changes to your diet and exercise routines. Step off the scale." The doctor made me sit in another chair. He looked in my eyes and ears, muttering, "Good. Nice and clear. Open your mouth." He shone a penlight into the back of my throat. "Marvelous. No redness or swelling. No dental issues, I see." He then had me lay down on a bed covered with thin paper, and touched my chest. "No pain when I touch you?"

"I don't like that feeling, but it's not painful."

"Good." He gently pressed my belly. "No pain?"

"No, sir."

"Wonderful. Sit up." The doctor put on his stethoscope, and listened to my heart and lungs. "Beautiful." He rolled up my left sleeve, and took my blood pressure. "Are you nervous?" he asked.

"A little. Why?"

"Your pressure's slightly elevated. Nothing of concern." He took the band off. "Alright. You're going to drink a whole glass of water, and present me with a urine sample. After that, I'm going to take two vials of blood."

"OK. Can I put my clothes back on?"

"Not yet." The doctor handed me a glass of water from his sink. He watched me drink the entire glass, and, for some reason, that made me uncomfortable. Not to mention, I can't piss on command, so, I was probably going to be there for awhile.

Not exactly. The doctor made me pace to room to keep my systems moving, and I did think that I actually made myself have to go. But, when I got in the restroom and held out the cup, I got nothing. Sighing irritably, I set the cup on top of the urinal, pulled up my underwear, and began pacing the length of the bathroom. It was quiet, aside from the obnoxiously loud exhaust fans in the ceiling. They sounded like they should've been replaced two years ago, and they sure as hell weren't cleaning the room; dust was everywhere. I get that the med bay bathrooms aren't used that often, but, still, some degree of care should be put into it.

I tried to go in the cup again. It wasn't much, but it was something. I screwed on the cap, and brought it out to the doctor, who performed a quick test on the sample to make sure everything was A-OK. After that, he gave me some more water, and had me sit so he could take blood. One vial was strictly to check for the poison. The other was just a general test to make sure nothing else was wrong.

The final verdict? I'm healthy. If we get called for space travel, it's perfectly safe for me to go into hypersleep.

However, I was going to find out that our next mission was purely Earthbound.

I checked on Hicks again shortly before lunch. He was still fast asleep, breathing evenly. I saw all the fancy and terrifying equipment the doctors were using to make sure he got all his daily nutrients, as well as his pill. They use a small tube to force the pill down his throat, after making sure all the muscles in the back of his throat are relaxed. It's a scary thing to think about, someone shoving a long tube down your throat. The pill is inserted to one end, and "fired" in with the press of a button.

I know all this is to keep Hicks alive, but how long is it going to be this way? Why did it have to happen?

"Hey, man, Sarge wants us in the briefing room."

I turned to see Hudson standing beside me, leaning against the wall with one arm folded across his chest and the other being used to twirl his dogtags around his fingers.

People read their friends a lot differently than they read strangers. We're more cautious with strangers. We don't know if they're someone who wants to hurt us. With friends, all guards are down and you are free to read each other like a book. Hudson's relaxed pose told me something; he had been cautious with me. Even after we started to trust each other. I've never really seen this before. Sure, he'll have bad table manners and sling insults and ask me questions about my sex life with Vasquez, but there was always a certain . . . rigidness whenever he approached me for simple or professional things. That rigidness was gone, but I feel like there's something more than just getting more comfortable with me.

I pondered that as I followed him to the briefing room. Friendship has levels and layers. Everyone seems to think that a friendship between two guys has less depth than that between two girls. One thing high school taught me is that while there are girl friendships that last a lifetime, they're also easily shattered, most often by "trouble" with boyfriends. One argument will decimate a friendship that has lasted since, say, kindergarten. Drama creates fragility. With guys, we take brotherhood seriously. We don't let stupid shit get in the way. We don't gossip, and we generally don't have massive groups of followers who serve no other purpose than to talk crap about one person.

Hudson and I are both adults. We've both seen a lot of shit that the majority of people won't see, and shouldn't see. We've had events in our lives that shape our ways of thinking, and while our outlooks are different, the phrase "opposites attract" can apply. To some degree. I think he wanted to trust me more than I wanted to trust him, and that says a lot.

Why would someone who's carefree want to trust someone who's reserved and depressed?

I don't want to assume something is bothering Hudson, but it's not an idea that I'm going to toss out the window. We've been cooped up on base for around two weeks, and Hudson recently got a taste of freedom while accompanying me and Vasquez to Washington, D.C. I think that taste of freedom sank into him, and he wants more, especially since he's been out of commission after being poisoned. I can't imagine the sudden outbursts of violence-animalistic aggression-that were a side effect of his medication did him good. I heard the word "werewolf" be tossed around by some of the squad members, and, frankly, it wasn't a bad description. He would become something he's not, something you wouldn't recognize. He was your friend one minute, the next he'd be tackling you to the ground simply because you snapped your bubble gum too loudly or your laughter is too shrill.

Doctor Hornby promised to remove that aspect when making a new pill for Hicks, and he does feel guilty for what happened to Hudson. At least the violent outbursts don't have any long-lasting physical effects.

I snapped out of my thoughts after sitting down in the briefing room. Apone was talking about "some nuts off the coast of Sumatra, Indonesia, getting their hands on Weyland-Yutani fighter jets." I realized pretty quickly that this was going to be a simple hit-and-run operation; we just have to exterminate the nuts, secure the jets, and run back off to Australia.

The only thing that surprised me was that Hudson would be coming along. I guess since he was good with the task in D.C., he'd be clear for anything that didn't involve space travel.

It sounded so simple. What the fuck could go wrong?

Question: Do you think Hicks might be "faking" his condition in order to make Drake learn emotional control on his own?

Author's Note: I know I was originally supposed to return in November, but things didn't go all that well for me. To make a long story short, I was unable to continue my training in the Navy. Despite my short stay, I learned a lot, and my experience is something that will certainly start to bleed into my writing. If the beginning of this story seems off or it doesn't feel like Drake's voice, I apologize. Please let me know-constructively-so I can make the appropriate edits.

I'm just glad to be writing again. I've missed it, and I've missed reading your feedback. I'm glad my short story from Vasquez's point-of-view didn't flop. It was fun to do, and I might do another one. As of now, I want to get back into the swing of things here, get myself back onto a regular writing schedule so you can keep reading. If it takes some time, I again apologize. Happy reading, - Cat