The man's body was drenched when he awoke. He stirred, his sweaty body stuck to the sheets and his straw-colored hair stuck to his body. The sheets fell off his trembling body as he pushed himself off the bed. The cold of the sweat clashed with the heat of his skin and caused him to retch into his hands between sharp, uneven breaths.
He looked around the room. The curtains subtly undulated under the air conditioner. The books on the shelves and the crystal cup on the night stand were undisturbed. The short arm on the clock by the night lamp pointed to the three on its face.
He sighed, and dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at the bags under his eyes. With a huff, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and touched the cold wood floor with his bare feet, grabbed the glass, then padded over to the dresser. On top of the dresser sat a silver tray with three more matching pieces of crystal, and a decanter half filled with brandy. He pulled out the stopper, then poured some of the amber liquid into the crystal glass.
Beside the tray were several papers. A few were crumpled and coffee stained mission reports. One was a doctor's note, which read something about "high stress" and "suggest short mental health leave," and was signed "Sally Po."
Zechs growled to himself. He grabbed the doctor's note, crumpled it in his hand, and tossed it in the nearby waste basket.
He looked back to the papers where the doctor's note had been, and at the paper that had been underneath it: "Mission Pre-Briefing: L3, Post Blue." He picked it up, heavy, bleary eyes scanning the details. Local Preventers base weapons decommission vault raided, small terrorist organization suspected, mission required high-ranking officers to be posted overnight for a raid, operation organizing and dispatch started April eighth at ten AM. Tomorrow.
Zechs rubbed his thumb over the paper. He sipped his brandy.
