Your little entourage offers a tour of the whole facility, and you try to file away the locations as well as possible—workshop, showers, rec room, medical wing (here, Medic leaves the four of you to prepare the equipment), mess hall, armory, and single dormitories. Simple plaques label each room: Engineer, Soldier, Heavy; a few have been covered, deliberately scratched off, or—in the case of Scout—defaced (with a permanent marker addition: The Incredible). Pyro skips off with what could be construed as a muffled farewell when you reach the end of the final hall.

"This one's yours," says Engie, gesturing to the last door, yet unlabeled. "There's a key taped next to the handle inside; don't lock yourself out, now."

"Thanks—I appreciate it." You smile, reaching for the doorknob.

"Not a bit of trouble. We'll see y'all for dinner after you're done with the doc?"

"Can't skip dinner with work first thing tomorrow."

He nods, readily returning your smile. "We'll see you, then—come on, Scout."

"But—"

Engineer wraps a hand around the boy's shoulder and nudges him down the hall. "Let the lady get settled in!"

You miss Scout's reply as you close the door behind you and sag against the grey frame. Today has been... a lot. You rub a hand over your eyes. There will be even more before you can call the day done, but you're here. Not home, but perhaps a… a place to be, if all goes well.

Pressing your hand close over your forehead, you open your eyes. There's a simple cot with a metal bedframe along the wall across from you, lit by a single window just to its left, sunlight brightening the barren, wood floor. Your room is just large enough only for the bed, a plain, cheap-looking wardrobe to your immediate right, and your crate, sitting—as promised—in the center of the room, with a few feet of floor-space to spare. You can get one shelf under the window for your books, you think, and one on the far right wall beside the wardrobe. The rest… well, you can figure that out later. At worst, you'd just make some room in the wardrobe—it isn't as though you've brought many clothes; you require little besides a few spare uniforms.

You set your messenger bag on the bed, mattress creaking under its weight, and gaze at the cloudless, cerulean skies visible out your window. It's all pleasant enough: sunshine, a wooden floor smelling of old pine, and the tang of iron in the air. Books in your crate. The relief of a job. Excitement of something new.

But the iron bars which cross the glass remind you immediately that this isn't a dorm or a new apartment. No matter the behavioral regulations outside combat, for all intents and purposes, this is a war-zone.

You flip open your bag, and inside, buried beneath a few sentimental items and all of your unmentionables, is your Lancaster-Charles howdah pistol. It's only been in your hand for the last six months, but the top-of-the-line, .577 caliber, four-barrel beauty is nothing to sneeze at. You run your fingers along the black gunmetal, tracing smooth contours down to the mahogany-and-bone inlaid handle—a gift from Miss Pauling and the mysterious executives after you passed the exams, when your temporary contract was drafted. You'd very much like to strap the holster to your thigh now, feel its comforting weight as you make your way to the medical suite.

But the doctor probably would not appreciate an armed patient in his operating room. You shiver, and replace the pistol at the bottom of your bag. Best to just get the procedure over with, whatever it entails.

And yet, you promised you'd never enter a room like that again.

Your hands tighten into fists, press close and hard over your eyes. Every fiber of your body down to the bone aches with the need to sink to the floor, to stop and stay and refuse to meet the antiseptic chill, the colorless comforts and thin smiles. But-no. You must. Your teeth creak under the hard set of your jaw. Money. Steady job. Self-sufficiency.

Money-money to send home.

You straighten your back, force yourself to take easy, measured steps toward the door. There's a light-switch, and an iron hook to one side, and the key, as promised, taped just beside the door-handle. A trembling hand removes your hat and hangs it on the hook, and another peels the key from its place beside the doorknob.

And then, you square your shoulders to meet the medic.

REVISED: 2/18/2019