The jumpsuit they provided was a spare CIF flight suit hastily spray-painted orange. An armed Independence Force partisan escorted her down the hallway to the mess hall, and wherever she went, heads turned to stare daggers at her. Fucking Fed, she heard some whisper. Should have shot that bastard down when we had the chance.
Collecting the bare minimum to qualify as a meal— all she was allowed to take— she sat down at the end of the cafeteria table furthest away from everyone else as she took a bite of the least appetizing sandwich she had ever eaten. No one, save of course for the partisan with the rifle, dared get near her end of the table. But they all stared, and they all cursed her out in hushed tones.
Except one.
A kind looking pilot put his tray down in front of hers. "Hey. Nice to meet ya. Lieutenant Scott Bernitz, CIF."
"Hi." She wasn't in a particularly talkative mood. She looked down at her tray, at the half eaten sandwich that had to have been mostly mayonnaise slathered over a slice of cheese with scraps of meat thrown in.
"What squadron were you in? Before you defected, anyways." Scott smiled at her, reassuring.
"Peacekeeper Black Squadron." She didn't look up.
"Just like I thought," he said, smiling. "You killed my brother, you Fed bitch."
She looked up to meet his eyes. Finally, an honest one. "I'm… I'm sorry."
"Is that going to bring Jake back?" He said, with the face of an angel. "Is it, you piece of shit?"
"No. I can't do anything that can bring your brother back." She stared into the mayo-laden excuse for a sandwich, dejected.
"Then don't fucking talk to me ever again. Burn in hell," he said, a knife-edged smile across his face, and left with the rest of his food.
Nicole shoved the rest of the soggy, sandwich-resembling food item into her face without a word, before dropping it onto her lap as alarm klaxons blared. Great. She sighed.
"All alert pilots: scramble," the intercom crackled. "This is not a drill. Report to ready rooms for scramble orders. All other personnel prepare for imminent enemy contact. I say again..."
The intercom droned on, but IRIS had gotten the message. Great. Just great. We're under attack and all I can do is sit in a jail cell with mayonnaise all over my pants.
As the guard walked over to her, gesturing that it was time for her to go, she caught sight of an officer, a Lieutenant Colonel, jumping out of his chair. "Wait!" She shouted, in his general direction. "I can help! Let me fly, please—"
"Miss," the guard said. "Settle down. Please leave the base commander alone."
"But I can help—"
"Settle. Down. You're being escorted back to your cell now. Sorry about the sandwich."
The funny thing was, she thought, he actually did sound a bit sorry.