"...You've got to be fucking shitting me." Nicole stared at the AWACS operator, holding up the shirt. "This is what they're issuing me?"
"...Yeah, looks like it." The man, a tall, lanky CIF Major with the callsign Bluejay, put on a sympathetic face to mask what would have been laughter. "Logistics have been incredibly strained since we started fighting the Feds. We've been focusing on making sure our supply lines for food and weapons are intact first. Clothes and other provisions…?"
"Not so much, I'm guessing? I didn't exactly pack any clothes when I defected."
"Nope. Take your pick."
The C/D-10, painted out in the orange-colored livery of one of the Federation's most prominent shipping companies, was a treasure trove of the mundanities of life. It had been intercepted by the Federation and forced to land at the airbase when the war began, and when the CIF took the base, the warehouse of a plane came with it. Clothes, trinkets, crates of spray paint, and even a few televisions and game consoles lined the palletized shelving of the plane, creating a feeling of the world's most cramped department store.
Unfortunately, most of this department store's merchandise seemed to be off-brand. Nicole stared at the shirt in question, pilfered from a box in the center of the plane. "Why does every shirt on this plane have something to do with fishing? And why are they all weirdly… aggressive?"
Bluejay shrugged. "I dunno. Feds took all the good stuff."
She sighed. More bullshit to put up with. Of course. Sifting through the pile of shirts, she found one that read "WOMEN WANT ME - FISH FEAR ME." But at least it's funny bullshit.
Nicole tried, desperately, to stifle a maniacal laugh. The guard at the other end of the plane raised an eyebrow as she collapsed against the box of shirts, guffawing.
"...Are you okay, Lieutenant?" The AWACS held out a hand for her to take, if she needed it.
She managed to get herself together long enough to stutter out a "N-no." between fits of laughter, ignoring the hand. "This… this is all too much."
"Too much, huh?" He smirked. "Yeah, I've been there."
"Why are they all about fishing?" She was almost on the verge of tears. "Why!?"
"You know, this all reminds me of a story…" Bluejay pulled a bullet casing from his pocket. "Back in the day, my friends and I from the Guard would go fishing in the Strait, out a few miles down the coast. We'd get beers and hop on one of my buddy's boats— he was a Cascadian Coastie captain, had his own cutter and everything— and we'd go out into international waters, shoot at birds, get drunk, maybe do some of his coke, and just fuckin' fish."
Nicole stared at the deck of the cargo liner, hyperventilating. "Is my life just one huge fucking joke now? Am I just the punchline to some sick fucking story?"
If Bluejay heard her, he didn't show it, putting his hands on his hips and launching into a triumphant tone. "Anyway, one of our buddies, right, he was some crazy specops guy. And he had this dumbass idea, to toss a grenade in the water, right? A live fuckin' grenade, can ya believe that? Said the explosion would kick up some fish."
Nicole banged her head into the box. "I'm gonna go fucking insane. I'm gonna go fucking insane—"
"And that wacky son of a bitch did it. Right while we were next to a Feddie shrimp boat from Magadan. Can ya believe that?" Bluejay laughed. "Anyway, they called the Coast Guard, and since we were in international waters, they couldn't do shit. So they sent the Navy,"
"Oh my god, would you shut up?" Nicole pounded a fist into the deck of the plane. "I'm trying to have a mental breakdown in peace."
"...And they were shooting at us, right? BLAM, BLAM BLAMBLAMBLAM! Yeah, like that. Wait, I forgot one. BLAM! Yeah, yeah, that's it. Big fuckin' guns, too. Like the one this is from." He held up the shell casing, and it had only taken him forever to tie the story back to the shell casing. "Fuckin'...idunno. .50 BMG and shit."
Nicole had lost the will to do anything but cry, lying in the fetal position on the floor of the cargo liner, half-covered in a slumping mountain of T-shirts bearing slogans of "LIFE'S SHORT, BUT MY BASS IS BIG", and "I LOVE TO FISH BUT MY GREATEST CATCH WAS MY WIFE", crushed her under the absurdity of the moment. She couldn't hear everything the AWACS was saying, and she honestly didn't want to.
"—And I said to the bastard, 'HELL NO', and I kicked him right in the nuts,—"
This guy's insane. She hung her head in her hands. This guy's fucking insane.
"—And that's how I got arrested by Cascadian authorities under a warrant from five separate Federation states."
Nicole struggled to her feet, before slumping back down and flopping face-first into the pile of shirts, her vision obscured by "OF COURSE I CUM FAST, I HAVE FISH TO CATCH!". She had no idea what to say. What the hell do I say to that? He didn't seem to notice.
She finally collected her thoughts into the only response she could form. "...What? The fuck?"
The AWACS laughed. "I know, right?"
"None of that story made sense." She flopped onto her back, unwilling or unable to get to her feet. "How do you even have that shell casing? How is that, a handgun round, supposed to be .50 BMG? How come a fleet of Fed ships deploying over a fucking shrimp boat wasn't on the news? And what the ever-living fuck does your bullshit have to do with my life right now?"
The AWACS finally looked down at her, a neutral expression on his face.
"Life's bullshit sometimes." He shrugged. "Embrace it."
The guard returned from outside the plane. "Time's up, LT," he said to Nicole, nodding towards the door. "Hope ya got your stuff." She scrambled to grab the closest shirts to her, regardless of what they said. Well, looks like I'm stuck with the dumb ones, she thought to herself. Woo-fuckin'-hoo.
"Oh hey, Bluejay," the guard said. "What bullshit are ya spewin' today?"
"Oh, nothing much," the AWACS turned, a knowing glint in his eye. "I was just telling her about the time I caused a delay at Prospero International, shutting down global trade for thirty minutes—"
Nicole jumped to her feet and ran.