I wake up to the sun filtering into my room, watery and grey like only spring sunlight can be.
There's movement in the hall, and voices in the yard, which means I overslept.
Getting dressed takes less time then it did before the outbreak- when the choice is a dirty hoodie or a dirty hoodie, deciding what to wear isn't an especially lengthy affair.
The only care I take is the minute to polish my dog tag, dirty water and vinegar and a greasy rag to keep the metal shining, and allegedly keep up morale, or so I'd been told by some weedy strategist from a couple years back.
He had died in a routine military raid, though, so maybe his advice wasn't the most reliable in the world. But hell, hardly anyone's word is reliable anymore, and it's become something of a daily ritual by now. I'm the leader of the goddamn Fireflies. I can afford thirty seconds to polish a bit of tin.
The guard outside my door salutes when I walk by.
"Marlene."
I nod. "Any change with the girl?"
She shakes her head. "None that I've heard of."
I shove the news to the back of my mind and join the other Fireflies in the mess hall. No use worrying about what I can't change.
It's one of those days where everything goes by too fast to think, and I'm signing papers and giving orders and planning raids until noon, too busy with things that actually matter to worry about the girl.
When everyone shuffles of to lunch, I finally have the chance to catch my breath, and when I take a seat the pathetic, grating worry creeps back into my mind, an anxiety that has no place here. People die all the time. One missing girl- she might not even be dead- is hardly something to fuss over.
At twelve thirty I find myself pacing, wondering, thinking that maybe the girl's gotten into some trouble, thinking maybe I ought to send out a search party.
At one PM lunch ends, and the responsibility of the Fireflies returns in a tide of rowdy, unwashed humanity, and the idea of a search party for the girl is pushed to the back of my mind by losses and new territory and search parties for things that actually matter.
At seven the work day ends. It's dinner for the day shift and breakfast for the night shift, the only time in the day when all the Fireflies are together.
That dead analyst said it was important to socialize with the troops, but he's dead, so I skip out on dinner (a bad habit I am loath to break) and return to my room, catching the first moments of total silence I've had since waking up.
I read treaties and letters and ledgers and trade inventories (one handgun and some ammo missing from the weapon cache closest to Riley's quarters) until the light coming through the window is too dim to see by, then I get up and watch the sunset, like I do every evening.
That analyst probably would have said something about routine making you predictable, getting you killed. I say it's hard to run a military group without some order, and my heart's still beating.
The rain's stopped by now, and if I was a romantic I'd probably appreciate tonight's sunset more, might say it was soft, might notice how it catches in the smoke and the clouds and turns the smog iridescent. I'm not a romantic, though.
I wonder if the girl's still in the city, if she can see the sunset. I wonder if she's in any condition to be seeing the sunset, and shove the thought away. Riley was too tough to get killed.
And too busy too waste time watching the sunset.
Like I am.
I pull down the blinds and light a candle and read until my eyes are crossing, lids heavy, then I crawl into my bed and welcome sleep.
It will not come, no matter how I seek it.
I've killed too many people to count, and seen too many horrors to speak of, and never lost a minute of sleep about it.
But this- this fucking kid was keeping me up at night, worrying like some overbearing mother goose.
Even as I acknowledge it as pathetic, a part of me worries.
What if she's not okay?
What if she did run away?
I shake away the thought, absurdly glad none of the Fireflies can see me now.
I'm not exactly the picture of an unshakable leader at the moment.
I flip the pillow over and content myself with the thought that the girl has a gun, and if you're smart (which she was) and quick (Which she was) and you have a gun, it's damn hard to get hurt in this city.
As long as she only fired to defend herself, as long as she wasn't distracted, Riley would be just fine, wherever she was.
Just fine.