one

"Ruthaynne,"

There's nothing worse than floating somewhere between the waking and the dead of sleep, senses reduced to little more than swimming vision and slow heartbeats. Soft, shallow breathing rises and falls her chest as she grapples in between conscious thought and the swirl of dreamstate, REM all but screaming in the back of her brainstem like white noise. Cool air kisses her cupids bow.

It's warm under her cocoon of blankets, the cradle of a soft mattress—easy to forget the chilled dark of her quarters, of the silence. Grueling exhaustion stirs in the marrow of her bones, beckoning her back to REM. To peace, away from everything in the world that would that scrape nails down the chalkboard of her spine. Pinching her eyes closed, burying her nose into the musty, familiar downing of her pillow—it's not enough.

"Ruthaynne Carthier," stronger, with care. "Please, rise. We have much to discuss."

Even though it's deadly still, scarily collected, it cuts through her like an inferno. Summoning the places in the depths of her being she didn't even realize, calling from the pull of space, time—of worlds beyond here. Life jumps into her like a bolt of electricity, shaking like a ragdoll any part of her that would dare drift back to the grave of sleep.

Bolt upright, eyes wide open in the inky shadows of midnight in her quarters. Unable to distinguish the pistoning in her chest, whether it be lungs or heart, the weight of blankets is suddenly all too oppressive. Wrangling out from beneath them, heel of her hand digging harshly against her eyes, rousing consciousness, the hair on the back of her neck stands to an all-soldier attention. Her backbone rattles with chill, like every ounce of spinal fluid has been put on ice.

There's a thought to go for the all-too illegal WASP pistol strapped to the bedframe beneath her—and the leap of fear kangaroos from her ribcage, sour in the back of her throat. But despite running the play through her mind—all the action required to actually put the weapon in her hands—it, strangely, doesn't feel necessary. Isn't.

Something deep in her soul tells her it isn't. It wouldn't matter. And she's not entirely sure if that fact is what has her frozen like stone against her pillows, or if it's that warm, enchanting smell wafting through the air. She could breathe it for a thousand years and never grow tired—it was delicious. Beautiful, even. Filling, in some strange sense of the idea; her hand moves to her abdomen as the warmth seems to settle at the base of her spine.

"Don't be afraid."

And thatmakes her jump. Whiplashes her gaze to the window. Heart constricted between panic and a blip of terror, the light swing of the man's leg over the ledge of her window sets her jaw. The other leg is propped in the sill, and he just leans there casually, four stories up in her apartment—and the fact that would be miraculous doesn't even hit her right away. Just the weight of his eyes. Draws her to the edge of the bed, unable to pull full breaths.

Fingers white knuckling into the bedlinens, she swallows back a thick, dry breath. Looking for words. There aren't any. Somehow, she can see his face in the pitch dark. There's not even moonlight. Unable to process, her brow furrows and she lifts a hand to her face. Barely there, hardly visible.

Eyes moving back to her, her gaze narrows. As if it needed too, suspicion assumed. "You're in my window," the challenge is laced with an edge of poison, but it's collected. Despite the throttling breath in the back of her throat balancing on a blade of uncertainty. "How did you get in." A demand, not a question.

If he heard the edge of discrepancy in her voice, he doesn't show it. "You worry over trivial things," There's a hint of amusement weaved into his chuckle, like honey almost. Not patronizing, at her expense. But genuine.

And despite the midnight shadows of the room, the lack of moonlight, stars, any kind of light—he's smiling. Brightly. Almost triggering. It spins her thoughts like a gear. Something in the depth of her gut floats, weightless, only to be knocked back down the length of her spine by the rattle of her heart against her ribcage.

He could tell her a hundred times not to be afraid, but you just never really shook the idea of someone sneaking into your house.

She doesn't process quickly enough. "Since you have not asked, I am Malach." Breezing through her window, his feet hit the floor—soundless. He moves light, like a phantom. Every move—the gentle shift of his shoulders, how his hands move nearly weightlessly at his side, inexplicably fluid. Just a heartbeat lagging behind the move of time and space. "I mean you no harm."

His eyes never leave hers, welded patiently as she shifts a little uneasily from the center of her mattress. Considering, he waves for her to rise. "Please, rise. We have much to discuss—my master has sent me with a message."

Aching in her chest has almost subsided as the figure stops at the foot of her bedframe, hands now poised in front of him like a showman. Baffled by the ability to notice him in the woeful darkness of the room, he's dressed—simply. A waning leather jacket, once probably a beautiful ash white; dark jeans with a matching dark shirt. But aside from his hulking presence—he's hardly small, all wedge shoulders and treelike arms—Ruthaynne Carthier cannot stop noticing his hands. They are strong. Magnificent. Almost a translucent blue in the shadows, with stand-at-attention veins protrusive enough to watch blood flow. Littered in tattoos, markings of languages she can't read.

Odd aesthetics, hieroglyphs. Coated in shimmering dust that looks like nothing she's ever seen that whisks from his hands every time he moves.

He's beautiful, and she's never thought so of a man before. "I don't understand," the words aren't nearly as assured as she'd like them to be, slipping from the bed. Toes scrunch against the cool floor beneath her. Worrying the inside webbing of her cheek, she holds the man's attention. He doesn't move—the crest of his chest not even noticeable as he breathes. His eyes consider her standing there, in nightclothes.

Transfixed by his beauty, unable to look away, she blinks. Remembering his words, she tries working moisture back across her tongue, but her mouth has suddenly taken the consistency of Egyptian sands—rough, scorched, starving. Tongue skating the back of her teeth, she tries to think of anyone in her network that would be considered a master, have underlings. Would send her a message.

Nobody comes to mind after a few heartbeats. The room between them almost blisters with tension. "A message," shoulders lifting, her arms fold in front of her, warily. "Why would anyone want to send me a message?"

Smiling, the stranger's face dots with amusement. Again, not at her expense, but genuine pleasure at the question flecks through his light eyes. Even from here the flecks of gold are unmissable, the life that brews there unmistakable, maybe, even from yards away. Turning to face her, his hands move to fold behind him. Like a sage, but anything but.

"You have found favor with my people, Ruthaynne. There's little time to do what you must."

That sounded awfully similar to a call to destiny, like a written fabrication for fiction. Brows jumping up her face, she can't ignore the stab of something in the base of her gut; the jump of her heart behind her ribs. Inhaling a calming breath through her nose, she swallows the rest of it, before looking to her feet. Fingers carding through her hair a moment, they move to rub over her mouth.

"And what's that?"

His gaze triggers to her like the crack of a whip. "Your Research Developmental Administration," he sighs, "they tamper with what they do not understand." Stepping from the foot of her bed, his hand extends between them. Large, commanding. It takes up space and her stomach mule kicks at the sight of it, so open and willing. "This is much greater than any of your people could possibly understand."

"I don't—"

"You don't need to understand, and you won't. Not now." Tone final, he nods. Gestures to his hand. Her lips part to manage a rebuttal, but his gaze levels with parts of her she'd never before experienced. Something passes across his face—something that grips her with such iron force that she can do little other than nod her understanding.

Looking to his hand, then back to his face, all she can manage is the quiet "Alright," that passes between them like a breath.

"Come. There is little time—much happens on Pandora."

. . .

Five hours of rack wasn't nearly enough time to work out the ache that had settled at the back of Miles Quaritch's head, much less count for anything that could be considered civil by standards other than the RDA. Not that Selfridge or any of his RDA spooks actually cared—if Miles hadn't demanded his unit haul out to crash after their just-shy-of-eternal debrief, Parker probably wouldn't run his ass out on another line. Age still came before beauty in some parts of the world, and fear. Fear, well—that wasn't rocket science. Parker still slept with a nightlight.

It took every ounce of a military career's willpower to punch the alarm that had jumped awake on his bedside stand. Feeling more trainwreck than man as he wrangled himself into new digs. Ten after and he'd scrubbed sleep and yesterday's dirt from his face, tossed back a few proffered painkillers from the labcoats. Was out the door, plex under his arm and irritating broiling in his veins like plague.

But this was the song and dance on this shit-for-nothing backwater assignment, and had been, for the last four years. So far, nothing about Pandora was anything anyone on Earth had expected, much less promised him or any other sorry sap that had signed away the rest of their life to be here in paradise lost. Ignoring the wide berth others gave him as he stalked down the industrial grays and ringing steel of the corridor, Miles tried not to think about it-and failed, like he had, every AM since his feet had hit paydirt.

There was little he wouldn't give for open, Earth sky and a 24-hour day cycle, dirt that wouldn't try to kill him under his nails. Breathe air that wasn't stale and warm from a too-old exo-pack. See the shadows of a crescent moon that didn't bite like a prison sentence. Women that didn't want his scalp at first blush, maybe just a little later. Little things that people back in the Milky Way took for granted were euphoric—haunted him like phantoms in his dreams, most times.

Working the catch in his neck, Miles ignored the ping that lit up the plex beneath his arm. That would be Parker, demanding to see his ass. Again, like always. And also, like always, he would staple his eyelids shut than fiddle around with this Christ-forsaken plex Selfridge had all but ordered him to haul around. Ball and chain, little more. Attempting to think on anything other than the day's schedule, Quartich checked the Cafeteria marker with a sweeping glance before taking the corner short. Right about now he'd sell his soul for cheap beer and a dog watching the Yankees in the nosebleeds—coffee and protein would have to do.

No sooner had he strongarmed the door and stepped into the blinding fluorescents than he caught ear of his unit, to his right. Lyle, Zdog. Somewhere in the thronging hive of the same shade of RDA greens and bodies, all up at ass o'clock in the morning for their duties. Assaulted with the thick whiff of everything from fried breakfast meats to maple syrup, that all-too-ever-present burned coffee, any appetite he may have possessed nosedived. But nutrition was mandated, measured—if he didn't eat, he'd be redflagged.

And the last thing he needed was inquiry with the RDA's nutritionist. "Hey, look who it is," Fike made room on his side of the table before Miles even had fully strolled up alongside of him, "G'morning and all that shit, Colonel." A forkful of something hanging in front of his face as he offered his CO a nod of recognition. "Fuckin' A—you get any sleep, Chief? If ya don't mind me sayin', boss—you look like shit."

That, at least, made him chuckle. "S'long as I don't look anything like you, Fike, it's a good day," tossing the plex to the table with a light flick of his wrist, Miles lightly punched the man's arm as present company chuckled at the barb, "Hope you ladies are ready to dance this mornin'. Parker's gonna want a full debrief with the General on yesterday's take, no two ways about it," swinging a leg to straddle the bench, he gestured to Wainfleet and Mansk with a waving finger, "Pop your baby vitamins or whatever shit you gotta, you all better look alive."

Quiet nods, stare-downs at coffee assured him that they, for a lack of argument, understood. Plunking himself down to the table beside Fike, it took nanonseconds, maybe, for Wainfleet to pass him a warm carafe of coffee—and from his left, Zdog offered him a bowl of fruit she hadn't bothered touching. Hands curling around the warm ceramic of the mug, he nodded his appreciation to Lyle before popping a cut of melon into the pocket of his cheek.

Cold at the back of his mouth, Miles washed it back with a pull of hot coffee—slightly less burned than usual, lucky him. The plex in front of him lit up with another ping, triggering Fike's attention to his left.

"Early bird gets the worm, eh, Colonel?" Amusement at his expense edged the man's tone, but Miles understood. His schedule was always the ass-end of every joke, because it was just that—a living, breathing joke. Join the Marines, see the world—total horseshit. Push papers and dance around the elephant in the room was more the tone, these days. Bureaucracy at its finest, always.

"Don't even fuck with me," the corner of his mouth ticks up at that one as he shakes his head. Reaching forward, he nudged the tablet in front of Wainfleet, nodding for him to open it. "Tell me who've we got up to bat first for the day, Lyle."

Making quick work of the plex, Lyle turned the device to face him. "Looks like Parky's pulled you into a morning fuck sesh," the snicker pulling up the corner of his mouth was lighthearted, his finger tapping the first entry on Quartich's calendar, "looks like something about some last minute intel. Then your ass is parked in debrief with us at 0800." Locking the device, he handed it back to Miles, the thin smile sorrier than probably necessary.

"Well, there you have it," brows lifting in resignation, Miles batted the dish of fruit in front of him, plucking a grape to roll between his fingers. Rough silence fell across the table, save the humming of the mess around them, cacophony of continued conversation bleeding through the walls of their collective like some kind of forgotten, white-noise.

And if it bothered him, Miles would've never shown it—he could've sat for another hour, just listening to his unit breathe. It beat parking his ass in a chair with Parker for an hour to talk more intel that, probably, would go nowhere—Selfridge was about as good with intel as a monkey was fucking a football. Quartich had worked with some real dumbfucks over the course of his career, but none as bright as Parker Selfridge.

But that was the RDA for you—bright and shiny as long as you didn't dig deeper than a paperclip.

Zdog was the first to break silence. "You think it's another gig, Colonel?"

The way she said it was neither disparaging or anticipatory. And while Miles always jumped for a chance to break his bureaucratic chain and stretch his legs out in the field, he could tell the unit was less than thrilled with the idea. Last night had been hell, and they still wore it on their faces—no amount of coffee or painkillers could hide that. Sure, they'd worked harder runs before; couldn't ask for a better squad to run the gauntlet and get shit tied up when it needed doing.

"I guess we'll find out when we find out—'til then, we stay on our toes." It wasn't much, but it was honest. No idea if they'd be sent back out to the field or not. Parker rarely gave any insight to last-minute meet and greets—he was a shithead, that way. Played those administrative bullshit games that Quaritch had always hated when he wasn't an administrative shithead himself. Just the nature of the game, these days.

Tell him this is what his career would've looked like at the get-go? He would've laughed his ass off. Give him a rifle and throw is his ass in the dirt, that was where he really shined. No way in cold hell.

He wasn't really that far off.