The MOs set up canvas cubicles in the two mess halls, drawing a green slash on the hand of each soldier once they had been vaccinated. Soldiers could only pick up their trays after getting their jab. The whole thing was done flawlessly: he couldn't have done it better if he had personally overseen it himself. Inspired by Beatrice's allusions to bioterrorism, he also planted several spies purporting to sell bioweapons which led the capture of two rebel terrorist agents.

When he was in the situation room or on the bridge of the Finalizer, he was focused and sharp. But it crumbled the moment he stepped into the halls, every grey-skirted MO a distraction. It hadn't happened all at once. Her visit to his rooms to discuss viral outbreaks had been pleasant but he didn't dwell on it at the time. The infection had truly taken hold a few weeks after that, when he'd gone with Phasma to inspect the blasters. Everything had been different since then.

He had sat watching a training exercise, notebook resting on his knee. This was the first exercise since this unit's release from quarantine and he thought they all looked sloppy, which was doubly concerning as the simulation modeled the action this troop would see in just a few days when they would strike Jakku. Phasma entered the darkened observatory room behind him and took a chair.

"They look terrible," Armitage said without taking his eyes off of the floundering troopers.

"I'll have them run it again. But before I do I need you to inspect the blasters, as we discussed yesterday," Phasma said with just the slightest note of irritation, doubtless because she'd had to badger him about the blasters again.

"Fine. Now?"

"We should wait until the conclusion of the training exercise."

"Why? It's not like they'll get any better." Phasma sighed in acknowledgment and turned off the simulation. They proceeded to the armory where she led him over to the new blasters.

"Watch." She squeezed the trigger and the paper target in front of her shuddered, burned to the left of center. "They all go wide."

"Let me see." Armitage had only obtained a B rank in marksmanship, good enough to be a storm trooper but still slightly embarrassing. He sighted down the scope and pulled the trigger. The shot sailed to the left, leaving a burn in the wall beyond the target. He handed that gun to Phasma, took up his own service weapon for comparison's sake and he did actually hit the target this time, right around where Phasma's wide shot landed. "They all shoot like the first one?"

"Yes. Every one."

Armitage pinched the bridge of his nose, "We're not going to solve this in time. Give the A rank marksman the ones that shoot true and give everyone else a flame thrower." Phasma nodded and Armitage knew her well enough to tell that she was pleased with this plan. She liked ruthlessness. "And we're not paying for these. I'll make sure the next shipment is up to your exacting standards."

"Thank you, Armitage." Phasma was the only person who ever said his first name. It grated him a little bit every time she did because it was over-familiar, but he tolerated it. He needed her: she was a better warrior than he would ever be, for all that she was brute from nowhere. She had no understanding of influence or tact, of the need to grease the right palms, so to her credit she was deferential to him when she was out of her depth. He had no doubt that she would throw him over in a second if it suited her purposes, but they had an understanding, bound as they were by his father's death.

He headed back towards the bridge. Phasma accompanied him, matching his stride almost exactly. They talked through the changes they would have to make to the invasion plan now that half of the troops would have flame throwers instead of blasters.

Then he saw her. He recognized her with a certainty that surprised him; he resonated like a struck bell. Turning into his hallway, she walked towards him, deep in conversation with another MO. Doubtless they were checking on the E barracks, the only one still in quarantine. A medical pixis droid trundled along behind them. Her stethoscope bounced around her neck with each step. Another MO, handsome and dark, nodded along with what she was saying. His throat suddenly felt dry as she turned her falcon's gaze on him. She assessed him, eyes travelling slowly down his body and back up. She seemed pleased with what she saw and under her scrutiny he drew his shoulders back and threw his chest out. She caught him noticing her glance and she looked quickly away, her mouth settling into something soft just for him; she was unable to wrest her expression all the way down to the blank professionalism Alceans usually wore. He was conscious that he was talking more forcefully about flamethrowers than he ordinarily would have. When they passed, they were so close that he would have brushed her sleeve had he only stretched out a finger. She ducked her chin, and he thought that she blushed.

When he returned to the bridge he had been distracted and keyed up. He yelled at ensigns for no reason and retired back to his quarters as soon as he could. He had a volume of documents that needed to be processed, and he wrote a particularly nasty letter to the manufacturers of the defunct blasters.

Once the reports were read and the bills paid, he walked to his bedroom to retrieve the wine he'd opened a few nights prior. There was just enough for one glass and though it would be thoroughly oxidized by now, he didn't want to open a new bottle. He only sought a buzz anyway. He knew exactly what he was about to do but was still in denial about it. He settled back in his desk chair and his hands moved at their own volition, disregarding his embarrassment as he accessed the directory of medical officers.

He stared at her picture on the screen, his heart racing like he'd splashed from a height into cold water. Beatrice. His lips moved around her name without making a sound. Officer Bea North. He didn't mean to read her whole file because really, this was pathetic in the extreme, why did he care about a lowly MO II?

Of course he read the whole thing. He learned that she was uniquely specialized in infectious disease, and indeed the foremost expert on a several things that he had never heard of. She'd published a few papers that he didn't understand, something about endemic fungi and another about invasive bacterial infections in the third space: he had been unaware that the body had a first and a second space. She had a few demerits for uniform violations, almost all for wearing her hair up in a clip instead of pins and once for going to the mess hall in her exercise uniform. Her performance evaluations were generally good, though she was frequently given feedback about the "transparency of her facial expressions" and how that was unbecoming of an Alcean MO.

The MO he'd seen her with earlier that day was a part of her triad. His name was Bardolph and Armitage read his entire file too. Per the report, they had been matched "because their expertise is complementary with few overlaps. They also display a bond that will form a sturdy triad base." He didn't like the part about their bond. Adriana, the third member of their triad, was attached to them "because the North sector MOS are lacking in exemplary surgical skill. The three of them are consistently high performers in their respective areas and will likely easily advance to MO III". He stayed up too late, checking her test scores and noting her berth in the MO bunk room.