>>6310803>>6310821>>6310847>>6310901>>6310905>6310921>6310923The datashard is cold between your fingers, a sliver of translucent plastic etched with lines illegible to the naked eye. The quartermaster mutters something perfunctory about not frying yourself before turning back to a pile of requisition slips. Harper whistles low as he steers you away towards your quarters.
“Hell of a pick,” he says, guiding you down the mud-slicked paths between the tents and prefabs. “Not what I would’ve gone for, but again – no augments.”
You give him a sidelong look. “Never tempted?”
“Once,” he admits, grimacing. “Tried for something not too different from that spinal modem of yours. Turns out my body really doesn’t play nice with chrome.”
“Even with immuno-blockers?” Your mind flashes to the twenty vials still secured within your pod’s storage locker.
“Maybe. But I didn’t want it that badly to gamble.” His shrug is more resigned than bitter. “Worked out fine, all things considered.”
Your billet is a squat, canvas-sided shack braced with scrap wood and smelling faintly of mildew and warm plastic. Inside: a cot, a crate for personal effects, and just enough space to breathe without brushing the walls. Spartan in the extreme, but it’s yours.
You frown, pinching the cot’s betting between two fingers like it might crumble. “The crash seats of the pod are better than this.”
Harper barks a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive the 111th. This is them putting on the Ritz. Civies are humping it in half-ruined houses and leaky tents. But nobody’s died of trench foot yet.”
<span class="mu-i">He doesn’t mention whether or not anyone lost feet due to said affliction.</span>
You give the barest nod, eyes narrowing at the seams where the nylon joins.
<span class="mu-i">Sealant integrity: questionable. Probability of water intrusion within eight hours: high.</span>
You drop onto the cot, springs shuddering. “If I catch pneumonia, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair enough. But get some sleep first.” He gestures to the shard in your hand. “Hopefully, you’ll be so busy integrating that you’ll forget how bad the bed is.”
You roll your eyes, unloading your backpack and weapons belt. “You still owe me some clothes.”
“Don't worry, I haven’t forgotten. By the time you wake up, they’ll be there.”
Harper lingers only long enough to make sure you’re settled in. Then he tips a half-salute and ducks out, canvas flap sighing shut behind him. The din of the camp fades, muffled to w low thrum of generators and distant voices.
(cont.)
