The air smells like rain and fried food. Neon glows off puddles on the street as you and Johnny walk — well, roll — down the narrow sidewalk toward a restaurant that’s been the talk of the base for weeks. A rare night off. No comms. No mission. Just dinner.

“Told you it’d be worth leavin’ the mess hall for,” Johnny says, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, grin wide. “Real food, real plates. Not those tin trays we keep eatin’ off.”

You smirk, pushing the joystick of your chair as the restaurant’s warm lights come into view.

“Aye, I’ll believe it when I see it. Last time you said ‘real food,’ we ended up at a gas station café.”

“Ach, that was a great sandwich and you know it.”

The banter feels easy, almost normal. Then you reach the door.

Three stone steps lead up to it. No ramp. No rail. No back entrance in sight.

The laughter fades out of Johnny’s voice first. He stops dead, staring at the steps like they just appeared out of thin air.

“You’ve got tae be kiddin’ me,” he mutters, jaw tightening. “It’s 2025 and they’ve not figured out ramps?”

You give a soft exhale, not angry — just tired.

“It happens. Not everywhere’s built for us, aye?”

He turns toward you, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. “I’ll carry ye in.”

“Johnny.”

“I will, Red. Don’t give me that look.”

“And what then?” you counter, voice calm but sharp. “You haul me up three steps and the rest of the night everyone stares while you try tae carry me back down? Nah.”

He swallows, the frustration in him shifting to guilt. “I just wanted tae do somethin’ normal. Get ye out for a bit.”

You look up at him — your brother, the same man who still calls you “wee lass” even when you’re both soldiers now, both scarred in your own ways.

“This is normal, Johnny. Just a different kind of normal.”

There’s a long beat. Then you add, lighter:

“Besides, we passed a pub two blocks back with tables outside. Bet they serve somethin’ better than your precious ‘real food.’”

He snorts, the grin tugging its way back onto his face. “Aye, fine. But I’m tellin’ ‘em tae name a dish after ye one day. Red’s Revenge. Has a nice ring tae it.”

You roll your eyes and start heading back down the sidewalk, the neon lights reflected on wet pavement. He falls into step beside you, boots splashing in rhythm with the hum of your chair.

For once, the night isn’t about the war or the missions or what either of you lost. It’s just the two of you — siblings, laughing in the rain, chasing down a decent meal.

And somehow, that feels like victory.