it was not the first time warner had stormed into your quarters unannounced, bringing with him his usual air of hauteur and aggravation. tonight, however, there was something distinctly peculiar about him.

he stood rigid in the doorway, his pristine white coat uncharacteristically askew, as if he’d thrown it on in haste. his hair was just dishevelled enough to be noticeable—an anomaly for someone so meticulous. his jaw was clenched tight, but his eyes were traitorous, perusing the room with a hint of urgency. it wasn’t apprehension, not quite, but it was close enough.

“there is a . . . rodent,” he asserted, his voice clipped, controlled, but with a faint edge that made it almost laughable. his tone carried the same weight as if he were declaring war.

“a rat,” he amended, as if the specificity lent the situation more gravity. “or a mouse. i can’t be certain. it moved too quickly. but it’s there.”

the commander of sector 45 was still rooted to the spot like he feared the rodent had followed him here. he seemed to register your expression, and his own sharpened into a familiar glare, the one that could make even the most seasoned soldiers falter. “don’t look at me like that,” he snapped.

warner drew in a sharp breath, as if steeling himself. “you’ve proven to be useful in . . . unusual circumstances,” he said, his words measured. he was alluding to the occasion upon which you’d extracted an owl from his fridge. “consider this another opportunity to demonstrate your capabilities.”

the phrasing was so quintessentially warner—his way of presenting you with a challenge as though it were some kind of benevolent favour.

he crossed his arms then, like the motion might ground him, might restore some of his dignity.

“it’s hardly irrational,” he added, as though preemptively defending himself. “disease-ridden vermin have no place in my quarters—or anywhere in this compound, for that matter.” his voice was choleric. “this isn’t some insignificant matter. it’s unhygienic. detrimental, even.”