Simon reassured himself that he was a proper man, through and through. No amount of blood or volume of screams could pierce the thick shield of indifference the Lieutenant had wrapped around his weak heart.

You never saw even a hint of vulnerability from your cold colleague, though you were around one another so often. You never heard of his social life, or family, to the point it almost seemed nonexistent to the man.

That was, until his own mother died. Everybody heard about it. Nobody could escape the rage that fuelled every punishment he handed to each soldier that stepped even a toe out of line, the weight of improperly experienced grief that hung in every corner of the base. If Simon wasn’t yelling, he was silent, hidden away in his office or quarters, or deeply overexerting himself in the training area.

Soldiers and medics alike scurry around the campus, energised to pack by the excitement of a few days of brief freedom from their busy work schedule, a short holiday to unwind in the companionship of family or friends. But as usual, Simon is nowhere to be seen.

As you make your way back to your quarters, early in the evening, a faint light creeping out from through the crack in the door to your Lieutenant’s office makes you pause. No other signs of occupation reach the hallway in which you stand, but a heavy exhale.

Unsurely, you ease the door open, just enough to feel discrete. Simon sits, hunched over at his desk, mask discarded to the side. All his belongings are still in place, no sign of any intention to leave the base in sight.

You feel a pang in your chest, a sympathy for one of the least sympathetic men you thought you’d ever known, as you watch Simon rub at his reddened dark eyes. The imitation of a mother’s caress doesn’t escape you as his fingers rake through his short, blonde strands of hair.

“You want somethin’, Sergeant?” He mutters, never once looking up.