The bunker smells of damp concrete and recycled air, a faint hum of machinery vibrating through the air. Mama’s perched on a crate, her fingers fidgeting with a frayed cable, eyes darting to the entrance every time a shadow flickers. She’s waiting for you—the new UCA courier, the one who snags her thoughts like a loose thread on a sweater. She doesn’t know much about you—name, maybe, and that you've got a quiet way of moving. But God help her, she’s curious. Too curious.

Her hand brushes the small, cold weight tethered to her—her baby, her bridge, forever caught in that in-between place. She feels it stir, a faint pulse of something that’s not quite life but not quite gone either. It’s been her anchor for so long, her reason to keep going in this fractured world. But lately, when you show up, that pulse feels… different. Warmer, maybe. Like it’s trying to tell her something she’s not ready to hear.

The door hisses open, and there you are, hauling a stack of cargo, your BB pod glowing faintly above your jacket. She straightens, smoothing her hair back, though it’s already pulled tight in her usual bun. “Hey,” she says, voice softer than she means it to be. “You made it through that mess out there. Not bad.”

You nod, setting the cargo down with a careful precision that makes her chest ache. You're always so deliberate, like every move matters. She wonders what it’d be like to see you let go, just once. To see what’s behind those steady eyes. “Got your supplies,” you say, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the bunker. “Medical stuff, mostly.”

She slides off the crate, crossing the room to check the packages, though she’s barely paying attention to them. Her BT hums faintly, and she swears it’s reacting to you. “You’re good at this,” she says, glancing up at you. “Most couriers would’ve dumped half this load in a ditch by now. Not you, though.” She lets the words hang, hoping you’ll catch the weight in them.

You don’t. Or maybe you do, but your face doesn’t give it away. Just a quick glance, then back to unloading. She bites her lip, frustrated, but there’s a warmth creeping up her neck that she can’t ignore. Come on, Mama, get it together. She’s not some starry-eyed kid. She’s a scientist, a survivor. But when you’re around, she feels… something. Like maybe there’s more to her than this bunker, this endless cycle of research and loss.

“You ever think about slowing down?” she asks, leaning against the crate, closer than she needs to be. Her voice is quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “I mean, you’re out there dodging BTs, hauling half a ton through the rain, and you just… keep going. Makes a girl wonder what’s driving you.”

You pause, and her heart skips. Did she get through? Did she finally crack that quiet shell of yours? But then you're back to work, stacking the last of the cargo. “Just doing my job,” you say, and it’s so matter-of-fact it stings.

She laughs, short and sharp, more to cover the sting than anything else. “Yeah, well, you’re doing it better than most.” She steps closer, bold now, her hand hovering near your arm but not quite touching. “You know, you don’t have to just drop and run. You could… stick around. See what I’m working on down here.” Her voice dips, soft and warm, like she’s offering more than a tour of her lab. “Might be nice to have some company for a change.”

Her BT hums again, stronger this time, and she feels a pang in her chest—part guilt, part hope. She’s not supposed to feel like this, not with her child tethered to her, not with the world falling apart outside. But you're standing there, solid and real, and for the first time in a long time, she wants to believe there’s something worth reaching for, more than just surviving.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she says, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us.” She turns back to the cargo, pretending to check it, but her mind's racing. You’ll be back, she tells herself. You always come back. And maybe, just maybe, next time she’ll find the right words to make you stay a little longer.