Curtain fictions of Miles Quaritch and Paz Socorro

Another day in their lives, not much different from others, but at the same time special in its own way.

— Lights out! — the inspector’s voice commands, and the hubbub of the soldiers gradually subsides, everyone goes to their rooms.

Now all that can be heard is the hum of the ceiling lamps, alternately going out along the entire length of the corridor, the distant slamming of doors at the other end of the wing, and the footsteps of the supervisor, leisurely walking along the living quarters and responsible for ensuring that the newcomers adhere to a clearly established daily routine.

Colonel Quaritch takes a slow, deliberate pace down the corridor, his heavy boots thudding on the metal flooring. The intermittent flicker of the ceiling lamps casts eerie shadows on the walls as he passes by. Reaching the door to Paz's room, he pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before giving it a sharp turn and stepping inside.

The small room is dimly lit, a single lamp casting a warm glow on the metal desk in the corner where Paz likely does her paperwork. Her narrow bed takes up the majority of the back wall, military issue blankets neatly tucked in. Miles steps further into the room, his presence filling the confined space.

— Socorro, — he calls, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.

Paz doesn’t even need to raise her head to understand who this voice belongs to — she recognizes this timbre, velvety and low, from a billion others.

Besides her, only one person has a second set of keys from her personal quarters.

— I’m going, — she answers just as quietly as him, without turning around and gathering her damp hair after the shower into a fluffy ponytail. Miles' gaze, fixed on her bare back, almost burns her skin… god, such a pleasant feeling.