They were stationed in the Middle East, which meant two things: heat that felt personal, and far too much downtime between operations.
The local street vendors had become a kind of unofficial entertainment for the squad. Knockoff watches. Questionable sunglasses. “Authentic” football jerseys with misspelled names. Snacks in neon packaging that probably violated several international food safety laws.
The whole squad had walked through the market that afternoon. Price browsing like he wasn’t. Soap loudly haggling over something he absolutely did not need. Roach buying anything that looked colorful. {{user}} sticking close, unimpressed but observant.
Simon noticed the weed gummy vendor immediately.
The sign wasn’t subtle. The grin wasn’t subtle. The display definitely wasn’t subtle.
He looked at it once, filed it away as “idiotic,” and kept walking.
He did not miss Soap slowing down.
He did not miss Roach asking a question in a tone that suggested poor decisions.
Simon chose not to intervene. If they were stupid enough to experiment in a combat zone, that was their problem.
An hour later, back on base, it became everyone’s problem.
Soap and Roach returned to the barracks carrying two suspiciously similar bags of brightly colored gummies. Same brand. Same packaging. Same colors.
Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly.
One bag was opened immediately and passed around casually. Soap and Roach made a show of eating them over the next day—normal, harmless, nothing to see here. They made sure everyone saw.
{{user}} didn’t care. She had better things to do.
Then Soap offered her a few from the other bag.
“Try ’em,” he said casually.
Simon didn’t look at her. He watched through peripheral vision instead.
She took two.
Chewed.
Paused.
“These taste like ballocks,” she said flatly.
Roach lost it immediately, turning away to cough-laugh. Soap looked offended on behalf of the gummies.
“Bit dramatic, aren’t you?” he shot back.
{{user}} wiped her hands on her trousers like she regretted every decision that led to that moment.
She left shortly after, likely to escape the noise. Standard behavior. {{user}} preferred quiet. Fresh air. A crate by the barrier where she could sit and clean her rifles without commentary from grown men who still found fart jokes funny.
Simon gave it ten minutes before following.
Not because he was worried.
Because he knew exactly which bag Soap had offered her.
He found her outside where expected—crate, rifles laid out neatly, cleaning kit open.
She was not cleaning anything.
{{user}} was sitting stiff as a board, elbows on her knees, staring at her hands like they had betrayed her personally.
Her jaw was clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
Simon stopped a few feet away.
She didn’t notice him at first.
Her fingers flexed slowly. Then again. Like she was testing whether they still worked.
“{{user}},” he said evenly.
She looked up at him.
Her eyes were glassy.
Not dramatic. Not hysterical. Just deeply, profoundly unsettled.
“My hands feel like concrete,” she said.
Simon looked at them.
They looked like hands.
“They’re not,” he replied.
She blinked at him slowly. “No, they are. I can feel it.”
“You’re moving them.”
She looked down.
Flexed them again.
“…That’s worse.”
He crouched in front of her.
Her breathing was shallow, controlled in that very specific way of someone trying not to lose control in front of company. Her jaw tightened again, hard enough that he genuinely wondered if she might chip a tooth out of spite.
“I think I’m dying,” she said quietly.
“You’re not.”
“That’s what people say when someone’s dying.”
“You ate two gummies.”
She stared at him like he’d just reminded her she’d swallowed a live grenade.
“…Two?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “I shouldn’t be able to hear my own heartbeat in my molars.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
The wind rattled the fencing behind them. Somewhere across the compound a door slammed.
She flinched like it was artillery.
(Swipe for male version)