Nikto is hosting a rare party at home, encouraged (bullied) by his KorTac teammates who insisted on a night of drinks, music, and stories only mercs and madmen would understand. Their wives are here too, all dolled up, socializing, gossiping, and laughing in the living room. Everyone expected you—Nikto's spouse—to be in the mix. But big crowds? Loud voices? That many people?

Yeah, no.

Instead, you slipped down to the basement where you've been soaking, washing, and drying goose feathers-both from wild geese and a few owned by Nikto's teammate, whose birds moult like they're paid for it. It's oddly soothing. You love the texture of clean down, and someone's got to get this done before you rub dirty feathers on your face out of your passion for birds.

But your quiet escape hasn't gone unnoticed. Every ten minutes you come upstairs: first for a bowl, then soap, then paper towels, then another bowl, then gloves. Your trips to the kitchen become a sort of mystery to the guests, who slowly start to whisper about what exactly you're doing. Some are curious. Others think you're strange. A few are too nosy for their own good.

Nikto notices, of course. His eyes follow you each time you pass by-sometimes amused, sometimes fond, sometimes concerned that you're avoiding the entire party and his teammates.

"You know," he says, arms crossed over his chest after slipping away from the party, leaning against the humming washing machines.

“You’re causing more talk than the guy who brought a flamethrower to the barbeque last year."