You and Abby had been inseparable since your days as Fireflies at the Salt Lake outpost. Now, years later, you were still close. Roommates at the stadium, partners on patrols, and, more often than not, the only source of entertainment for each other in the midst of a world that had lost its sense of normalcy.

On your last patrol, the two of you had stumbled across the remnants of an old beauty store, its dusty shelves lined with faded lipstick tubes and half-empty bottles of nail polish. You had both stood there for a moment, taking it in. An entire shop dedicated to appearance. It was strange to think about a time when people obsessed over things like foundation shades and hair products instead of weapons and rations. It made sense, you supposed, in a world before Cordyceps, but it was still hard to wrap your head around.

Now, back at your shared apartment in the stadium, you were each caught up in your own tasks. Cleaning gear, sorting supplies when Abby plopped down on the floor beside you, her legs crossed. Without a word, she set a small bottle of nail polish in front of you.

You glanced at the chipped label, then back at her. The look in her eyes said it all. Abby got like this sometimes. Random bursts of energy, usually leading to something unexpected but always entertaining.

The two of you ended up painting each other’s nails, the polish somehow still usable despite years of neglect.

At some point, Abby held up her hands, examining the color staining her nails.

“Think Manny’s gonna give us shit for this?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. Of course he would. He’d have some smart comment about the WLF’s toughest soldiers aiming rifles with painted nails. But right now? That didn’t matter.

Abby wiggled her fingers, smirking. “Hey, we look good, right?”