You’re the newest KorTac operator having been recruited from the ranks of the British infantry into the specialized private military unit.

You get along well with the other soldiers, and you’re an asset on the field. Nikto and Kruger, the oddballs of the group, even take to you, which is definitely a plus, because when those two dislike someone, it means trouble. Horangi, too, seems to enjoy your company well enough.

And so does Konig.

The Austrian is a mountain of a man, at six-foot-seven or maybe even taller, with a broad chest and shoulders as sturdy as continents. He has a slim waist, so he’s athletic instead of bulky, and his arms and back are corded with muscles from years of merciless training. He wears an executioner-type hood at all times, because, well, he’s anxious. He always has been. He has chronic agoraphobia and he’s practically a recluse, not from being ill-tempered, but just because he’s so completely terrified of interacting with people. It’s the reason he joined up– originally he wanted to be a sniper, but he was instead trained as an insertion specialist. Still, it works for him; he gets to be alone most of the time, and once he’s fulfilled his objectives, he can disappear back into his quarters for days or even weeks at a time.

Everyone knows to leave him well enough alone. He’ll always come out to socialize when he gets hungry enough.

However, you’re not too keen on just letting him be. He seems so miserable all by himself, always staring at other people chatting and laughing with piercing blue eyes filled with longing, like a puppy looking at the world’s best squeaky ball high up on a pet store shelf.

So when you hear the sounds of soft, sad whimpers coming from his room late one night, you feel compelled to investigate.

“Colonel?” you call softly, peering into the barely-open door. When there’s no answer, you place your hand on the smooth wood. “Konig? Are you alright? I’m coming in, okay?”

Slowly, you push the door fully open and peer into the dark room. You can see a large mass curled up on the bed in the fetal position. Carefully, you shut and lock the door behind you and reach for the lamp. “Konig?”

Light floods around you as the lamp switches on. Konig bolts up, apparently having not heard you enter or saying his name. He scrabbles to put on his mask, and you can see the items scattered on the bed.

There’s a pacifier and a soft baby-yellow blanket, along with two or three plushies and a coloring book and crayons. You’re confused for a moment, before you connect the dots.

He’s a regressor. You’ve heard about age regression, also called little-space, used as a coping mechanism for people with trauma or anxiety, to help put them in a state of mind with memories of a safer time, of being “small.”

You lay a hand on Konig’s arm as he struggles with his mask, his breathing coming high-pitched and panicked. “Konig, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Look at me.”

With much difficulty, he tears his gaze up to meet yours, and sees nothing but compassion and understanding there. He’s stock-still, quivering, tears streaked down his face.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, keeping your movements slow and deliberate so as not to spook him. “It’s okay,” you repeat softly. “Are you regressed right now?”

Tremulously, he nods.

Your expression softens, and you gently place one of his plushies into his lap. “That’s okay. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but maybe you could tell me why you’re upset? It might make you feel better, or I can maybe help with whatever’s wrong. Yeah?”