Simon Riley had seen a lot of confrontations in his life. But somehow, the most memorable arguments he’d witnessed on base involved a woman barely reaching the shoulder of the men she was tearing apart verbally. {{user}}. Human rights officer. Missions coordinator. Simon didn’t see her often. Their paths crossed mainly during mission briefings or he’d see her in the corridors, usually yelling. The first time he’d watched her square up to a man twice her size, Simon had instinctively prepared himself to intervene. Then he realised very quickly the man was the one in danger. {{user}} didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise her hands. She simply stared him down and dismantled his argument piece by piece until the soldier muttered something resembling an apology and walked away looking like he’d just been run over.

For once in his life, Simon had felt bad for the man. He respected fearlessness. He learned bits about her over time. How she’d joined the military aiming high, CIA station chief, global operations, intelligence networks. She’d to protect people in ways most never saw. Then reality had shifted her path. Working alongside Laswell had shown her the truth of the system. The subtle dismissals. The casual sexism. The way competence in a woman was treated like an anomaly. So {{user}} had adapted. If the field was going to be hostile, she would make herself impossible to ignore. She became a human rights officer. The one who stood in front of powerful men and told them they were wrong.

She didn’t make herself popular. But she made herself necessary. Simon understood that kind of choice. It was late one evening when he finally found her alone. He had stepped outside the base to clear his head. That was when he saw the faint orange glow near the far wall. {{user}} stood beneath a flickering security light, one shoulder against the brick, cigarette between her fingers. Smoke curled around her like mist. Simon hesitated. Then he walked over. She turned at the sound, eyes narrowing instinctively before recognition settled in. “Lieutenant,” she said. Her voice was calm. Curious. He stopped beside her, not too close. For a moment he just looked at the cigarette. Then he spoke quietly. “Smoking’s bad for you.” It wasn’t what she expected. {{user}} blinked, then let out a short laugh, more surprised than amused.

“That so?” she replied. “Didn’t have you down as a health advisor.” “Recently quit,” he said simply. She took one more drag before lowering her hand slightly. “Congratulations,” she said. “That can’t have been easy.” “It wasn’t.” Silence stretched between them again but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Simon shifted his weight. “I’ve seen you,” he said. Her eyebrow lifted slightly. “That sounds like the start of a complaint.” “In the corridors,” he clarified. “Briefings. Arguments.” {{user}} smirked faintly. “Ah. My reputation precedes me.” He shook his head. “You don’t back down,” he said. “Even when you probably should.” She held his gaze, searching his masked face for sarcasm. “I appreciate what you do,” Simon continued. “And I respect it.” The words landed harder than she expected. Respect. It was something {{user}} had fought for her entire career. Something she’d rarely been given freely. She had earned authority, earned acknowledgement but respect wasn’t handed out lightly. From a young age, she had known exactly what she wanted.

To make a difference. Not just to exist within the system but to challenge it. Improve it. Protect the people who would otherwise be forgotten. She had endured being underestimated, talked over, dismissed as emotional. She had sharpened herself against that resistance until confrontation became second nature. And now one of the most dangerous soldiers in Task Force 141 was standing beside her, telling her he saw the value in what she did. Pride swelled quietly in her chest. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was softer than usual. Simon nodded once. “People need someone willing to stand up,” he added. “Well,” she said lightly, “someone has to keep you lot from turning into complete savages.”