Chương 11: 06.Pack Your Bags, Soldier 06-2

The documentation section's air existed in a completely different universe from Warehouse 6A. If Warehouse 6A smelled like a group of living humans working hard to cultivate themselves into military-grade bacterial colonies, the documentation section smelled like paper, disinfectant, recycled air conditioning, and coffee substitute had joined forces to construct an illusion of order. Clean. Cold. Quiet. And everyone looked like they'd slept considerably more than I had. Deeply unfair.

The moment I walked into Documentation Section Two, my first observation was that the floor had no bloody footprints. My second was: everyone here dressed like they still believed their lives had prospects. A full row of terminal stations glowed ahead—tactical records, fleet trajectories, casualty assessments, and translation files suspended in layered projections. Documentation clerks sat typing with focused expressions, as if one more paragraph might somehow reduce the war's body count.

Unfortunately, I knew that wasn't how wars worked. I was about to find someone to ask about check-in when a familiar voice came from my left.

"Over here." I turned. And very unfortunately noticed my gaze stopped a fraction longer than strictly necessary. David was seated at an inner station near the observation screen, three layers of data windows spread before him, a brownish liquid sitting at his elbow that was at least two civilizational tiers above Warehouse 6A's hot drink ration. He'd changed into proper administrative uniform, the temporary medical visors gone, replaced by a new pair of slim-framed glasses. Fuck. New glasses already.

Was the documentation section's benefit package really that generous? More irritating was how naturally he'd shifted back into that perfectly comfortable existing within institutional frameworks mode. Compared to yesterday's version of him on the bridge, he looked like a completely different edition. Only two things connected them: the tiredness at the corners of his eyes, and the fact that I knew, with complete certainty, that this person had also crawled out of the same hell exit I had.

I walked over and glanced at his desk.

"You got here already?" David looked up.

"Half an hour before you."

"Impressive dedication."

"Not dedication. Early summons."

"That explains it." I dropped the electronic notice board on his desk.

"So what's the arrangement—I describe how I lost my mind yesterday, and you translate it into something Federation bureaucracy can process?" The corner of his mouth moved slightly.

"More or less."

"Very sophisticated. Yesterday you were gambling your life with me on a bridge. Today you're editing my after-action reports."

"The process moves faster if you cooperate."

"I don't usually cooperate with processes."

"I've noticed that."... Fuck. That I know how you are tone was genuinely inconvenient. I pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. My shoulder protested the movement. Still, compared to Warehouse 6A's chairs—where sitting automatically meant inhaling three varieties of unidentified odor—this seat felt like a luxury waiting room. I almost said so. Then reconsidered. No point giving the Federation ideas about how easily I could be managed. David slid several pages of tactical replay across to me.

"We need to file two things. First, supporting documentation for your commendation. Second, a tactical action review of everything after the enemy vessel takeover. Yesterday's briefing was preliminary—the details still need filling in." I flipped through the windows. Dense with data—timelines, weapons codes, fire control parameters, internal position logs. My head started to ache just looking at it.

"Does everyone in the documentation section enjoy turning one event into ten separate reports?"

"No." He corrected me without heat.

"It's because if you don't break one event into ten reports, command will pretend the eleventh thing never happened."... Right. That was the kind of insight you only developed after spending serious time in bureaucratic systems. I looked at him.

"You've adapted fast, David Rosen." At his full name, he glanced up. Brief. But I still felt like I'd accidentally stepped on something finer than necessary. Damn. People really shouldn't use other people's full names too often. It made things start feeling specific. I immediately looked back down at the materials, pretending it had been offhand. David didn't press it. He just enlarged one section.

"Start here—from when you seized primary control of the bridge." I stared at the footage—myself from yesterday, covered in blood, hair wrecked, looking like a slaughterhouse worker who'd been accidentally promoted to tactical command.

"Ugly," I said. David looked at the screen. Then at me.

"You're fine." I looked up immediately.

"Do you have a dependency issue with that phrase?"

"No."

"You said it in the medical bay yesterday. You just said it again now. That's twice." He was quiet for two seconds before answering, very evenly: "Because you always seem to care."... Shit. That landed too accurately. Had I been that obvious? I wanted to snap back, but he'd said it so flatly—like he was just noting observable reality. Which made it worse. I couldn't exactly silence someone for stating facts. Even if, theoretically, I was capable of it. I cleared my throat and redirected.

"Less commentary. Keep going." He sensibly didn't push further, pulling the footage to the bridge control station.

"Here—what was your read on the Imperial fleet's original formation?" Good. Tactics were straightforward. Tactics didn't make your ears warm. I pulled my chair closer and pointed at the replay.

"The Federation opened in a fan formation, trying to bite into the front edge. Then Imperial reinforcements hit the flank, so what was almost an encirclement flipped—the Federation was about to be trapped instead. That fringe vessel—the one we took—was sitting right at the closing edge of the trap." David nodded, fingers moving quickly.

"So you chose to fire from inside their fire-control chain rather than attempting to disengage."

"Right. Running was pointless—we couldn't outrun them, and it would just be pure retreat. Since we were already in that position, might as well do something worth doing first." I paused, then added: "If you're going to die anyway, you should die with a decent return on investment." He looked up at me.

"Do you use that kind of reasoning often to talk yourself into dangerous decisions?" I leaned back in my chair.

"What's the alternative—say 'for the glory of the Federation' with a straight face?"

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." I looked at the footage of the broken cruiser, and my voice went slightly flat.

"I just prefer framing things badly upfront. That way if I nearly die, at least I don't look like an idiot who believed it would be fine." The documentation section was quiet for a moment—people still typing, the air conditioning still running, data windows still floating in layers. But I was aware that David had stopped. Not for long. But long enough for me to realize that last sentence had been more honest than I'd intended. Fuck. I'd said too much.

I was about to cover it with something dismissive when he spoke first.

"I think..." He paused, like he was choosing his words.

"Given the situation yesterday, you did extremely well." I didn't answer immediately. Because hearing that from command felt like a grade. Hearing it from someone who'd been on that bridge with me felt like something else entirely. The former was evaluation. The latter was closer to— Didn't matter. I finally made a noncommittal sound.

"What is this, everyone decided to be complimentary today?"

"It's not a compliment." He kept his eyes on the data.

"Just reporting facts."... There it was again. That calm, direct delivery that was somehow harder to deflect than anything deliberate. I decided to get some water and noticed, in the process, the drink at his elbow.

"Wait." I pointed.

"What is that?" David glanced at it.

"Coffee substitute ration." I stared at it. Then stared for another two seconds.

"The documentation section gets that?"

"Yes."

"Warehouse 6A doesn't."

"I know."

"Why not?"

"Because yours is a residential section." I kept my expression flat.

"The world really is built on structural oppression." He was quiet for a beat. Then he pushed the cup toward me without ceremony.

"Do you want some?" I looked at it. Honestly, this wasn't some orchestrated moment—just a cup of coffee substitute in a front-line documentation section, pushed across a desk like it was nothing. But that was exactly what made it inconvenient. Because it meant he'd gotten comfortable asking do you want some without thinking about it. I hesitated for roughly half a second. Then decided to be honest about what I wanted.

"Yes." I picked it up and took a sip. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.... Damn. Still not real coffee, but lightyears ahead of the industrial sludge from the dispenser. I nearly got emotional on the spot.

"This works," I said, with complete sincerity. David watched me, something noticeably warmer in his eyes.

"Good." I set the cup back down and worked to keep my voice normal.

"Don't read into this. I'm evaluating the drink. Not thanking you."

"I didn't say anything."

"You might have been thinking it."

"You're fairly accurate, then." Fuck. Was he in unusually good form today? I shot him a look. He just looked back down at the tactical records, as if those words had been completely incidental. This person had absolutely no sense of fair play. And I still had to sit here and file reports with him. Completely terrible.... Although, if I was being brutally honest about it.

Compared to waging war over shared sinks in Warehouse 6A—sitting here with something drinkable while David calmly walked me through exactly how I'd come up with yesterday's suicidal ramming solution— It wasn't the worst situation I'd been in. Only slightly not the worst. Barely. I didn't bother looking at the commendation record. Simple reason: completing a commendation today didn't mean waking up a second lieutenant tomorrow.

The Federation's rank progression system was like cheap instant soup—looked nutritious on the packet, left you emptier afterward. My current grade was Private First Class, fifth tier. Even if command suddenly developed a conscience and bumped me a few levels, I'd still need ten qualifying actions to reach Senior Private by regulation. Military commendations, in the end, were ground out through survival. Since that was the case, I'd naturally prioritize something more immediately tangible.

Like the documentation section's coffee stash. No—correction. The entire drawer of coffee packets. When I slipped the last two into my pocket, I allowed myself a moment of genuine appreciation. As expected of me. The skills that once earned me recognition hadn't diminished. Commendations might get swallowed by the system. Honor might get consumed by report formatting. But coffee packets in my pocket were coffee packets in my pocket. That was real.

It wasn't until the next day that I realized the real problem wasn't the commendation. It was people. More specifically, the former humanities graduate who had an uncanny talent for appearing in the right place at exactly the wrong time. I stepped out of Warehouse 6A and found him standing outside. Clean administrative uniform. Properly fitted glasses. Tablet in hand. Posture straight. He looked like he was there to deliver paperwork.

The residents of Warehouse 6A would obviously not interpret the scene that charitably. I stopped walking. From behind me, Alvin's chaos-loving voice arrived right on schedule.

"Ooooh—" Fuck. Called it. Reis followed from inside, unhurried: "Hey, newbie. Your documentation officer's here." Lin Wei's laugh was the most insufferable: "Personal delivery to your door?" I took a slow breath. Perfect. The day had barely started and my patience was already on fire. I walked out without expression and pulled the door shut behind me, cutting off Warehouse 6A's audience as best I could. Then I looked up at him.

"Why is it you again." My tone wasn't great. That wasn't aimed at him—it was aimed at the artillery battery of nosy idiots I'd just sealed behind a door.

"Because of you, every time I step outside, I become entertainment programming for my roommates." David blinked. Not the blank kind—more like he was genuinely parsing the structure of what I'd said. Then he asked, very quietly: "Am I making things difficult for you?" I'd been ready to keep going. Then that tone stopped me cold. Fuck. How did someone manage to say am I causing you trouble and sound like a deflated tire? How was I supposed to keep firing at that? Men could be genuinely cunning sometimes.

They didn't have to do anything—just produce a slightly subdued expression at the right moment and suddenly you were the one reconsidering whether you'd been too harsh. I clicked my tongue, hands on my hips, and looked up at him.

"That's not what I meant." I paused, working to keep my tone in this is inconvenient territory and not anywhere else.

"What I mean is—can you not stand directly outside my door? The people in Warehouse 6A have mouths like artillery and twice the range. You linger out here long enough, they'll have names picked out for my grandchildren." David was quiet for two seconds. Then responded very softly: "Alright." Just that. No wounded pride. No follow-up questions. No I thought you hated me tacked on. Good. That was exactly right. Otherwise I wouldn't have known how to handle it. I tilted my chin up.

"So?" He handed me the tablet.

"This is the commendation record you didn't look at yesterday." I took it and glanced down—then froze completely.

"... What?" I stared at the screen, briefly wondering if sleeping in Warehouse 6A and inhaling that composite atmosphere had given me morning hallucinations.

"Senior Private, fifth tier?" My head snapped up.

"I was Private First Class, fifth tier. They jumped me ten full grades?" David adjusted his glasses.

"With what you pulled yesterday, if they'd only bumped you two notches, someone on the front line would probably go dismantle military command." Fair point. I looked down again. Senior Private, fifth tier. Not Private First Class sixth. Not seventh. One full rank grade, ten tiers straight across. Right. This had all the flavor of the system finally discovering this tool is useful and deciding to upgrade the feed. My feelings were complicated.

Not pure satisfaction—more like working brutal jobs for years, then one day your boss says good work, here's a raise, and your first reaction isn't gratitude but: so you finally noticed how badly you were exploiting me. I handed the tablet back.

"What about you, David?"

"Private First Class, seventh tier now." I looked at him. Made sense. Merit recorded, but recorded differently. Mine was the rabid dog bonus track. His was the institutional correction: this brain is valuable, don't let it die yet.

"Not bad," I said.

"At least the Federation figured out that sending an Applied Foreign Languages graduate into close-quarters boarding actions was a waste of resources." The corner of his mouth moved.

"I wish they'd realized it sooner."

"Too late. You already rammed a ship with me yesterday." I crossed my arms, voice flat.

"Your record's compromised now." He looked at me and let out a quiet laugh. Short, but it sounded good.... Damn. Why was he laughing at that.

"Bridge next," he said, pocketing the tablet.

"The captain wants to see you." My head started aching immediately.

"Another senior officer?"

"Yes."

"I'm developing an allergy to heavy insignia."

"You'd better get used to it." I looked at him.

"That sounds exactly like foreshadowing for bad news."

"Usually is."

"Perfect." I sighed.

"I knew the Federation wouldn't give me a promotion for nothing." This was my first time on a Federation warship's official bridge. Compared to Imperial aesthetics—where every bulkhead aspired to aristocratic mausoleum status—the Federation showed restraint. No decorative metalwork. No theatrical lighting. None of that even our displays cost more than your inheritance energy. Very Federation. Practical. Cold. Clean. With an atmosphere suggesting every bolt had survived two rounds of budget committee arguments.

I stood at the entrance, repair membrane still on my shoulder, mood somewhere between I want my nap and say your piece so I can leave. The orderly announced me: "Reporting: Private First Class Hoshino Shimo entering the bridge." The command chair turned slowly. The white-haired old man from yesterday. Of course. I'd already guessed. Anyone who looked at tactical records with that particular expression was either the captain or some terrifying operator who treated the ship as a personal chessboard. Apparently both.

"You're here," he said, glancing at me. I stood at attention. At least externally.

"Sir." The captain set a file down.

"I submitted your report upward yesterday." I waited for the rest.

"Command is pleased." My expression didn't change. Internally, I'd reached my conclusion: of course they are. A tool that could ram ships, seize bridges, and generate tactical solutions had just fallen into their lap. The institution didn't love geniuses—it loved cost-effective geniuses. And I clearly looked like excellent developmental potential. The captain ignored whatever unflattering thoughts I had about the Federation and pushed a paper across.

"When you return to the training base, report here." I took it. ONE-WAY TRANSIT PASS PRIS STATION → DUNAN STATION I flipped it over. Date. Time. Location. JOINT OPERATIONS COMMAND I stared at those words. Joint Operations Command. Not training rotation. Not replacement battalion. Not standard reorganization. Straight up the chain to somewhere considerably higher.

I could picture it: a room full of people in pressed uniforms, sleeping better than me, drinking better coffee, watching my combat record and reaching the same conclusion— This one can be used for more dangerous things. How gratifying to feel valued. I flipped the pass back.

"That's it?"

"That's it." He paused.

"If there's anything you want to say goodbye to, do it quickly." I met his eyes. He wasn't smiling. His tone was flat. But the meaning was clear. This wasn't a promotion notice. It was a life-redirection notice. The kind that didn't ask whether you needed to brake. I pocketed the pass.

"Understood."

"One more thing." His gaze settled on my shoulder patch.

"Don't die too early." I looked back at him. After half a beat: "I usually try not to." He made a noncommittal sound and waved me off.

"Dismissed." I'd barely left the bridge when the ship-wide broadcast came overhead.

"This vessel is preparing to enter FTL transit." Naturally. The Federation never left processing time. Always punctual, always efficient, never enough space to determine whether you'd been promoted or transferred to a bigger meat grinder. I stood in the corridor, checking the pass again. Dunan Station. Joint Operations Command. The future smelled like a respectable job transfer that would probably kill me. I was considering whether to swing by Warehouse 6A to pack when footsteps came from behind. David.

He'd heard the broadcast too—his pace faster than usual, but still controlled enough to maintain that administrative-officer restraint.

"You got it?" he asked. I held up the pass.

"Got it." His eyes flicked over the destination. Something shifted in his expression. Not dramatically, but enough for me to tell he understood what that address meant.

"Joint Operations Command," he said quietly.

"Yeah." I shrugged, working to keep my tone in this is nothing territory.

"Apparently command really likes me."

"... That's not necessarily good."

"I know." I knew better than anyone. Being noticed was sometimes more dangerous than being overlooked. But the pass was already in my hand. Life worked like that—you weren't choosing between paths; one dropped from the sky and flattened where you'd been standing. The FTL warning lights began pulsing, strobing the corridor between bright and dark. We stood there. Not too close. Not too far. Annoying distance. The kind that made overthinking inevitable.

I started to say something—and the first thing that surfaced was: I probably won't get decent coffee after this.... Pathetic priorities. David spoke first.

"When you get there—don't do anything reckless." I looked at him.

"Coming from you, that sounds like a fundamental misreading of my personality."

"Not a misreading." Completely calm.

"A reasonable assessment based on yesterday's performance." I couldn't help it—I laughed. Brief, but real.

"Fair enough." I tucked the pass away.

"What about you, documentation officer? Planning to sit in climate control, drink decent coffee, and make our front-line lunacy look respectable on paper?"

"If possible, I'd prefer not to write 'deliberately rammed enemy vessel' regarding you again."

"I'll try."

"Every time you say that, it sounds like you have zero intention of changing."

"Correct." Straightforward.

"Because I usually don't." He looked at me. I looked back. The corridor went quiet. Not awkward—more like words had walked right to the edge of our mouths, and neither of us had decided whether to let them fall. The warning lights pulsed again. Sudden irritation hit me. At the corridor for being this quiet. At the FTL countdown for moving this fast. At myself for not knowing where to put my eyes. I said: "Anyway—""Mm?"

"You—" I stopped after one word. Fuck. What was I trying to say? Take care? Don't die? Or next time we meet, don't stand outside my door? Every option sounded wrong. David didn't push. He just waited quietly. Which was worse. Some people's silence disrupted your heart rate more than any pressure could. I gave up on sentence construction and stepped forward. Just one step. But after that step, the entire world seemed to pull closer. I caught the faint scent of paper, air conditioning, and coffee on him.

Saw the warning lights reflected in his lenses. And his eyes—in this strobing light—looked more dangerous than they had in the medical bay. Fuck. This distance was wrong. For half a second, I thought about stepping back. My feet didn't move. David didn't move either. Just looked at me. And then, for one very brief instant—I understood with absolute clarity that if I moved forward even a little more, everything would shift into something else entirely. Not a hug. Not a brush of shoulders.

Something more direct, more unambiguous, and considerably more complicated. Heat rushed to my ears. Not from the wound. Not from stuffiness. I knew what it was. Was this actually happening. Right then—"All personnel, prepare for FTL transit. Return to secured positions immediately." The announcement detonated overhead. Every warning light snapped to blinding red. I stepped back half a pace like someone had yanked me from a dangerous edge. My heart was beating embarrassingly fast.

David seemed to snap back too, gaze shifting aside as he cleared his throat quietly.

"... You should get back to your berth." I latched onto that immediately.

"Right." Too fast. Like I was terrified that one more second would force me to admit that half-second had been real. I dragged my gaze away, pretending my brain contained only FTL safety protocols.

"So..." I paused, working to keep my voice level.

"You too."

"Mm." Another beat of quiet. Then I found the register that felt most like myself—reached out and hit his arm once.

"Don't die, David." The moment I said it, it felt right. That sounded like me. David looked at me, whatever hadn't quite settled in his eyes slowly returning to steadiness. He smiled quietly.

"You too, Hoshino." I turned and walked away. Fast. Not because of FTL stations. Because if I stayed one more second, I'd combust from the sheer vividness of what had almost happened. By the time I got back to Warehouse 6A and lay down on that bunk saturated with collective fate and sweat, FTL transit had begun. Hull humming. Bulkheads vibrating. The Warehouse 6A residents carrying on as usual. Reis complaining about restraint straps. Alvin messaging someone remotely.

Lin Wei objecting that warning lights ruined her complexion. Han Xi already resting with closed eyes. Yurik existing as a quiet metal block. Everything perfectly normal. Normal enough that I wanted to bury my face in the pillow. Because the moment things quieted, my brain started replaying. Not the battle. Not the cruiser. Not the captain's orders. The corridor. That half-second that was too short and somehow too long. The distance. The pause. The feeling of being one fraction away from something irreversible.

Fuck. I pulled the blanket over my head. Stop. Not allowed. But the brain, once issued a don't think about this command, typically responds by enlarging the image to IMAX resolution. I could remember it with agonizing clarity: he hadn't moved either, had he?... Shit. My ears went hot again. Not the wound this time. Pure embarrassment. Lin Wei leaned over from her bunk.

"Why are you hiding?"

"Sleeping," I muttered from under the blanket.

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Your ears are really red."

"FTL runs hot."

"Sure it does." Fuck. I knew she'd notice eventually. I pulled the blanket down further, burying half my face, leaving only my eyes to glare at the bunk above. Outstanding work, Hoshino Shimo. You snapped an Imperial cruiser without flinching. Today you almost kissed a documentation officer and you're glowing like a ripe tomato. Exemplary priorities.... Under no circumstances could Alvin find out about this. He'd use it to mock me until I made sergeant.