Chương 7: 04.Next-Bunk Stranger 04-2

The moment Warehouse 6A's door opened, I knew the Federation had no intention of giving me even one decent moment. First thing to hit my nose: cigarette smoke. Not the kind that belonged in upscale bars with tasting notes about woody undertones—the kind that came from smoking cheap, smoking constantly, smoking until the filter itself questioned its life choices. Standard military-issue cigarettes, economy grade. Second: the smell of men.

Sweat, combat boots, laundry that hadn't fully dried, body heat sealed into tactical vests all day, plus an honest undertone of I probably haven't showered properly in two days but I'm not ready to admit it—combined into something that could reasonably apply for a biochemical weapons patent. Third, and worst: cheap women's perfume. Someone had clearly tried to smother the first two disasters with a scent so sickeningly sweet and cheap it practically screamed buy-three-get-one-free. It hadn't worked.

Instead, the whole bay smelled like someone had shoved an ashtray, a pair of sweat-soaked combat socks, and a night-market perfume stall into a washing machine and run it for thirty minutes. I stood in the doorway for two seconds. Then reached my conclusion: This wasn't a dormitory. This was a ceasefire zone jointly signed by six living humans and three hundred bacterial colonies.

David stopped beside me, saying nothing at first—probably using whatever remained of his functional brain to figure out how humans were supposed to keep breathing in this environment without immediate ascension. I glanced sideways.

"Well, future documentation officer. Does this match your vision of front-line accommodations?" He was brutally honest.

"If I said it was 'somewhat' different, I'd be insulting the word 'somewhat.'" Good. At least his olfactory system and basic conscience were still operational. The room had noticed us. First to look up was the man on the lower bunk nearest the door. He was leaning against the frame smoking, vest half-open, revealing an old laser-burn scar across his ribs. His entire presence radiated I'm difficult like it had been tattooed directly onto his forehead.

Hair cropped short, eyes half-lidded and lazy—like an old stray that couldn't be bothered to move but would absolutely bite if provoked. He held the cigarette between two fingers, looked me over from head to toe, then did the same to David. Finally, one corner of his mouth pulled up.

"Huh." Slow delivery.

"The kid who rammed the ship." I looked back at him.

"That's right." I slapped my room card against the doorframe.

"The kid who rammed herself straight into a commendation filing." He paused. Then laughed—not warmly, more like interesting, I'll hold off on hating you for now.

"Reis." He pointed at himself with the cigarette hand.

"Mechanic. I smoke and I won't quit. I snore and I won't change. You want to discuss quality of life, go file a petition with the Federation logistics minister about universal peace." Right. Leading with every annoying trait upfront. Either completely oblivious or extremely efficient. I nodded.

"Hoshino Shimo. I cut people. More when I'm in a bad mood. Wake me up with secondhand smoke and I'll help you quit—the physical way." Reis stared at me for two seconds. His smile deepened slightly. Good. At least this stray understood plain language. The second person sat against the far wall. Tall—not ordinarily tall, but the kind where your first thought was how does he fit in a standard bunk.

Broad shoulders, arms built not from gym mirrors but from years hauling equipment, dragging armor, carrying ammunition crates. He wasn't smoking and hadn't spoken. Just looked at me once with pale gray eyes. Once was enough. Some people you don't need conversation with. The way they sit tells you they're not here to make friends. I filed him immediately: silent heavyweight. Usually either the easiest person in the room or the most dangerous. The difference was when they decided to move.

Reis tilted his chin toward him.

"That's Yurik." The man supplied exactly two words: "Infantry." Voice like something rolling out from the bottom of a metal crate. Minimum viable self-introduction. Noted. The third man was sprawled on an upper bunk, legs crossed, watching his terminal. He stuck his head out when he heard us—the face of someone who caused trouble and vanished before consequences arrived. Slightly wavy hair, eyes tilting up at the corners, wearing the same uniform as everyone else but somehow radiating ten percent more slipperiness.

The type who'd hand you a magazine in a firefight and pocket your last energy bar while doing it. He looked at me and whistled low.

"Well, well. The legendary figure the whole ship's talking about?" He leaned over the rail, tone carrying that particular brand of cheerful obnoxiousness.

"Heard you split an Imperial cruiser in half. Real or fabricated? I figured medical bay staff overdosed on painkillers and started writing group fanfiction." I looked up at him.

"Keep talking and I'll arrange a live demonstration." His grin widened.

"I like how you communicate." The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"I don't care."

"Brutal." He tapped his chest.

"Alvin. Comms. Specialties: breaking encryption, fixing terminals, and talking when I absolutely shouldn't."

"I can tell."

"Thanks."

"Not a compliment."

"I'll take it as one anyway." Fuck. Why did everyone in this room automatically translate insults into praise? Then I looked at the two women. The one on the left sat on her bunk sorting gear. Short hair, sharp profile, mouth set flat. She didn't look freshly showered and wasn't interested in socializing, but at least she didn't radiate that I've given up on hygiene as a philosophical stance energy. Clean, efficient, economical movements. Obviously practical. She glanced up at me—not hostile, but assessing.

Can you survive. Will you be trouble. Are you worth my attention. Reasonable. Out here, that was considerably more valuable than warmth.

"Han Xi." She slid a magazine back into her pouch, voice flat.

"Marines. Bottom bunk's yours." Oh. A functional person. Not the gentle kind—the kind who gives you the one piece of information you actually need and leaves the rest to you. I nodded.

"Thanks." She didn't respond, just kept working through her gear. The last one was the source of the perfume disaster. She leaned against the opposite bunk post with a hand mirror, touching up her bangs. She smelled like she'd emptied an entire bottle of night-market buy-one-get-one perfume into her collar to neutralize sweat and antiseptic—successfully, but taking Warehouse 6A's air quality down as collateral damage.

Not bad-looking, eyeliner still faintly visible, but her current state was closer to front-line organism maintaining minimal cosmetic order than polished beauty. Seeing me, she noted the repair patch on my shoulder, the transparent membrane behind my ear, and curved her red lips.

"So you're the little hero?" The phrase triggered immediate revulsion.

"If you mean the one who nearly killed herself in the process, yes." She laughed.

"Gutsy."

"Reckless is more accurate," Alvin contributed from above.

"Reckless people last longer on battlefields," I shot back. Perfume girl actually nodded with apparent agreement.

"I like that. Lin Wei. Med corps transferred to combat support. Full disclosure: I spray perfume at night because otherwise I can't sleep." I looked at her, assessed the air quality, delivered my honest verdict: "At your current dosage, I'm not just having trouble sleeping—my soul is preparing to evacuate." Reis chuckled low. Alvin nearly fell off his bunk. Lin Wei raised an eyebrow.

"Still better than certain men who take off their boots and trigger localized extinction events." Reis immediately protested.

"Hey, don't drag Yurik into this. I actually rinsed my feet in the maintenance bay today." Yurik, silent until now, finally looked up.

"Not me." Completely flat. Entirely complete message: You're all the problem. Not me. Right. This room had more life than I'd expected. Not the warm, communal kind—the everyone's exhausted and slightly broken but functional enough to coexist variety. I walked in, medication packet under my arm. Warehouse 6A was standard cramped—six bunks in old two-tier configuration, a corridor barely wide enough for sideways passing.

Low ceiling, half-dead ventilation, storage lockers kicked out of alignment by previous occupants. Someone had left half a torn poster in the corner—content unclear, probably either an underdressed celebrity or warship recruitment ad. Both appeared on Federation men's walls with roughly equal frequency. My bunk was below Han Xi's, toward the inner wall. Good news: not a top bunk.

Bad news: lying down meant simultaneously inhaling Reis's smoke, Lin Wei's perfume, and whatever male atmospheric contribution drifted from undetermined corners. Wonderful. No wonder front-line soldiers were universally bad-tempered. David still stood near the door, holding my medical packet. He didn't need to stay, but whether because I was injured or because Warehouse 6A's atmosphere had genuine deterrent properties, he just stood there—apparently confirming I wouldn't start dismembering roommates.

Alvin noticed him first.

"Wait, hold on." He leaned over the rail, looking between us.

"Is he part of the package?" Before I could respond, David answered calmly: "No. Just escorting her to quarters." Reis made a meaningful sound around his cigarette. Lin Wei gave me a look that said understood in large letters. Fuck. Understood what, exactly.

"Don't read into it," I said immediately.

"He just happened to not die today, and he's carrying my medication." Alvin grinned obnoxiously.

"That sentence doesn't sound particularly innocent in any language."

"Say another word and your terminal goes in the toilet."

"Wow, aggressive."

"I'm always aggressive."

"The whole ship knows." Infuriating. You do one thing and suddenly the universe starts writing supplementary plotlines around you. At least David didn't join in. He just set the packet on my storage shelf, tone even: "Analgesic gel on top. Keep the repair patches dry. Medic said avoid straining your shoulder tonight." I frowned.

"Since when are you more verbose than the medical terminal?"

"Since you started looking like someone who wouldn't remember instructions."

"I remember fine."

"Mm."

"There's that 'mm' again." He adjusted his visors, didn't argue, just nodded.

"Good then." Fuck. That non-combative response was more aggravating than actual pushback—nowhere to land a counter. Brief quiet. Han Xi kept sorting gear, uninterested. Reis smoked. Alvin watched with visible enjoyment. Lin Wei had practically written gossip across her forehead. David looked at me one last time.

"I'll head back." I meant to make some noncommittal sound. What came out was: "Hey." He stopped, turned back. The other five looked over with zero subtlety. Right. Suddenly felt like being called on in class. I lifted the medication packet slightly, keeping my tone casual: "Today... thanks." It came out somewhat stilted. But I'd tried.

Saying something resembling genuine gratitude—in a six-person mixed bay reeking of cigarettes and cheap perfume, in front of five near-strangers—ranked on the difficulty scale with getting Federation logistics to volunteer pay raises. David didn't make it harder. He just smiled quietly and said: "Likewise." Short. Steady. Exactly right. Not more, not less. Then he turned and actually left.

The moment the door clicked shut, I belatedly registered that Warehouse 6A's full composite stench had crashed back down with renewed authority.... Shit. So the guy who'd been standing by the doorway had apparently been providing some minor atmospheric disaster mitigation. That was an inconvenient thing to notice. I'd barely stomped that thought to death when Alvin leaned over his bunk rail, grinning like he'd just broken a major story.

"Ooooh—" I glared up.

"What the hell are you 'ooh-ing' about."

"Nothing." He spread his hands.

"Just rare to hear someone with your particular communication style sound so much like..."

"Like what." He blinked innocently.

"Like saying thank you." Two seconds of silence. Then I gave him my honest assessment:"My shoulder still works." Clear message: keep talking and I'll demonstrate that on your face. Alvin immediately threw up his hands in surrender. Reis shifted his cigarette and spoke at his usual unhurried pace.

"Alright, lay off the new arrival." He looked at me—that lazy, testing quality still in his eyes, but with noticeably less hostility than before.

"Warehouse 6A doesn't have many rules. Don't touch other people's stuff. Don't lose your shit next to someone who's sleeping. If you need to throw up, use the waste chute, not the bunks." Lin Wei added: "And no stealing anyone's underwear in the middle of the night." I stopped.

"... That's actually happened here?" Reis took a slow drag.

"Old ship." Alvin contributed helpfully from above: "Federation old ship." Han Xi finished securing her gear, stood, and delivered the one piece of intelligence that actually mattered.

"If you're planning to shower first, you should go look now." I turned.

"Meaning?" Her expression didn't shift.

"Because this is an older-class vessel." A pause. Then, in the same tone someone would use to announce the weather forecast:"The bathrooms aren't separated." I stared at her.

"... What?" Lin Wei helpfully clarified: "Old ships have communal bathing facilities." I stood there for three full seconds. Mind completely blank. Then three words surfaced, crystal clear: Motherfucking hell.