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They sat on the edge of the carrier, watching the sun dip below the horizon and paint the ocean gold. Despite the lessening light, it was hot and muggy and their uniforms were dank with sweat. John set down his flask of booze that some soldier had brewed in secret while Kouichirou puffed on a cigarette.
“It's like you have some sort of complex.”
“No one practices Freudian psychology anymore.”
John huffed a laugh and reached into his shirt pocket. “You're funny, Kouichirou. Damn, I'm outta cigarettes.” He looked over at Kouichirou hopefully.
“Fuck, no. Wait til the next shipment. This is my last one.”
John pursed his lips. “Stingy.”
“Ugh, fine.” Kouichirou handed the smoking cigarette to him.
“Haha! You're too easy!”
Silently, Kouichirou reached over and took a swig from John's flask. He coughed as the stuff burned his throat. “You know you shouldn't have this.”
“It's not like I drink in combat. And anyway, no one's gonna care how strict they are with us in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.”
Kouichirou only hummed thoughtfully.
“Anyway, you're too eager to jump into action and save people. This isn't a video game, you know.” John took back his flask and gestured with it at Kouichirou, nearly hitting his face before taking another swig. “It's gonna bite you in the ass someday.”
Kouichirou snorted and swatted his hand away. “Now that's ominous.”
“Privates! If you have time to waste, you can go help scrub oil drums!” An office stalked up to them from behind. They scrambled to hide the flask but ended up dropping it into the water.
“Shit...”
“I'm sure the fishes will have a good time tonight.”
“Are there even... any fish here?”
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The body was heavy in his arms. It was night, but the fires surrounding him lit up everything as bright as day. The sky was bright, bright red, bright enough that the light hurt through his eyelids. He didn't know where to look. Below him was John's body. Around him were more bodies, busted up tanks, wells in the ground filling with brown water, shells and debris. Before him was something monstrous that all his days in training hadn't prepared him for. They'd all been wiped out. Except for him. He could feel something wet slide down his cheek. It might've been blood, but he didn't lift a hand to check.
He thought vaguely that he must be numb with shock. He couldn't figure out where it went wrong. His whole body ached with tension and adrenaline. It looked like this was it. Vaguely, he heard a voice in the back of his mind, someone telling him 'I told you so' with a laughing voice, gesturing with a half-empty flask filled with something that barely passed for alcohol.
_____________
The controls swam in his vision and the walls of the cockpit started to close in on him. The air seemed to congeal and turn opaque. He gasped and clutched at is chest, cursing. He thought he might pass out. He reached out and scrambled to stand up, bracing his shaky hands against the walls of the cockpit. It was almost routine now, but that didn't lessen the panic that rose to his chest each time he entered a Kataphrakt. It seemed to be getting worse. He heard the hatch come open and one of the technicians called out to him. He managed to reach the floor of the hangar without falling over.
“Lieutenant Marito--”
“I'm fine,” Marito waved a hand. “I'm fine,” he repeated, his breathing ragged. He hoped he could at least hold on until he was away from other people.
Marito exited the hangar and kept walking until he found an empty hallway. He reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out the dog tag he always kept with him. He stared down at it, taking in the engraved letters and faint brown stains he hadn't been able to scrub off completely. He braced himself against the wall until his breathing steadied. It took several minutes. He fell to his knees and clasped the tag in both hands, bringing it to his forehead as if in prayer.