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Bertie took a slow, deep breath.
There was new blood today. New kids dragged from terra firma to die in the tunnels.
He’d snagged the date from one of them earlier. He’d been up here, shooting and killing and starving for over half a year now. His birthday was a month ago, so he’s twenty.
So much for 'home by Christmas.' So much for even 'well maybe we'll be home by easter.'
Timmy was off with some other poor fuckers to figure out where the break in the waterline was. Bertie would’ve insisted on following, if the general hadn’t had him assigned to checking after the pumps and figuring out which respirators worked and which had to be repaired. But that's what he gets for being the only living man up here with even a gram of technical skill. He wasn't even good with machines, just a passing knowledge and a slight obsession with trains as a teenager.
The new kids were rowdy, loud, and Bertie already knew he hated all of them. Their ranks would be thinned out in the coming weeks, and by then the annoying ones would either have learned how much of a mistake signing up for this was and shut up, or be cooked up in the kitchens.
God, that's grim. These were teenagers he was talking about.
No matter though. What’s a soldier boy to do about the slaughter of his comrades. By now he’s seen enough death to feel numb to it. He'd have to eat them anyway.
With that thought, he shudders. He wants a smoke. There hadn’t been any in the supplies shipment, not a single damn box. Which is just fucking cruel. The queen sends them all up here to die, with no food, faulty water systems, and not even a single box of cigarettes.
The fighting is worthless. It's all worthless. They hadn’t made a single tunnel of progress in a month. The lunar men are like fucking cockroaches.
He passed two of the new recruits as he stalked towards the next respirator station. The new ones were supposed to be being debriefed by general the-one-with-the-patchy-beard. He didn't care why the hell they were out here, or what the hell they were doing.
One was short, taller than him, but short. Maybe 5’4 or 5, the other was taller. Thinner, and in the low light Bertie couldn’t get a proper look at their face. Despite that, in the one or two seconds he was looking at them, something about the shape of their head looked off.
He was just worried about Timmy.
Then he smelled cigarette smoke, and paused mid-stride. Noticing that the shorter of the two was smoking, and Bertie scowled. Course the recruits would bring their own cigarettes.
Damn.
...Well, it had been a while since he stole something. Been a while since he’s done anything beyond shoot and sulk and bitch and sleep.
Why not steal something?
He’s practically the only one up here who knows how to fix the pumps anymore, with Mr. Grice one gas attack away from death, so not like they’d risk doing anything to him. At least until a new technician is shipped up here to die.
He cranked open the respirator box, and tested them. Checked the filters and clasps one by one.
Monotone work on a monotone day.
It was night, and Bertie was sneaking into the barracks of the two soldiers.
It wasn't hard.
There were two boxes tossed on the shelf. Perfect. Now if he could just… he reached over and snagged a box. Perfect.
“Hello there chap!” A voice said from one of the bunks and Bertie nearly jumped out of his skin as he recoiled.
“Uh.”
“Are you lost? This is not your room!”
“..yes um! I just walked in the wrong one. My, um, apologies-”
“TS who the fuck are you talking to?” Said a bleary voice from the other cot and Bertie mentally signed his own death certificate. The man rubbed his eyes, looking at Bertie.
“Aren’t you that.. mechanic guy?”
“No.” Bertie said dumbly.
“Why are you here?”
“I walked into the wrong-”
“Don't think so,” He said, sitting up and looking Bertie dead in the eyes. “Looks to me like you're stealing my cigarettes.”
“Well..”
“That was my suspicion too, Jonny! I think we have a thief in our room.”
Damn damn damn damn
“If you will excuse me,” Bertie started, turning to leave. “I simply walked into the wrong-”
“You can have a pack. I have more.” The guy says and Bertie pauses in his hasty retreat. “What’s your name? Pronouns?”
Bertie slowly turned around, Just staring. “...You’re really just going to give me a pack?”
The guy shrugged. “I can get more.”
Bertie severely doubted it. But he wasn’t saying anything.
“But, tell me your name and pronouns. That's the price.”
...fuck it. He wanted them.
“Bertram Johnson, he/him.”
“Jonny D’ville, also he/him,” The man shot to his feet and, in an almost aggressive manner, shook Bertie’s hand. His grip was too tight and Bertie did not know how to react. “I think you and I will be friends.”
Bertie explicitly did not like the sound of that, given he had just attempted to rob the guy.
“...Sure.” He says slowly, pulling his hand out of Jonny’s grasp. hastily retreating towards the door. Pack of cigarettes in hand. “..See you around.”
The guy was grinning a tad maniacally and as he slipped out the door, Bertie almost found himself hoping the man would take a bullet to the head so he didn't have to deal with whatever grave he’d just dug himself.
Getting back to his bunk was just a matter of dodging the night watch, and he and Timmy had long memorized the schedules.
Back in his room, he dragged his old lighter from behind his stack of clutter he’d acquired over the last half a year from the dead. He fumbled a moment with it, before lighting one and taking a long drag.
(And later, but not by much, he’d find himself chatting idly with D’ville as they ate together. Against all odds, he found himself liking the guy.)