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Halo prayed every night. It was no secret. They all knew how she got her callsign and the soft cadence and steady rhythm were quite calming on stressful days. Days like today.
Hangman generally didn’t mind the prayers. Everyone was entitled to their beliefs and to do whatever they wanted in their free time. But there were moments where it all got too much and he had to leave before doing something he’d regret. The echoes in her voice, no matter how pretty, were remembrances of the place he had fought so hard to escape. People never understood his hate for organised religion because they never had to escape it. They didn’t understand how hard it was to be different and have everyone criticizing and mocking your beliefs. He had escaped his parents and their church in pursuit of a new life only to be followed by Christianity everywhere he went.
He gently touched his dog tags feeling the soft empty spot where it should be written Pagan.
He shouldn’t be afraid of writing it but he was. More afraid than he was of saying he was gay or admitting he hated landing on a carrier on a foggy day. And, on days like this, he couldn’t help but think about dying. What’d happen to his body? Would they bury him with a cross? Would they leave it to his parents? Would they bury him with an empty stone?
Would the body he cherished so much be left to rot in Christian soil? Left there for people to forget how much he fought to find his path. How much he fought to be free.
He leaned against the banister and looked at the moon-bathed sea. If Halo could go down on her knees and pray then fuck it so could he.