A STORY JUST FOR ME

The base's hallways were cold. Metal underfoot, buzzing lights above.

You stood outside the mess hall, staring through a fogged window. You weren't hungry. But you missed the smell of steam and rice and soldiers laughing like the world hadn't already ended.

Mireya passed by.

Stopped.

She was carrying her ration tray—flat, orderly, and barely touched.

She glanced at you. Then at your thin shoulders, hunched posture, and dust-covered coat.

She didn't say anything.

She just sighed. Walked away.

Years ago —

She stood in the same spot.

Same mess hall window. Same hunger, held in by pride.

But back then, she was twelve.

Her parents were gone.

The base had taken her in after an attack she never spoke of.

No one gave her food.

No one saw her until she collapsed from exhaustion on a drill field.

She remembered that day often.

Not the pain.

But how did no one ask her name? Just dragged her like gear.

The Moment She Found You Again.

That night, rain fell—not heavy, just enough to make the metal roofs shiver.

She was walking back to her barracks when she saw you again.

Curled beside a discarded crate. Coat wrapped tight. No blanket. No fire.

You weren't crying.

You were just… existing.

Like forgotten luggage.

She froze.

And that memory—of her—standing in the same rain, younger, colder—crawled up her spine.

"...Dammit."

She took you in.

She didn't ask questions.

Didn't give you some dramatic speech.

Just tossed you a folded blanket, pointed to the corner of her quarters, and muttered:

"Sleep there. Don't touch the knife drawer."

The next morning, she handed you a tray.

"Eat. You look like a half-charged drone."

And then, one day later:

"You're helping me sort comms crates now. I'm not feeding a freeloader."

Two weeks passed.

You swept, lifted, delivered, and learned.

She never smiled.

But she never yelled either.

She checked your cuts.

She made sure you drank water.

She once gave you a new pair of shoes and called them leftovers even though they clearly weren't.

You said nothing.

But you folded your blanket every morning.

And left her coffee warm by the time she returned from briefings.

Then… the Mission Came

An officer knocked.

"Corporal Mireya. You're being assigned a temporary field command."

"Border retrieval mission. Civilians and staff from an abandoned research dome in Sector S-11.

The last report said the dome still held surviving children… and unidentified threats."

Mireya glanced at you.

You didn't flinch.

"I'll need extra personnel," she said. "Ones I can trust."

The officer shrugged.

"Pull who you need. Your unit. Locals. Volunteers. Doesn't matter. We just need someone to go."

You stood beside her as she filled her gear bag.

"I want to come."

She paused.

"You're not trained."

You met her eyes.

"I don't forget what I see. And I don't run from it either."

She stared for a long moment.

Then nodded once.

Departure Day…

The military crawler was cramped, humming like a giant beast.

You sat near the back, beside crates of pulse rifles and rations.

Mireya sat at the front, briefing the rest.

You looked out the window.

And then—

A flicker of black uniform.

Silver shoulder stripes.

Gloves white as moonlight.

He boarded last.

Quincy.

He scanned the crowd, then locked eyes with you.

Just… a second.

Enough.

"I wasn't expecting you on this mission," he said quietly.

Mireya's jaw tensed.

"General Caelum. Didn't know you'd be overseeing this one."

"Sector S-11 is not a civilian-safe zone. I have my reasons."

He turned back to you.

"Still nameless, I presume? "

You nodded.

He tilted his head, curious. Amused.

Or maybe… something else.

"Let's see if you survive this one too."

(On the Road to Sector S-11)

The vehicle groaned over jagged terrain, dust curling in waves outside.

You sat in the back with the younger soldiers.

Mireya scanned maps.

Quincy? He stood. Always stood. One hand resting gently on the hilt of his ceremonial blade, the other behind his back.

Everyone pretended not to stare at him.

But no one spoke.

Then the screams came. 

A static crackle from the radio.

"Unit B-2… we're under… —zzzz— ambushed—mutants—swarm—! "

The driver slammed on the brakes.

You all jolted forward.

A moment later—the crawler was hit.

Something massive crashed into the side. Steel crumpled. Sparks flew.

You saw it through the slits in the door:

A limb—not a claw, not a hand—just flesh wrapped in metal and hate.

Then more of them.

Monsters—born from failed experiments, warped by psychic decay.

They had human faces fused to insect bodies. Some wore scraps of soldier armor—as if they had once been… people.

The crawler shook.

The soldiers screamed.

And Quincy moved.

He drew his blade.

But it didn't glow.

Didn't pulse.

Didn't hum with special power.

It just… cut.

A monster slammed through the door —

Quincy stepped forward, blade flicking once—the head rolled off clean.

Another lunged —

He sidestepped, stabbed upward, and pulled the creature off his sword with his foot.

"Close formation. No screaming," he said calmly.

"If you panic, you die. If you die, I'll make sure you regret it."

You grabbed a pipe from the wall and jumped into the fray.

Mireya cursed and followed—gun drawn, covering your flank.

You weren't trained. But you moved fast.

Your body wasn't just a vessel—it was something else. Something… born for survival.

Quincy noticed.

"You fight like you're not afraid of dying," he murmured during a brief pause.

You didn't reply.

But he added:

"Or maybe… you've already died once."

It towered over the rest—fused with a signal tower and spewing electric pulses.

It shrieked with voices—overlapping radio calls and old, broken cries for help.

"Don't let it scream," Mireya barked. "It'll scramble our brains! "

The others fell back.

Quincy looked at you.

"You. With me."

You didn't question him.

You ran—together.

He cut the creature's legs.

You climbed its back, smashing circuits with the pipe.

It howled.

Its voice shifted —

"Heeeelp meee—"

"I had a daaaaughteeer—"

"I wanted to be human…"

It begged.

And Quincy…

"Spare your guilt for the living," he whispered.

He plunged the blade into its core.

It fell.

The crawler was damaged, but you survived.

Bodies burned. Smoke drifted into the dead sky.

Quincy stood silent, wiping his blade.

Then, softly:

"You still don't remember your name, do you? "

You shook your head.

"I don't need to," you said. "Names are for people who have places to return to."

He turned to leave…

But paused.

"Next time we meet… I might be your enemy."

"Tell your guardian to be careful. She protects something the Capital doesn't understand."

Then, without another word, he vanished into the smoke—summoned to a different mission.

(Post-Battle—Late Night)

The stars were sharp and too quiet.

Campfires flickered low around the transport crawler.

Soldiers bandaged each other. Some laughed to break the silence. Others stared at nothing.

You sat apart.

Not because you were told to—but because you always do.

Mireya stood a short distance away, sharpening her blade. Not out of necessity—it was already clean.

But her hands needed something to do.

She hadn't spoken since Quincy left.

I floated beside you, quiet. My fur soaked in starlight.

"Wanderer…" I whispered.

"She's remembering. Right now. A night just like this one."

And without another word,

I let you see it.

(Ten years ago, Sector 4 collapse zone)

Screams echoed through the smoke.

Buildings buckled. Metal groaned like dying whales.

A siren pulsed in the sky.

Mireya ran—younger, no rank, just a desperate woman with a torn jacket and a broken comm.

In her arms: a child. Sleeping. Or unconscious. Or worse.

Her daughter, Elari.

Soft brown hair. Tiny fingers. Just turned five.

"Hold on, baby," she whispered. "Please—Mama's almost there—"

The extraction site loomed ahead —

Two soldiers flagged her down.

"Mireya! Change of plan! The diplomat's kid is here. Orders are to get him out first! "

"No. No, no, I have my kid—she's—"

"Orders!"

She stared.

At the other child: crying, rich, someone else's world.

At her own: still and quiet, growing heavier in her arms.

"Let me take her—just one trip—"

"We don't have time! "

The transport pulled up.

She moved. Automatic. Numb.

She handed her daughter to a medic.

Then helped the other child in.

But the moment she turned to go back—

The building collapsed.

Dust swallowed the air.

And everything was white.

Mireya didn't notice you staring.

But her hand paused, blade mid-motion.

And for the first time… her voice cracked.

"You remind me of someone," she said.

You didn't answer. You knew what she meant.

She wiped her eyes quickly, like it was dust.

"Don't think I took you in out of kindness."

"I did it because… I didn't want to lose another kid in silence."

She turned her back, the firelight catching her scar.

"Don't die stupid."

Then walked off into the night.