Chapter 16: The Hum of the Generator

The tactical pause lasted three days. In the Kunar, "free time" didn't mean relaxation; it meant the absence of immediate death. The air at COP Titan was thick with the scent of burning trash and the constant, low-frequency thrum of the diesel generators.

I found a corner of the motor pool that smelled of old grease and dust, away from the prying eyes of the main barracks. I was sitting on an overturned milk crate, finally taking a needle and thread to the tear in my ACU sleeve that I’d been ignoring for a week. Without the makeup, the white patches on my hands and wrists were stark against the dark fabric.

"You're making a mess of that stitch, Ghost."

I looked up to see Stitch leaning against the hood of a dusty Humvee. He held two lukewarm cans of soda and tossed one toward me. I caught it with one hand, the cold aluminum stinging my raw palms.

"I’m an RTO, Stitch, not a seamstress," I muttered, but I set the needle down.

"My Abuela would disown you," he joked, hopping up to sit on the hood. He popped his tab and looked out toward the HESCO barriers. "You know, the guys are talking. Not the bad kind of talk. Not anymore. Even Thorne... he’s been quiet. Ever since you packed his head back at the bridge, he looks at you like you’re a ghost he’s not sure he believes in."

"He doesn't have to believe in me," I said, taking a sip of the syrupy soda. "He just has to stay in his sector."

"It’s more than that," Stitch said, his voice dropping. "We’re a pack, Coraline. And for a long time, you were the one we were trying to eat. Now? You’re the one keeping the radio up. You're the one dragging Shepard and Thorne out of the dirt. The ice is melting. Even the Captain... he’s different when you’re around. More human. Less like a statue."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Mentioning the Captain felt like touching a live wire.

"Just watch your back," Stitch added, his grin returning. "Viper’s got a hair up his ass about the inventory count. If he catches you lounging, he’ll have us scrubbing the floor of the TOC with toothbrushes."

I watched him walk away, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust. For a few minutes, the war felt a thousand miles away. It was just a girl, a soda, and a torn sleeve. But as I looked up at the TOC balcony, I saw the familiar silhouette of Captain James. He wasn't looking at the mountains. He was looking down at me. He didn't wave. He didn't move. He just stood there, a silent sentinel in the heat, watching the girl with the spotted skin try to sew her life back together.