Dishonor From Nightmares

Chapter 15

"Come on fucker wake up!"

Josh's awakening was sudden and jarring, his body jerking upright as he fought for breath, disoriented and alarmed. His chest constricted, a tightness that seemed to suffocate him, and his hands instinctively clutched at his shirt, the fabric bunching between his fingers as he coughed, crimson spatters marring the pristine white sheets. Grogginess clung to him like a heavy fog, yet he pushed himself out of bed, his blonde hair tousled and unruly as he raked his fingers through it. Stumbling to the desk, his hands slammed down on the surface, steadying him as he lifted his gaze to the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him, haunted and weary, a silent testament to the nightmares that had plagued his rest. His gaze trailed along the contours of his face, hazel eyes tracing the faint scar etched into his cheek, and his fingers brushed against the more prominent, angry scar on his jaw—an indelible mark of battles fought.

"My eyes are blue and brown. My hair is blonde," Josh muttered to himself, a mantra that seemed to anchor him in reality. The reflection held no answers, yet vocalizing the details of his appearance felt like a grounding ritual. Turning away from the mirror, he huffed a frustrated breath, resolving to have his unruly hair trimmed after the impending mission.

Returning to the bed, Josh exchanged his white t-shirt for a practical tank top, the fabric clinging to the contours of his body. Camouflage pants followed the act of pulling them on, tugging at a small tear on his finger, prompting a soft groan as he nursed the minor injury. The weight of his old locker pressed against his chest, a comforting presence with a history of memories and experiences. He paused, lost in thought for a moment, before tucking his green comforter neatly over the sheets, a subconscious gesture of order amidst the chaos.

The glass vial necklace caught his attention; a delicate artifact dangled from a shelf above the bed. Retrieving it, he slipped it over his head, the soft clinking of the bullet casing within the vial a familiar melody. The camouflage jacket that habitually adorned his desk chair was donned, a second skin that offered comfort and a sense of preparedness. Seated again, he reached into his boots for a pair of socks, methodically donning them before lacing them up.

His internal clock informed him of his tardiness, a delayed rise due to anticipating a forthcoming mission. The mess hall beckoned, clattering and chattering like a siren's call. As the metallic echo of his boots reverberated on the floor, the hubbub of voices enveloped him. Entering the hall, his presence drew disapproving glances he chose to brush aside, his focus locked on the sustenance he sought.

Ordering his meal—a combination of balsamic rice, mashed potatoes, and a brownie. He thanked the staff, a gesture of acknowledgment amidst the cacophony. The chef took his order, handing him a tag, and Josh leaned against the wall, soaking in the residual warmth from the food trays as he waited. When his meal was ready, he eschewed the available seats, opting instead to remain standing, the proximity to the warming table a source of comfort.

Before departing the mess hall, he flashed a fleeting grin at the chef, gratitude etched in the lines of his expression. With the meal in hand, he ventured forth, his steps guided by routine, his mind momentarily lost in the solace of sustenance amid the demands of duty.

Using takeout containers had become both a practical necessity and a productive strategy for Josh and his solitary inclinations. Despite having spent a year laboring within the confines of the Foundation, the interactions he'd endured with his colleagues left much to be desired. The prevailing sentiment towards him was a mixture of indifference and disdain, yet Josh's disposition remained remarkably unaffected by these attitudes. The opinions of others held little sway over him, his priorities rooted elsewhere.

Josh's foremost concern was not the unfriendly atmosphere that often permeated the facility's corridors but rather the potential consequences of his impulses. He had a reputation for a hot temper, and while standing up for himself in the face of mistreatment was tempting, he was acutely aware of the consequences. Losing his job over a confrontation was not a risk he would take.