~MOUSE~
The air in the barracks was thick with tension as her fury hung in the atmosphere like a charged storm.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on her shoulders, each step a testament to the physical toll of the day she had just had.
Aching muscles screamed with each movement, and her skin, clammy and sticky, clung to her like a layer of slime.
As she entered the dimly lit barracks, the echoes of her heavy footsteps reverberated through the space.
The room felt suffocatingly empty, void of the one person who seemed to be the catalyst for her furious emotions.
König.
His whereabouts were a mystery and she was thankful he wasn't there.
If he was, she might have killed him for real this time.
Her knuckles were fucked.
Faint hues of purple and blue adorned the tips and her fingers ached.
He'd made her punch that stupid fucking red bag for so long that her skin had split and dried blood crusted her hand.
Without hesitation, she stormed into their shared space, the anger boiling beneath her skin and demanding an outlet.
The room seemed to shrink as she glared at his unoccupied side, grabbing whatever clothes from her duffel she could get her hands on.
Getting what she needed she stormed across the room.
In a defiant gesture, she extended her middle finger towards his empty bed.
"Va te faire foutre, connard!" she seethed as she glared at his neatly made bed.
Charging away from it she threw herself at the bathroom door. The bathroom door swung open with such force, that the hinges protested with a whine.
She needed to cleanse herself of the grime, both physical and metaphorical.
She was furious.
She didn't understand him.
The water turned on with a hiss, and she stepped into the cascading warmth, letting it wash away the residue of the day.
In an act of rebellion, she reached for his shampoo and conditioner, a deliberate choice to claim a small victory over him.
The scent of his toiletries mingled with the steam, creating an intoxicating aroma that enveloped her senses.
She tried not to sigh as the mouth-watering smell of honey and sandalwood invaded her senses.
Gritting her teeth she poured more than necessary of both products into her hand, letting the rich lather drown out the noise in her mind.
Under the water's embrace, she closed her eyes, allowing the droplets to run over her hair.
She could imagine she was in the ocean. Watching the waves dance around her. Admiring how light seemed to bend and dip around her arms.
The thought calmed her down.
Emerging from the shower, she dried off vigorously, the fabric rubbing against her now sore skin.
The tops of her ribs were bruised as well as her hands.
Courtesy of him as well.
Well, she was the one who tackled him, but she blamed him anyway.
A sense of liberation accompanied the act of drying as if she could shed the burdens that clung to her just as easily as the water droplets.
A tracksuit and a large grey hoodie became her armour, a shield against the outside world.
Hiding her bruises.
She would not let anyone see them.
She was not weak.
Leaving the bathroom a mess of his products and wet towel she swung the bathroom door open and walked to her duffel.
He still wasn't back yet and she hoped he wouldn't be for a while.
Grabbing her knife and phone she shoved them in the large hoodie pocket.
With bare feet making contact with the cold floor, she strode out of the room, leaving behind the remnants of her anger.
She left their whole space messy on purpose. Her clothes were across the floor and her bed was unmade with her grey blanket strewn off the bed.
She hoped it pissed him off.
Her hair dripped down her face as she stormed down the hallway barefoot.
The slapping of her skin on stone rang in her ears as she stormed towards the mess hall.
Her body flinched as she heard a familiar noise.
The rhythmic cadence of his footsteps reverberated through the hallway, each heavy footfall echoing against the walls like the approach of an impending storm.
The sound was unmistakable, a distinctive herald of the tall and muscled man that dominated the corridor.
As he emerged into view, his imposing figure cast a long shadow that seemed to stretch out, reaching for her.
His muscular frame was encased in sleek gear, that rippled as he moved.
The sniper hood, drawn tight over his head, leaving only a glimpse of those eyes.
Eyes that were now locked on her.
Despite the imposing exterior, there was a momentary freeze in his movements as he caught sight of her.
The air crackled with tension, and for an instant, he seemed to hang suspended.
Her bare feet made little sound as she closed the distance, her eyes still ablaze with the remnants of her fury as she refused to look at him.
In that fleeting moment, he appeared to stop in his tracks, as if the sheer force of her presence had momentarily immobilized him.
His eyes widened as they fell on her furious face and baggy clothing.
The wet tendrils of hair framed her face, and she could feel his gaze, roaming over her.
She, however, was not one to be halted.
Especially not by him.
She used her hand to push her wet hair out of her face as she blazed past him with determination.
She wanted to smack her shoulder into his, but he would probably bruise that too, and he was her superior.
That sort of thing was frowned upon.
The echo of her footsteps resounded through the empty halls as she half ran, half walked, her anger propelling her forward.
She wanted to get away from him.
The intensity of her emotions began to wane, giving way to the weariness that clung to her like a persistent shadow.
The journey through the dimly lit corridors led her to the mess hall, a beaming sanctuary.
As she pushed open the creaking door, the silence enveloped her like a shroud.
The mess hall lay empty, its usual bustling energy replaced by a stillness that mirrored the calm after a storm.
Fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over the space, emphasizing the cleanliness that contrasted with the chaos within her.
Her steps were quieter now as she approached a small red couch nestled against the far wall.
The worn fabric seemed to welcome her with open arms, and with a heavy sigh, she flopped down onto it.
The soft cushion yielded beneath her weight, providing a momentary reprieve from the demands of the day.
The mess hall, with its deserted tables and chairs, echoed her solitude.
She always seemed to be alone.
The only sound was the gentle hum of the overhead lights, a steady rhythm that accompanied the rise and fall of her breath.
Her wet hair clung to her neck, a reminder of the cathartic shower that had washed away the physical traces of her anger.
In the stillness of the room, she allowed herself a moment of respite.
The red couch cradled her fatigued body, Zero had been right.
It was comfortable.
Lifting her hands above her face, she sighed heavily as her eyes traced the vivid hues of the bruises staring back at her.
The faint purple and blue of her bruised knuckles mirrored the storm that had raged within her earlier.
A sigh escaped her lips, a mixture of frustration and resignation.
She'd never had a worse Colonel.
With a weary gesture, she used her arms to shield her face.
Crossing them above her head and using them to block the small amount of light around her.
The automatic lights would turn off eventually, but she was too tired to wait.
The coolness of her hoodie fabric against her skin offered a fleeting comfort, a small refuge from the harsh stinging of her skin.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to be enveloped in the sounds around her, a symphony that transcended the confines of the mess hall.
The distant roar of the ocean reached her ears, a constant and rhythmic reminder of nature's power.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore resonated with a soothing cadence, a stark contrast to the turbulence within.
Amidst the calming melody of the ocean, another layer of sound emerged—the rustle of leaves in the wind.
The mess hall, positioned in a secluded spot surrounded by trees, became a conduit for the gentle whispers of nature.
Sedatephobia was rare.
But since she had been left to choke on her own blood, the static sound of her fallen teammates ringing in her ears and a blade ripped through her back, it had gripped her in its quiet yet suffocating embrace.
The fear of silence, an anomaly in a world that often cherished peace and quiet, manifested as a relentless torment when she was left alone.
It made her taste her feel like she was back in that room.
For her, the quiet was not a sanctuary.
It was a prison covered with starving rats that gnawed at her skin.
The stillness that accompanied solitude felt like an oppressive weight, pressing against her lungs, making each breath a struggle.
When she was alone, the fear of suffocation crept in, an invisible hand tightening around her throat.
To combat that ripping fear, she sought refuge in the continuous hum of the world around her.
The ocean's rhythmic roar became a constant source of reassurance, a reminder that life flowed even in the stillness.
With her eyes gently closed, she surrendered to the soothing symphony of the raging waves outside.
The relentless roar of the ocean became a lullaby, a rhythmic serenade that cradled her weary soul in its undulating embrace.
The sounds of the waves, crashing and receding in a hypnotic cadence, formed a tranquil backdrop against the canvas of her thoughts.
As the ocean's melody filled the air, it wrapped around her like a comforting cocoon, each wave a gentle stroke lulling her further into the arms of slumber.
In the embrace of the ocean's song, the worries that had etched themselves onto her began to fade.
The weight of exhaustion and the echoes of frustration were carried away by the tide.
The sound became a bridge between consciousness and the realm of dreams, a threshold crossed with each rise and fall of the waves.
The red couch beneath her became a vessel adrift on the sea of sound, carried away by the currents of her own breath and the rhythmic pulse of the ocean.
With each passing wave, the boundaries between wakefulness and slumber blurred, and she sank into it with open arms.
As the waves continued their timeless dance, she surrendered to the embrace of sleep, carried away on the tide.
~~~~~~~~~~
TRANSLATIONS
French
"Va te faire foutre, connard," - fuck you, asshole