When bright lights creep through half-parted lids, I welcome the day with a joy-drunk smile.
Simon is home.
Stretching limbs in a languid, peaceful way I'm not accustomed to, I flinch as stiff muscles strain and locked joints pop. We had fallen asleep on those hard benches and woken in a world of pain. Together, with his arm across my shoulders, we hobbled home.
It's early morning. Simon pokes at something deliciously meaty on the hotplate.
"G'morning, Kiddo."
Normal. This feels normal. Normal enough to allow myself a moment of genuine peace.
But as soon as it arrives, the peaceful sensation retreats into my gut.
Today is not the day to relax. Today's mission is to prepare myself for the worst.
Today is hatch duty.
The front intercom buzzes. One of the neighbors rushes over to push against the door, allowing our visitor access. Seconds later, Dean strides into our section of the pod and tentatively pulls back the curtain. When he sees Simon at the hotplate, Dean gives us one of his rare, toothy smiles.
Dean detects food.
"Slide over, Nika," Simon says without breaking his attention away from the sizzling pan. "Someone obviously knows the good stuff when he sees it."
For the rest of the morning, we sit together amicably. Our legs brush together when I shift to laugh at Simon's too-baggy pants or when Dean leans over to ask for another helping. It's impossible to ignore the intoxicating scent of soil that permeates Dean. Our hands bump casually as our little family congeals. I cave to the urge to pray again.
Please make this last forever.
Two shrill alarms break into the room, cracking the spell.
It's time.
Dean hands his empty plate over. His hands tremble. Most wouldn't catch the minute wavering, but I do. Once they're empty, he clamps his hands together, twisting them around, squeezing his knuckles while staring at the floor. Hatch duty never used to do this to us, but the URE is a different place now. The sole comfort is that we'll be together. We've always served hatch duty that way.
I wrap my arms around my father, squeezing him tight. He returns my embrace with equal zeal and offers the same to Dean.
"Be safe." Simon tails us on our exit.
"I always try." The words are empty as they escape. It's our customary farewell loaded with the promises I can't make, the hope of an unscathed return, and the reluctance of a soldier returning to war. I try to insert my confidence into the simple phrase, but I seem to have misplaced it. The words crackle like eggshells.
Dean nods as we depart.
We emerge into the dusty, broken landscape of the Topside. As much as I know we have prepared ourselves for it, I flinch as the large silver door, camouflaged behind fake boulders and gray netting, locks behind us. It's a long noise that ends with a heavy click.
I brace myself to stomach the horrific mess of blood or liquified leftovers from the casualties. But no remnants of the dead exist. Dean's Tactical Recovery team completes their missions with stellar attention to detail. There's nothing but streaming rays of terrifying sunlight set against a chorus of songbirds.
My Reaper gear strikes out against the brightness of day. Dean's gray TR battle dress uniform is much more subtle than mine. He disappears into the pillars of a massive building that obscures the southwest hatch gate.
I retreat to the shadows of the building and flip over my anti-glare mask. The wasteland below presents the same rock piles as before. I strike my body into a tense stance.
What if the Invaders choose today to come back?
For the first time, I'm not prepared to meet them.
Even if they're a little battered, my family is back. I can't lose them again.