Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun has yet to peek over the horizon when Dagan arrives at her office.  

Rubbing sleepers out of her eyes, the Starling swipes her access card through the keypad. The electronic lock releases with a buzz that’s so obnoxiously loud that Dagan swears she can feel the ground shake beneath her hooves. One quick press of the door access button directly below the keypad, and the pocket door slides open on mechanical tracks to admit its lone occupant.

Dagan steps inside, placing her free hand on the frame as she crosses the threshold of the office; her office. It’s been barely a week since she first donned her garrison cap, that much-coveted trademark of a status and rank that most STARs spend a non-insignificant amount of time drooling over. It’s been barely a week since she’s come face-to-face with the realities and burdens of her rank; it turns out being an officer isn’t all guns blazing and media glory. There’s paperwork to be done, forms to process, and reports to write; no shortage of such to keep Dagan occupied.

Dagan checks her internal clock as she makes her way to the fax machine sitting behind her desk. The Storches of Sektor C are granted a fair amount of latitude in how they communicate information to their underlings; Protektor Controller Ben Gurion prefers the fax to deliver daily security bulletins, containing information to be disseminated at dawn roll call. Dagan has fifteen minutes before roll call: plenty of time to check the printout and annotate the document as she pleases.

Sure enough, a fresh printout awaits Dagan in the receiving tray of the fax machine. Propping her riot shield against her desk, Dagan reaches for the fax; an abrupt rap-tap-tap of knuckles on the doorframe of her office interrupts her train of thought. Dagan promptly raises her head to greet the newcomer, another Starling peeking out from behind the exposed doorframe.

“Gut-morgn, Unteroffizier. Glory to the Nation.”

Squad corporal STAR-R16-36, callname Halevy, promptly returns the greeting with one of her own. “Glory to the Nation, and good morning to you, too, ma’am. Can I talk to you about something?”

Dagan straightens up and sets the fax down on her desk, devoting her full attention to her subordinate. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

Three long strides, and Halevy is at Dagan’s desk, setting down a single sheet of paper. “It’s about Hotel Squad.” She hesitates, standing at half-attention, waiting for Dagan to reply.

Suppressing a groan, Dagan glances down at the paper Halevy placed on her desk. When was it not about Hotel Squad? Her eyes flicker over the bold letterhead and the half-legible scrawl filling up the blank areas; another personnel grievance form. Fantastic. “What did they do now?”

Halevy takes off her own garrison cap, turning it over in her hands nervously. “Some of them ignored calls for backup yesterday.”

“Backup calls from our squad?” Groaning audibly, Dagan plops down in her chair and motions for Halevy to take a seat across from her. “Halevy, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but are you sure this was intentional? Not due to a bad radio signal, or something of the sort?”

Halevy sits up ramrod straight, eyes fixed on Dagan’s. “I’m certain. Barnea checked the signal strength on her radio afterwards, and Pardo reported seeing several of the Vice squad Protektors in the lobby of the terminal around the same time.”

Dagan picks up the grievance form, nodding in appreciation as her eyes scan it quickly from top to bottom. Halevy has always been exceptionally thorough when it came to report writing; this is no exception. Everything is there: date and timestamps, locations, and a description of the event, along with names of the Vice Starlings who were on duty in the area at the time. “Thank you, Halevy. I’ll take care of this.”

Gratitude flashes in Halevy’s cerulean orbs; she rises to her feetpads, resetting her garrison cap on her head as she does. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see you at roll call.”

Interpreting the gesture to mean that Halevy has nothing more to report, Dagan waves at Halevy as she stuffs the grievance form along with Ben Gurion’s fax into a Manila envelope. “I’ll see you then.”

The briefing room, capacity 30, is tucked away in a corner on the north side of the Protektor barracks. Roll call and the morning briefing is just as unremarkable; same old, same old. Nine STARs (including herself), one STCR; weather updates, BOLO reports, projected headcount of pedestrians and train passengers, special considerations. Storch Ben Gurion stands to the side, arms folded, severe frown plastered to her faceplates as Dagan reads off the pre-printed briefing bulletin. As much as Dagan does not care for Storches, at least this one does her job; Ben Gurion’s insistence on typing up daily bulletins with highly precise wording saves Dagan time and energy on preparing the briefings for roll call.

Dagan can’t help but allow her mind to wander. Her eyes flicker over her squad: her squad. All of these Starlings she has served alongside for a little over three years now. Now she’s their NCOIC, the one they’re expected to look to for guidance, direction, and mentorship. The burden of leadership is a weighty one, indeed.

“…That section of the station is still under renovation. Be careful in those areas, particularly the couple platforms marked with CAUTION tape. No one, and I mean no one, is to cross that tape without prior authorization from the foreman or maintenance head. That’s all for today. Any questions, comments, or concerns?”

Two hands shoot up. Dagan’s grip tightens on her papers, creasing them; this many hands at this hour of the morning is never a good sign. “Harel, then Barnea.”

“Any word on when we’ll get a replacement for Yatom? It’s been almost four periods since she was transferred.”

Dagan sighs. Yatom was one Starling, yes, but one Starling in this line of work could mean the difference between life or death, a successful mission or a botched one. She glances to her left; her eyes meet Ben Gurion’s. The Storch huffs, once, before standing upright and facing the squad. “Command is working on a replacement. We have two candidates for transfer, one from Leng and one from Sektor D. A final decision will be made by the end of this period.”

Shiloah’s hand also goes up, but she’s already talking before it’s fully raised. “Is it true that Maryland was supposed to lend us one of her squad members until we got a replacement, but she refused?”

Now that elicits a reaction from the squad. Hushed voices; low chatter. Ben Gurion’s scowl deepens; she takes a few steps forwards until she’s right at Dagan’s side. “Everyone shut up!” she roars. “We are Protektors, not Gestalt teenagers. Do not let me catch you gossiping or engaging in idle talk about the matter. Aufseher Barnea, what’s your question?”

Dagan shifts on her hooves. Ben Gurion’s expectations are unreasonably high. These are Starlings, after all; social creatures prone to gossip and rumor-spreading. The Controller unit’s non-denial of Shiloah’s concern has only served to fuel the fire; that much is obvious by the gleam in several of the STAR units’ eyes. To Barnea’s credit, she immediately picks up on the unspoken warning encoded in the pointed look Dagan shoots her. “Ma’am, given the projected inclement weather next period, will that joint training exercise with Hotel still happen as planned?”

Ben Gurion huffs. “I have a meeting with Controller Innocent later today. We will discuss the matter then and notify you when we reach a decision. Anything else?”

Silence. Dagan can tell from the varying expressions of the Starlings in front of her that there is no shortage of questions or concerns; Ben Gurion’s heated glare and general demeanor suppresses any further potential queries. The Storch waits all of two seconds before turning on her heel. “You’re dismissed. Glory to the Nation.”

The squad obediently sounds off as one. “Glory to the Nation, ma’am.”

As the Starlings file out, Dagan quickly shoves the bulletin back into her binder, biting back a groan; there’s the personnel grievance form, waiting to be filed or addressed. This is probably the worst part of Dagan’s job, in her opinion. As the squad officer, it falls primarily on her shoulders to mediate disagreements and file the appropriate paperwork when necessary. Nonetheless, it’s a necessary role to play. Dagan is beginning to appreciate the constant frown of Ben Gurion; the bulk of the Storch’s job duties constitute exactly that.

“Unterfeldwebel?”

Dagan glances over. Barnea lingers next to the door; she and Dagan are the only ones left in the briefing room. “Yes?”

“Did you get my personnel grievance form?” Barnea cuts right to the chase. Dagan holds back a smile. Always straightforward, always to the point; Dagan has always appreciated that about Barnea.

“Yes, it’s right here.” Dagan shows Barnea the contents of her binder. “It will be addressed.”

Barnea lets out a soft chuff of air; she nods gratefully. “Thank you, ma’am. They’ve been getting real bold with their little passive-aggressive annoyances over the past few months. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this feels like a full-blown turf war.”

Fantastic; this, again. “I agree with you, just for the record,” Dagan begins, “but don’t let Ben Gurion or anyone else hear such things coming out of your mouth, you hear me? You might get written up for slandering comrades, and I’d rather not have to deal with that.”

Barnea rolls her eyes but turns to leave. “Understood. Glory to the Nation.”

That all-too-familiar, overused benediction; its meaning lost in repetition, relegated mostly to a convenient phrase to signal the intended end of a conversation. Dagan nods in Barnea’s direction and motions at the exit. “Glory to the Nation, Comrade Protektor.”

Dagan exhales softly as Barnea takes her leave. A familiar pang in her chest; Maryland. Maryland. Maryland. She hasn’t spoken to Maryland except to greet her at the bookends of the weekly command staff meetings. She’s still convinced she made the right decision to split from the senior squad officer. Nonetheless, there’s no getting around the fact that there’s a Maryland-shaped hole in her heart. Gestalts in ages past dedicated a seemingly inordinate amount of time writing songs and books about breakups; now Dagan understands why, at least in part.

Heading out the door towards her office, Dagan takes out her radio module and tunes into an all-too-familiar frequency. Just in time; a familiar voice is already speaking, announcing herself over the airwaves.

“Starling Romeo One-Six Zero-Seven to Dispatch, I’m 41 and 8.”

“Romeo One-Six Zero-Seven, 10-4.”

“Show me at the armory. Glory to the Nation. Zero-Seven out.”

“You got it, Zero-Seven. Glory to the Nation.”

Speak of the devil. If there’s one good thing to be said about Maryland, it’s that she’s a stickler for protocol. She’s announced her check-in and current location, a textbook-perfect radio call; her squad knows; Dagan knows.

Dagan glances down at the binder in her hand. Maybe she can talk this one out. Maryland sounded perfectly calm over the radio; Dagan knows the armory is a home away from home for her, the veteran officer’s happy place. Yes, if she wants to catch Maryland in a good mood, now is as good a time as any to try.  

The central Protektor barracks occupies two city blocks and includes indoor rifle and pistol ranges, a dedicated dispatch center, a jail, offices, and apartments, to name a few of its features. The armory is located just off the rifle range, inaccessible from the outside; thankfully, the briefing room is directly connected to the range. Hallways snake through the building; were it not for Dagan’s mapping module or the maps posted on the walls at occasional intervals, Dagan would easily get lost in the maze.

A few twists and turns, and Dagan is approaching the reinforced steel door with a knot in her stomach. The STAR unit lingers outside, eyes tracing the bold lettering engraved on the metal placard bolted to the side of the door.

WAFFENKAMMER

Taking a deep breath, Dagan unclips her ID card from her belt and swipes it through the card reader. Her card trembles in her fingers as she inhales shakily; deep breath in. Everything will be fine. Maryland will be in a good mood; she’ll listen.

Yes, Maryland will be reasonable. She’s on the clock, after all; if past experience is anything to go by, she’s strictly professional when it comes to professional things.

The piezoelectric buzzer emits an obnoxious beep, and the door slides open on well-oiled tracks to reveal the interior of the armory. Dagan steps inside; her olfactory sensors drown in the rank stench of gun lube, that signature coppery-bitter tang of well-worn metal, and the lingering scent of gunpowder. Her optical feeds work in tandem with her processor, identifying the respective sources of those smells, visible behind the security grid separating the reception area from the workspaces: a disassembled carbine on a nearby workbench; the firearms lined up in racks of immaculately ordered and labeled shelves; the handloading presses and their associated paraphernalia on yet another workbench.

A lone Starling mans the desk behind the security glass. Dagan doesn’t remember who she is, but she can figure that out easily enough. One ping to the STAR’s RFID module later, and she’s got a number to match with a name: STAR-R16-11, callname New York.

New York glances up as the buzzer sounds off; immediately, she devotes her full attention to Dagan as the latter enters the armory lobby. “Good morning, ma’am. Glory to the Nation.”

“Glory, comrade,” Dagan replies, exhaustion seeping into her tone. “Is your officer present? I need to speak to her.”

Instead of answering Dagan, New York tilts her head back and shouts into the void. “Oberfeldwebel, you’ve got a caller!”

Seconds later, the clack-clack-clack of approaching hoofsteps announce the arrival of a third party. Clipboard in hand, faceplate fixed in a Storch-like scowl, scar winding across her face; it’s Maryland, no doubt about it. The senior unit pauses as her eyes lock with Dagan’s from behind the glass; her eyes soften, her lips curl upwards.

Shouldering her way past New York, Maryland disengages the deadbolt on the screen door before stepping through, presenting herself to Dagan, larger-than-life. There’s a warmth in her red-rimmed cerulean orbs, almost motherly, or deceptively so; as always, her armor is polished, badge and gun hanging on her belt in their proper places. Surprisingly enough, she’s wearing her garrison cap on her head today. “Unterfeldwebel Dagan, it’s good to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Come to have your Einhorn tuned up, perhaps?”

Dagan suppresses a sigh. Maryland appears so sincere, so genuinely concerned; it takes every ounce of willpower in her not to fall into Maryland’s arms, to beg for forgiveness, to plead with the older unit to take Dagan back under her wing as a girlfriend and a mentee. “N-No thank you,” she stammers. “Do you have a moment to speak with me? In private?”

Maryland’s smile falters: she clearly has some idea of what bodes for her. Dagan immediately regrets her words, which came out sharper than she intended. “I mean — I know you’re b-busy now. We can always do it later—”

A single polyethylene-skinned finger brushes against Dagan’s lips. “Don’t be sorry. I can always spare a few moments for a fellow officer.” Dagan almost flinches as Maryland claps her on the shoulder, motioning towards the workbench sitting in the far corner on the lobby side of the security grid. “Shall we take a seat?”

Dagan swallows, hard; Maryland really is in a good mood. Wincing, Dagan takes a seat, and Maryland pulls up another chair, sweeping her garrison cover off and laying it down on the table with a gentlemanly flourish. Silently sending up a prayer to the Great Revolutionary to spare her from another one of Maryland’s mood swings, Dagan opens her binder and shows Maryland the personnel complaint form. “Maryland, several members of my squad intend to lodge formal complaints against some of your STARs.”

Maryland sets her clipboard down and takes the paper, scanning it; she frowns, leaning back in her chair, crossing her legs. Displeasure overshadows the warmth in her eyes; her lip quirks unhappily. “About what? I must protest, you understand. I keep close tabs on my squad to prevent these sorts of things from happening; I neither heard nor saw anything that would warrant such action; otherwise, I would have said something.”

Well, there goes any hope of a mature and productive conversation between two squad officers. “Maryland, please,” Dagan half-chokes, humiliation welling up in her chest. Here she is, an officer, a leader, pleading with Maryland like a beggar on the streets; the thought fills Dagan with shame. Even so, she presses on. “This hasn’t been filed yet. I’m here with you because I want to avoid lodging formal complaints if I can help it. Please, work with me.”

Maryland hands the sheet of paper back to Dagan. Her scar twists as she frowns. “I see Aufseher Pennsylvania and Aufseher Georgia are listed as the involved units. They are some of my best Protektors, you know. That is quite the far-fetched assumption your corporal has made about them, that they would endanger the lives of your own squad as Halevy alleges.”

Now it’s Dagan’s turn to frown unhappily. Rubbing her temple with one hand, she slides the form back into the plastic sleeve in the binder with her other hand. Just as she feared, Maryland has taken the complaint quite personally; regrettably, Dagan can understand and even empathize. If someone made a complaint against one of her own squad members, Dagan would be similarly upset. No, she shouldn’t be so quick to judge Maryland for her reaction — right?

Well, Dagan figures, she might as well go all the way at this point. “Oberfeldwebel,” she begins solemnly, “I might have told Halevy to kick rocks were it not for persistent complaints from my Starlings about your squad, spread out over the course of several months. They have come forward with concerns about being kicked out of investigations, denied or delayed access to resources they need to do their jobs, a refusal to cooperate and form a good working relationship across the two squads, and now, being ignored when they call for backup.”

Maryland’s eyebrow twitches unpleasantly; Dagan plunges on, determined to finish before Maryland can cut her off. “There are rumors going around that you were supposed to lend my squad one of your girls while we find a permanent replacement for Yatom; that you fought Command’s request and succeeded.” The narc opens her mouth to protest; Dagan holds up a hand. “No, Maryland, let me finish. I don’t want this to be true, any of it. I want to trust you; why do you think I’m here and not talking to one of the Storches right now?” Dagan’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Work with me to fix this. Please.”

The scarred officer folds her arms across her chest, eyes flickering to the side, lips pressed into a thin line; she’s pondering. Dagan waits with bated breath for a reply. The wait is not terribly long. “Well, Dagan, if you say you want to trust me, why don’t you simply trust me?” Maryland shifts in her chair; the grip of her handgun catches on the armrest with a dull clunk. “You know me; you know me quite well, in fact. I find it interesting that you say you want to trust me, but it seems like you don’t seem like you believe your own words very well.”

Dagan bites her lip. She knows exactly where this is going. She should’ve known better; this venture was doomed from the beginning. Best to let Maryland finish her spiel and save face by making a swift exit before things escalate.

“…Is this true, Dagan? You don’t trust me? You can be honest with me, you know. If you say no, I won’t be offended. All I’m asking for is the truth.”

Maryland picks up her garrison cap and toys with it, turning it over in her hands, running her fingers over the three stars pinned to the side; waiting for a response. Frustrated, Dagan can only murmur, “…Not really,” in response to Maryland’s very straightforward question.

“Well.” Maryland’s smile returns. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? I do appreciate your honesty very much. Now, as to the topic you originally brought up…”

The officer’s head snaps to the side. “New York,” she barks, “you better mind your own fucking business! Stop eavesdropping and get back to work. If you have time to sit there and listen in on a confidential matter between two officers, you have time to start on that audit that’s due by the end of next period.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” New York mumbles before disappearing into the back of the armory.

The scowl disappears. Two cerulean orbs settle on Dagan’s; once again, Maryland is at ease. “I’m not sure what it is you want from me or the two Protektors listed on that complaint form. I will speak to Pennsylvania and Georgia about their alleged inaction on that backup call. If the allegations are found to be substantial, they will issue written apologies to your corporal and Aufseher Barnea. There. Does that satisfy you?”

“It’s not about personal satisfaction,” Dagan wants to retort, but she knows that will get her nowhere. Instead, she simply nods. “Thank you, Oberfeldwebel.”

“No need to thank me.” Maryland’s nonchalance is contagious; her smile is as charming and dashingly handsome as ever. Dagan’s anger dispels like a group of unruly Gestalts after being shown the business end of a live stunprod. Her eyes trace Maryland’s scar; somehow, the physical disfigurement hasn’t detracted from her physical appearance at all. The scar ripples with every twitch of Maryland’s eyebrow, every wrinkle of her nose, every new shape her mouth makes. “Might I ask you one question before you go, Unterfeldwebel Dagan?”

Dagan checks her internal clock, then compares it to the chronometer on the wall. She has things she needs to get done; nonetheless, she supposes she can humor Maryland for a while longer. After all, she’s been avoiding her ex-girlfriend for far too long, leaving a gaping hole in her heart; as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, there are aspects of Maryland that she misses dearly, the latter’s conversational skills being one of them. “Sure, go ahead.”

True to form, Maryland rises to her hooves, gesturing for Dagan to do the same. She’s picked up on Dagan’s nonverbal cue; she, too, surely has business she needs to tend to. “Dagan,” she says, eyes filled with concern, “you and I haven’t spoken properly for three months since we last… saw each other. You ignore my greetings in the hallways, you avoid me in the streets and refuse to look at me during meetings; this could have been an email, and yet you sought me out today for a face-to-face conversation. Is everything okay?”

Suddenly, Maryland’s gaze is an unbearable burden, a weight cast over her shoulders; a yoke locked around her neck, chained to a boulder, dragging her down. Dagan casts her eyes to the floor. The tile patterns are of great interest to her now; for the first time, she notices the gray and black streaks snaking in and out of each other, marble-like patterns weaving in synthetic plastic. “I…” Dagan murmurs, and to her everlasting mortification, tears well up in her eyes. “That’s not…”

Out of the corner of her optical feed, Dagan’s targeting module detects movement. Maryland is calmly tucking her garrison cap into her belt, lithe fingers hooking underneath her duty belt, curling around her Protektor badge, working the cap into the space between composite nylon-leather and the jet-black polyethylene shell protecting synthetic skin from the elements. Those same hands once buried themselves in Dagan’s scalp, stroked her cheek and jawline lovingly, burrowed their way into the space between Dagan’s legs; lit her on fire, aroused those sensual passions that filled Dagan with a perverse satisfaction and an everlasting craving for more, more, more! Even now, three months estranged, Dagan is still reliving those highs, fantasizing about Maryland’s attention and affection like a drug-addicted Gestalt. And just like a drug addict, that reptilian side of Dagan’s brain, inflamed by sinful passions, has finally phoned home.

“Home” extends a hand, as if reaching out to stroke Dagan’s cheek, a callback to the good ol’ days; just as suddenly, she retracts it, folding it behind her back as she always tends to do. Dagan will not get her fix today, it seems. Dagan opens her mouth to speak; she can only whimper. “M-Maryland…”

Maryland’s head snaps up; one finger presses against the coiled wire snaking into her ear. Dagan flinches at the sudden movement, taking a step back. Maryland pays her no mind; Dagan blinks. A radio call. Maryland is receiving a radio call.

Holding up a hand apologetically, Maryland presses the PTT button on her radio module.

“Dispatch, that’s a 10-11.”

The sudden shift in atmosphere jerks Dagan out of her trance. Switching right into work mode, Dagan cranks up the volume on her own radio. She’d neglected to switch channels back to the Transit Police frequency; convenient, since she landed right on the Vice channel. Picking up nothing but static interspersed with idle chatter, Dagan’s mind is all confusion for a good minute; then, her lightbulb moment.

Working the appropriate dial on her radio module, Dagan tunes in to the frequency reserved for command staff — every Protektor in the Sektor ranked squad officer or above. Bingo. Maryland is still speaking; there’s a delay of about one second between the words that come out of her mouth and the same words repeated over the airwaves. Thankfully, Dagan reaches the appropriate channel just as Dispatch broadcasts a response to Maryland’s query.

“Dispatch to STAR-R16-07, I’ll repeat this for everyone else to hear. Officers who are available to report to 105, you’re needed for a Code 12.”

A hand closes on Dagan’s shoulder; for the second, or perhaps third, or fourth — whatever — time this cycle, Dagan nearly jumps. She whirls around; looks right into a pair of eyes identical to her own, albeit aged far past her own. “Well, we’re both officers, and we’re both available to report to 105, no?” Maryland motions at the door. “Why don’t we go see what this is all about, and then we can continue this lovely conversation of ours at a later time.”

The proposal is all too agreeable to Dagan, who nods meekly and scoops up her riot shield. Maryland briefly disappears into the back of the armory to fetch hers before motioning at Dagan to follow her. The older unit’s eyes are grim, professional; she nods once at Dagan before pressing the door access button, and the door slides open.

Both Starlings make good time, thanks to their absurdly long legs and Maryland’s fast pace. Just as Maryland reaches her hand out to scan her keycard, the door opens from the inside.

“Officers.” Storch Rommel motions at the interior of the conference room, which is buzzing with conversation in hushed tones. “Key in and sit down.”

“Yes, Madam Protektor Controller.” Maryland swipes her keycard without hesitation. The LED on top of the reader lights up green, and the buzzer sounds off, announcing her arrival to the occupants of the conference room. Dagan follows suit, closely tailing Maryland into the room, doing her damnest to ignore the stares of several of the other Protektors waiting for them inside.

Dagan barely has time to plant her rear end in a chair before a lumbering geriatric of a Storch reeking of cigarette smoke makes her way to the glassboard up front. “Everyone at ease,” Day Shift Watch Commander Eins rasps, her gravelly tenor slicing through the oppressively quiet atmosphere with little effort. “I know you’re all busy, so I won’t waste your time. This morning at approximately 06:17 hours, a maintenance crew responded to a callout for an obstruction on the metro tracks and discovered the crushed remains of STCR-R16-03.”

A collective hushed gasp. Dagan’s oxidant pump almost skips a beat; even without the callname or any personal connection to STCR-R16-03, Dagan knows of (or knew of) the Storch being identified. Storch Innocent was Hotel Squad’s controller, and before that, the Protektor Controller for the Mandelbrot campus security squad. Before Dagan can glance over at Maryland, a growl from Eins and a pointed rap-tap-tap of a dry-erase marker against the glassboard snaps everyone’s attention back to the front of the room.

“We will be launching an investigation into the circumstances of her death, but the cause of death appears to be a fatal accident.” Eins sets the marker down; steely eyes roam over the occupants of the room, warning one and all of the consequences of speaking out of turn. “On behalf of the Nation, my deepest sympathies to those affected by this tragedy.” The words are spoken flatly, with a cool air, almost as if she’s reading off a script. “You may inform your squads of this development, either at shift debrief or at appropriate intervals throughout the day.”

Shock washes over Dagan like a bucket of cold water; from the varied reactions around the room, the sentiment is a shared one. Eins continues to ramble on. “I trust I do not need to remind you all of the consequences of facilitating or spreading rumors, untruths, or anything regarding this matter that has not been disseminated through the proper channels.”

Eins pauses, gaze raking over the assembly. “STAR-R16-07, step outside the room as soon as this meeting is adjourned and notify your corporal that she will be leading today’s shift. Report to my office immediately once this is done. The rest of you are dismissed. Glory to the Nation.”

“Glory to the Nation,” the occupants of the room reply in practiced unison. Eins is already halfway to the door; Maryland quickly rises as well. Her back is partially turned towards Dagan, her expression indeterminable.

Another STAR officer pauses, turns in Maryland’s direction. Her eyes are narrowed; her left hand clenches her shield with enough force to bend the handle ever so slightly. Without any warning or provocation whatsoever, she marches right up to Maryland, poking the senior unit in the chest with enough force to shove Maryland back down in her chair. “You’re responsible for this!” the officer hisses. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say you did it yourself!”

Chaos erupts. Storch Brandy grabs the officer’s elbow; another STAR steps in front of Maryland. Several other Protektors quickly separate the two. “Enough!” Rommel snaps. “Whatever grievances you two have can be settled at a later time. Zero-Seven, see yourself to Eins’ office. Four-Two, one more outburst like this, and I’m handing your officer position to Sturer.”

Maryland calmly rises to her feetpads. Brandy and another STAR officer clear a path to the exit for her. Instead of taking the opportunity to leave, Maryland sighs, shoulders slumping as she turns to face the other officer. “Sturm,” she begins, her voice heavy, “that really hurts me, that you would assume such things about me. Do you understand the weight of such an accusation? Murder is a grave matter, and to accuse a fellow Protektor of it without proof is a serious, serious thing indeed.”

Say what you will about Maryland’s infidelity or tendency to hide information; she’s as charming and unwavering in the face of murder accusations as one can possibly be. Dagan can’t help but stand against the wall and observe the scene unfold in admiration for her ex-girlfriend: Sturmgeschütz’s heated charge, leveled in a sudden and unprovoked outburst of emotion; Maryland’s calm response, the innocent party wrongfully accused; the subconscious response of the surrounding Protektors in response to these subtle cues, moving to protect Maryland and block Sturm from laying a finger on her again.

“Unterfeldwebel Sturmgeschütz, Oberfeldwebel Maryland.” Unusually friendly for a Storch unit under normal circumstances, Brandy’s agitation is made abundantly clear by curled lips and furrowed brow; every word comes out as tightly stretched as a violin’s string, on the verge of snapping upon the slightest twinge. “Are you senior Protektors or squabbling teenagers? You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Out, right now; both of you! Now!”

With one final, pointed glance at Sturm, Maryland picks up her riot shield and marches for the door, head high, shoulders back. The Protektors standing in her way clear out; Maryland is a modern-day Moses parting a Red Sea of black and white armor. Figuring she had better do the same and beat feet, lest she risk the wrath of the Storches clearing the room, Dagan trails in Maryland’s wake; her exit, like Maryland, is made with no time to waste.

Very much unlike Maryland, no one accuses her of murder as she leaves.