So, following @W.A.Rorie's advice, I am going to start tagging these little vignettes and scenes with the appropriate story they are from. I will be going back and ensuring others are tagged appropriately, so there's some consistency and readers do not mix up one with the other.

So, this is from about midway through Comes the Sandstorm, and occurs after the assault on Complex 73. I think this is the first bit I've posted from that particular portion of the story.

I've had a little bit of an injury to my hand of late which is why I've not been posting much, neither here nor painted models. But, getting past it! Anyhow, I do hope you enjoy. As always, constructive criticism is most welcome.

=====

The armoury was quiet. Paused with the kind of stillness that came after all the shouting and the blood.

Laska sat on a low counter near the lockers, one boot on a ration crate, the other swinging lazily. Her flak jacket was unzipped, her undershirt clinging to her ribs, her gear spread around her like the aftermath of a long breath. She was cleaning her rotary launcher with mechanical rhythm, eyes half-lidded.

I stepped inside, peeling the dust-caked gloves from my fingers. The door clicked shut behind me.

She glanced up but didn’t stop working. “Tough fight today, sarge.”

I nodded, unfastening the plates from my chest. “I know.”

She pulled a rag through the barrel. The metal sang softly under her hands. “We need to get word to Branka’s family.”

“I know.” I let the words hang there. “I’ll do it. She was under my orders.”

Silence stretched.

Laska set the launcher down gently. Her fingers lingered on the receiver before she looked up again. “We could both be dead tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer. I was still staring at the inside of my armour, at the dark scratches and the dried sweat. Eventually, I looked up.

She didn’t blink. “Sir…”

I crossed the space between us.

She didn’t move until I was there, then her knees wrapped around my thighs, arms over my shoulders. True and honest.

I pressed my forehead to hers. We held each other like something brittle as though we were already mourning the day we might not get this again.

I lifted her. She tightened around me, and we turned, silently, toward my quarters, just breathing in each other's scent.