Multiple academic articles point out the intrusion of Thanksgiving on international culture as evidence of American dominance in the early to mid-21st century. A holiday not exclusive to the United States’ cultural heritage, the Thanksgiving tradition is generally considered as an evolution of Indo-European harvest festivals. Though historically associated with puritan settlers celebrating this holiday in New England, it should be noted that American Thanksgiving has created its own distinct heritage since its inception as a national holiday in the late 18th century.

The consumption of oven roasted turkey, gathering of extended family, and general overeating are hallmarks of the tradition within the fifty two states of America, and are somewhat translated into the differing cultures of the developed world.

The Republic of China and its accompanying oceanic neighbors retain the concept of poultry consumption and familial gatherings around the time frame, while the nations of the European Union and the Russian Federation have integrated a majority of the holiday with already existing pseudo harvest festival traditions.

Cultural academics humorously point to two major factors in the widespread adoption of Americanized Thanksgiving across humanity’s collective cultural consciousness: global sale of pumpkin pie and the simple fact that every single human being, despite millennia of cultural drift and social bottlenecks, just wants a few fucking days off of work.

The closing week of November brings a cool breeze from the Pacific, the Southern California sun igniting the evening sky with a heated glaze of orange-red light. The scent of clean air with a hint of ocean breeze, a passenger terminal abuzz with activity on a holiday break.

Los Angeles International Airport, rebuilt and remodeled for a new century, was designed with an appropriate post intern-modernist architectural design. Naturalistic structure reminiscent of open grasslands, a form organically represented by angelic arches and lifting wings that take off towards clear polymer skylights.

Beneath glory the four forms stand idle. Luggage consisting of two medium sized backpacks and three terrifying armored rifle carrying cases, a few concerned glances are instinctively held atop them. Three dark blue fatigues of the United Nations Solar System Defense Force along with one Private Military Contractor gray separate themselves from the crowd by raw fashion, families and travelers staying well away from the comically obvious guns in their possession.

The shortest one doubles over as she opens a new plastic sickness bag, her stomach convulsing as the last remnants of a half-digested meal is forcibly ejected out of the body and into the disposable container.

Vision blurring as blood pressure sinks back again to normal levels, an unsteady footing drifting aside as Corporal Estelle Mercier nearly passes out from sickness. The small form is grabbed by Operator Chernyshevsky, a doctoral instinct avoiding disastrous consequences.

Mercier weakly coughs as she seals the bag, tossing the thing into an open trash can with uncanny accuracy. “Je déteste cette…”

“Find place to sit.” Chernyshevsky medically orders as he scans the open terminal.

“Yeah-yeah.” Keys agrees quickly as Mercier offers him her ordnance bag, the man taking the briefcase like device in his uninjured hand.

Nearly fifteen kilograms of weight is added in an instant, the Lieutenant yelling suddenly as pain flashes across his still recovering rib-cage. “FUCK OW.”

Ling grabs the case before it hits the floor, Keys letting go as he coughs out obscenities.

All three carrying cases now in his possession, Master Sergeant Ling Shu’s form is entirely covered by luggage like some sort of old-world porter.

Lieutenant Keys grunts as he notes the load. “Sorry Ling.”

“No issue.”

“You have medication?” The Medic asks the Marine Team as he guides the young woman to the nearest resting bench, an immediate vacancy created as the current inhabitants make way at the sight of stashed firearms and uniforms.

“The Admiral said he’s bringing some with him.” Lieutenant Keys informs.

Mercier stares daggers at the Combat Engineer. “He is late.”

“It’s L.A., traffic has always been terrible. Even with self-drivers it’s…”

Emerging from the bustle of the crowd, trained eyes catch the uniform of the Solar System Defense Force. A fashion owned by an Old Man, the well fitted yet simplistic monocolored camouflage of low orbital combat makes a beeline towards the entourage.

A full head of graying hair slicked back with an uncharacteristic sense of handsomeness, a serious expression upon a wrinkling face. Admiral Issac Tucker’s appearance takes a few moments to process in the minds of Marauder Team, a man unrecognizable when compared to that of a more familiar utilitarian fashion style.

“Admiral!” Keys yells out as he attempts to grab attention.

Silently digging through uniform pockets the Flag Officer produces the item before he even speaks up. A small cardboard box the size of his hand adorned with a pale green cross, an unpronounceable pharmaceutical name printed in bold lettering.

“Yeah I see you!” Admiral Tucker begins as he holds medication up towards the patient. “I got some meclizine!”

The Arsenal-Vertigo Operator signals for the item, the Admiral handing it over without hesitation.

A quick read over at the labels, instructions in a foreign language assumed from metric measurements and medical knowledge. Tearing the box open, experienced hands remove one of the two foil blister packs from within.

Four huge pills per pack, a total of eight total doses for travelers nestled in transparent homes of biodegradable plastic.

The Medic evicts one as he brutally tears open the packaging, the pale red sugar coated medication reflecting the natural lighting from above. He hands it over to Corporal Mercier. “Bite and bite.”

The young woman does as ordered, tossing the thing into her mouth as teeth crush it in a sick haze.

“It will take few minute to come affect. Wait and stay and water drink.” He continues. “Will be fine.”

Next to him the Officer clears his throat. “Doctor Nikolai Chernyshevsky, it’s good to meet you. I’m Admiral Issac Tucker.”

“Good to meet you.” Chernyshevsky replies as he instinctively stands to attention at the rank, a short bow given at realization.

The Admiral smiles slightly. “Thank you for sticking your neck out for Keys by the way, I appreciate the work of anyone who saves lives at risk to themselves.”

Keys chirps up, interrupting the two as he speaks for his friend. “Admiral, uh…”

Master Sergeant Ling buckles slightly under the added mass, Admiral Tucker quickly coming to assist as he grabs the largest carrying case from his subordinate. “I parked the car right outside. We should get this stuff in.”

Motioning to Keys’ slinged left arm he continues. “Lieutenant, keep an eye on Mercier and Doctor Chernyshevsky.”

“Yes sir.”

“No.” Corporal Mercier stands weakly. “I am fine. Feel good already.”

“Air sickness is no joke Corporal.” Admiral Tucker pulls rank on the young soldier. “Stay put until you’re ready, we won’t leave anyone behind.”

Mercier sits as ordered, another wave of dizziness passing over her as she holds in an instinctive retching from within her form. “Putain de merde.”

Lines of vehicles parked in the loading area of Los Angeles International, at least forty in an initial headcount. Driverless, aerodynamic forms of modern taxi cabs awaiting passengers are mixed together with those of personal ownership.

Ling narrows his eyes as he attempts to differentiate the shapes of foreign cars, conglomerated manufacturers enslaved to the fundamental forms of aerodynamics and vehicular safety. Utility vehicles, sedans, and even one two seater sports car are spotted amongst the chaos, the muted colors of basic paint jobs evident as they cross through busy roads.

Admiral Tucker leads as he approaches a silver gray sport utility vehicle parked within the terminal. Four doored with minor cosmetic damage, the boxy frame alongside a very slight imperfection in the paint coating betrays an utterly ancient production.

Opening the trunk to reveal space of plastic and worn felt carpeting, the old man lugs the hard plastic carrying case into the back. “God this is Mercier’s GSW-AMLR isn’t it?”

“It is her weapon.” Ling confirms as he very carefully sets his own case into the back of the vehicle, the nearly empty backpack upon his form placed as cushioning.

“The original AMR was only eight pounds.” The Admiral reminisces as he helps the Master Sergeant with the final carrying case. “Turning that thing into an anti-material caliber nearly tripled its weight. It does the job better of course, but still it’s a real heavy bastard. So good call on leaving the gear back on the Jerome to be shipped separately, don’t even want to imagine trying to bring that all back as a carry-on.”

“They would not let us bring it with us.” Ling informs as he places the final bag into the back. “Security reason.”

“Probably for the best. How was the flight by the way?” Admiral Tucker asks casually. “Hopefully the layover in Tokyo International wasn’t too bad.”

“It was ok, not really a problem. Stayed awake for time there and slept on flight over to avoid time difference.” Ling stretches as he takes a deep breath. “Good food, though Corporal Mercier was sick for most of time.”

“Was she airsick on the flight from the carrier?”

“No, 很奇怪.” Master Sergeant Ling blinks. “Not sick for the rough one, but sick on the easier one.”

“Well it’s a civilian supersonic, the whole point is for it not to feel like you’re moving.” Tucker reports with a smile as he ties down the loose bits of luggage. “For most of the population it’s completely cured air sickness. Though, if you’re extremely sensitive to movement it’s actually become worse. I guess Marauder’s Marksman is just one of those very sensitive people.”

“Maybe.” Ling thinks.

“Whatever the case, they’re here now.”

The trio of soldiers slowly trot through the busy terminal, heads on swivels as they attempt to spot familiar forms in the crowd.

“That was fast.” Admiral Tucker observes quietly as he waves them down.

A sickness mostly alleviated from medication, the small form of Corporal Mercier still walking a bit slower than the rest. Sharp eyes catch erratic movement from the Flag Officer, an outstretched finger and directional callout pointing the group in the right direction.

Lieutenant Keys speaks up as he arrives within audible range, trained eyes giving a rundown of Admiral Issac Tucker’s personal vehicle. “Isn’t this the Sergeant Major’s other car?”

“No it’s mine.” The Old Man corrects. “It’s just parked in her house that’s all.”

“So you own this antique?” The Combat Engineer analyzes. “What is it, a 2030s model Ford?”

“2025 Ford Explorer.” The Admiral informs.

“WOW.” Lieutenant Keys stops as he steps back from the thing. “Ok, if I die in this death trap it’s on you sir.”

“What is wrong?” Ling blinks with confusion.

“Well I’ll just say that it uses hyper-flammable gasoline as a fuel source.” The Combat Engineer begins, turning to the rest of his team. “And it’s not even autonomous either, you need a driver's license to operate it. Not to mention it probably still measures speed in miles per hour.”

“Lieutenant, don’t make fun of my car.” Admiral Issac Tucker orders. “Nobody in your generation even knows how to drive outside of video games so don’t criticize it.”

A long pause at the realization of the word. “God I can’t believe I just said that. “

A stifled laugh from subordinates brushed aside, authority from rank returning. “Just get in. The entirety of the Rubicon’s crew is waiting for us and we don’t want to be late.”

“The Rubicon?” Operator Chernyshevsky pauses.

“It’s the orbital combat corvette.” Keys informs as he fiddles with one of the door handles, the manual method of access unintuitive for its seemingly push-button design. “One of the retrofitted oxygen recyclers blew out during her shakedown run right after we deployed so she’s back in the boneyard. You can ask Captain Perez for the details, or the Engineering Officer. They’re both pretty nice.”

“Ok people please get in the car we need to go.” Admiral Tucker insists as he pulls open the door for the Lieutenant.

A route plotted by machine learning algorithms, instructions displayed on a projected image upon the driver’s half of the front window. Pioneered technology applied in a pinnacle of development, its usage now nostalgic in vintage vehicles.

Highways filled with driverless cars, hundreds of automated machines bringing passengers across the city. An orderly environment corrupted by an imperfection, the increased speed of a human operated vehicle carving through the nearly straight aisles of drone processed traffic.

“We’re going fast.” Lieutenant Keys observes as he grips one of the passenger handles. “Oh we’re going very fast.”

“Every other car has crash prevention software, we’ll be fine.” Admiral Tucker dismisses as he presses the accelerator, the engine roaring fumes as it subsumes dirty gasoline.

“I’m more concerned that this one doesn’t.” Keys retorts from the passenger seat.

“Relax this thing was one of the safest cars on the road back in the 2020s.” The old man chuckles, glancing over at the rear view mirror. “How you people doing back there?”

“I have not been in a car that has… gazole in engine.” Mercier answers with a slight discomfort. “In France is only électrique.”

“Well it’s more economical to run electric nowadays.” Admiral Tucker explains. “Hell, electricity is basically free in Europe right?”

Master Sergeant Ling speaks up from the middle seat. “Then why are you driving this vehicle? It is more money to spend on fuel?”

“I’ve spent most of my adult life in orbit. No real need to replace a car when you’re never even on the planet.” The Admiral smiles as he cuts between traffic. “Hell, I bought this thing with my commission bonus from the U.S. Space Force, back in 2028.”

Lieutenant Keys grips his seat as the vehicle’s speed increases. “All due respect sir, but the 2020s were fifty years ago.”

“I understand Keys, but it's not like anything’s changed since then. Most of the technology hasn’t been developed further than what’s already in this baby.” Admiral Tucker shrugs casually. “Plus I don’t really drive that much so she runs like new.”

“It’s not the car that I’m worried about sir.” Keys grits his teeth as the vehicle passes a huge sixteen wheeler cargo drone, the aluminum frame of the sport utility vehicle shuddering as two aerodynamic systems interact with one another.

“What’s that supposed to mean Lieutenant?”

“Nothing, just drive sir.”

Interstate 405’s massive highway elevates as its path moves through flooded territory, water encroaching on civilization as huge concrete walls attempt to keep the climate at bay.

Eastward the massive skyscrapers of downtown ignite in LED infused fire as automatic switches turn on; monuments of civilization rising from ground and into the evening air. Lee-Peisic Heavy Industries’ industrial obelisk rises against Hothur Dynamics’ more organic tower, the two major suppliers of the Solar System Defense Force together in both cooperation and competition.

Two against a dozen more, the skyline dominated by humanity all the way to the snow topped San Gabriel Mountains in the far distance.

Admiral Tucker drives with near suicidal speed through lanes of bustling traffic, treading the law as he careens at the legal limit without second thought. A human imperfection allowing for the bending of legality, a fundamental framework purposely misinterpreted for the sake of convenience.

Huge apartment complexes fade to the suburban sprawl as the city grows away in distance, homes slowly becoming larger and extravagant as the Admiral finds the highway exit.

Mountainous terrain snaking through huge plots of land, against the riches of society lie the famous and powerful. In luxuriously crafted mansions fenced off from the outside world, security systems watch gates of stainless steel, their attempts at individuality creating nearly identical facades.

Lieutenant Keys audibly gulps as the Old Man guides the vehicle into a small cul-de-sac. “Not looking forward to this.”

“Why?” Ling adds.

Keys pauses as he holds a smile. “Might have pissed her off, and not in a good way.”

“High price homes.” The foreign Operator observes.

“The place is a five minute commute to ‘the Tank.’” Admiral Tucker informs as he drives up towards the middle gate, steel already rusting from age. “And it’s a long story to how I got it.”

“You own it?” Keys catches.

“Long story.” The Admiral insists.

Security systems identify the metal creature, a familiar authorization allowed as the gate rolls open.

Literally a mansion, form compacted together in brutalist gray architecture: wide open sightlines brought by boxy spaces. At least five bedrooms for housing and numerous other rooms unaccounted for, a huge space for a single resident.

The concrete driveway runs out ten meters towards a shut garage, Admiral Tucker stopping the car at the apex closest to the front door. “Alright people grab your gear let’s go.”

Feet touching hard stone at arrival, the short thirty minute drive in the uncomfortable vehicle forcing the four soldiers out into the world again.

Master Sergeant Ling stretches as he reorients to solid ground, Lieutenant Keys behind him yawning as he fights against jet lag. The Marine chuckles as he watches his friend. “I said you should have slept on flight.”

“Yeah, laugh it up.” Keys retorts. “We’ll see who's able to get a night’s sleep tonight.”

Corporal Mercier steps out, a sickness alleviated from medication and time. A deep breath of clean air, trained eyes scanning the property. Operator Chernyshevsky coughs, grabbing the young woman’s attention. “Have you been here?”

“It was only one time.” The Marksman replies. “For training before operation. Sergeant Major worked us until décès.”

Around ten meters away the front door slams open, two forms shadowed by interior lighting. One steps forward from the door frame, immediate recognition arriving for both current and former Solar System Defense Force personnel.

Sergeant Major Katherine Lee barks into the world, a rank crushing those beneath her with a wide smile. “LOOK WHO'S BACK!”

An appearance utterly foreign on the old woman, a simple black t-shirt over civilian shorts annihilating terrifying impressions within memory. Her right arm missing as one sleeve remains unoccupied, the prosthetic limb left behind in the casualness of a normal life.

The four arrivals stand utterly dumbfounded at the alien attire of their old instructor, a pause left to sit for a good four seconds.

“Well don’t just stand there!” The woman orders as she steps onto concrete, jogging out towards them.

A sudden surprise enters her face as she spots the injury on Lieutenant Keys, the slung arm giving her a slight pause to planned retribution. She turns to the commanding officer of the group. “Issac you said no one got hurt.”

The Lieutenant chuckles, an attempt to abate social damage offered as he adjusts the sling. “It’s fine, I only have a few cracked ribs.”

“RPG hit him right in the chest.” Ling adds casually as he removes his rifle carrying case. “He is fine.”

“Ling…” Keys sharply inhales.

“Jesus fucking Christ kid.” The Sergeant Major steps backward as she chuckles lightly. “Even the Nerd sometimes gets some fire doesn’t he?”

“Yes ma’am.” Lieutenant Keys answers, an injured form relaxing. “It hurt a lot by the way.”

“Oh I’m sure it did.” The woman turns over to the newcomer, the muscular form of the Arsenal-Vertigo Operator Nikolai Chernyshevsky standing awkwardly towards the ongoing conversation. A callout sounded with paternal warmth, the child of vicious training recognized instantly. “Cherny… Прошло много времени.”

“Да.” The man nods quietly. “Good see you again.”

“Ha! Glad you could come.” The Sergeant Major chuckles. “Food’s better with more company anyway. And plus, you’ve earned your place at the table.”

From the front door the thin form of Captain Michelle Perez strolls into the evening with a casual grace, black dress uniform cleaned and straightened in comparison to the unkemptness of those freshly out of combat.

Narrowing eyes at the group as she picks out the target amongst them, the familiar face of a lover identified beneath the setting sun above.

“Stop unpacking the car Ling.” Keys warns his friend. “She’s here.”

“什麼?” The man pauses as he turns, an immediate recognition as the oncoming combatant crosses terminal ranges.

Incredible reaction time burns alongside rapid movement, the Marine repositioning himself to respond to an incoming hug. A preparation of battle, the critical moments of consequence between memorized plan and actual application arriving fast.

Hands outstretched, uncertainty rising just before contact.

A short hug followed by a light kiss, the woman smiling as she holds him with a tight grip. “Glad you didn’t die Shu-Shu.”

“Me as well.”

“Alright break it up you lovebirds.” The Sergeant Major shakes her head as she begins strolling back towards the front door, a light hearted laugh echoing through the property. “Come on now, food's not gonna cook itself.”

Fifteen souls to be fed, a gross amounting of food bought and stored in the days beforehand. Ingredients sourced from online big-box stores and delivered by drones, the planned action in the preparation of a standardized meal ruined by cultural diversity.

Every single member nation of the Gang of Four now represented by Task Force Thirty One, the Rubicon’s crew and Marauder Team work to craft dishes from every corner of the globe.

Guided by nostalgic memories and online video tutorials, the massive kitchen area of Sergeant Major Lee’s home plays host to utter chaos. Opened bottles of wine and beer quickly evaporated as humans indulge in the celebrations of a successful operation, a mild drunkenness adding to the enjoyment and danger of the cooking processes.

The Tactical Officer of the Rubicon works alongside one of the Enlisted Gunners, a Scottish and midlands team from the British Isles losing the plot of American Thanksgiving completely. A pound of bacon and sausage frying twenty seven eggs in their resultant fat, the massive skillet is subsequently smothered under four cans of pre-cooked pinto beans. A full English breakfast destroyed at the last minute as beans completely envelop the dish, a failure laughed off as the taste test returns positive feedback from the others.

Chief Engineer Lieutenant Ano and Combat Engineer Lieutenant Keys operate in tandem to anchor the entire operation. The two engineering officers tracing cultural roots back into the United States, the defrosted ten kilogram turkey is placed atop their respective plates in a complete cultural assumption of stereotypes.

“I don’t know how to cook.” Keys panics slightly as he finishes reading another recipe on his phone. “Please tell me you’ve done this before.”

The Rubicon’s Chief Engineer narrows her eyes as she scans over the slab of bone and meat on the kitchen island. “Look, my dad’s full Korean and my mom’s Nigerian. You think I was eating turkey growing up?”

Lieutenant Keys flips his phone towards the woman, a formulated plan ignoring the retorted words. “Alright, this one looks like the easiest one. We’ll follow it to the tee, sounds good?”

A quick scan, instructions similar enough to engineering documentation. “Sounds good, just like retrofitting a fusion plant.”

“Except this one can actually blow up in your face.”

The Helmsman, the two other enlisted crewmen, along with Corporal Mercier operate with shock and awe tactics. A blitzkrieg of central European cuisine, assembled in a continuous factory chain of oil frying, baking, and kneading. A German centric entree of deep fried Hänchen-Schnitzel salvaged from pounds of frozen chicken found deep in freezers, the two enlisted personnel alongside him in cooperation as they produce a fortified entree of nearly three kilos of pasta drowned in a rich red tomato sauce. Corporal Estelle Mercier works between them all, a huge six ingredient white cake tossed into a free oven as she listens to a uWatch tutorial within noise canceling headphones.

Master Sergeant Shu Ling works with extreme prejudice, nearly burning a few comrades as he turns the convection cooktop to the highest setting. In the thick of combat he tosses together shaved potato slices with salted white vinegar, a childhood recipe of stir fried starch augmented by carrots and sliced bell peppers.

“No mashed potatoes huh?” Keys snidely comments as he measures out exactly two grams of thyme on the scale.

“This is easier than that, faster as well.”

“Whatever you say dude. Where’s Michelle anyway?”

“She is not feeling well.” The man answers, an implication in his voice. “You know that time of month.”

“Right.” The Lieutenant nods.

Behind them the voice calls out with minor annoyance, Ano snapping as she mixes premade stuffing within a pastry bowl. “Keys, I need that thyme right now.”

“Yeah yeah I got it!”

A backyard grill roaring under propane fire, shashlik sticks of synthetically grown pork and beef burning roasting as fat drips into the blackened catch dish. Operator Chernyshevsky stands alongside the Sergeant Major, a conversion muted through screen doors as they watch a sunset against the Pacific Ocean.

Beers in hand, a teacher and student reconnecting after a near decade of separation.

Admiral Issac Tucker lounges idly on one of the sofas as he scans over documentation on his operations tablet. An ancient mind keeping track of immense data feeds, both through direct sources as well as news stories.

A terrorist attack attempted by the Space Liberation Front on a European Station weaves together alongside the Orbital Security Company’s Vacuum Exiles division’s budget cut on the company’s financial statements. The implication of corroboration mildly concerning the System Defense Force, the Admiral files it away as he returns to a more casual read.

Combat footage from South America is watched on a separate window as the Flag Officer reads through internal reports, a jungle ambush on a supply convoy of U.N. Peacekeepers responded to with suicide drone strikes on irregular forces.

Next to him Lieutenant Keys collapses onto the cushioning, a deep sigh echoing out as he shuts his eyes. “It’s done.”

“Turkey’s in the oven?” The Admiral asks casually.

“I am never cooking, ever again.” The Combat Engineer rolls, watching as the rest of the Task Force continues operations within the kitchen area.

“Turkey’s one of the harder poultries to cook. Don’t let it steer you away from making your own food.” Admiral Tucker advises as he swipes through another news story.

A living space barely furnished, white washed walls mostly unadorned. The usual conceptualization of hung works of art and gaudy sculptures missing from the mansion, instead replaced by a near hundred conventional analog photo frames.

Trained eyes observe them, immediate recognition as pale blue trainee uniforms trigger memories. Every single graduation class represented by its own sector, snapped memories of exhaustion, suffering, and glory surrounding the final lineup. Trainees whipped into mechanisms of low orbital warfare, their final moments on earth before shipment to Luna Anchorage captured in the stillness of eternal plastic.

Lieutenant Keys stands up slightly as he goes through the classes of the Tank, the near two decades of its existence evident from the raw number of photos laid across walls. A short five years of service nearly forgotten amongst the crowd as the Lieutenant finds it, the image burned into minds as he holds in a smile.

The graduating class of eighteen souls, a photo taken in the final moments before separation. Twelve shipping out to Orbital Combat School alongside five to the Naval Academy aboard Luna Anchorage. One left behind on Earth, another two years spent in education.

Keys stares at his own image, pausing as he glances over to the two outside.

“It’s all about motivation.” Admiral Tucker suddenly intrudes from the couch as he continues to scan his tablet. “Every single person has a motivation for doing something, all you need to do is use it against them.”

“Sir?”

“Operator Chernyshevsky’s graduating class was the 3rd one in 2063.” The old man offers. “He’s two meters down from you.”

Mercifully dated with permanent marker and organized somewhat by date, Keys manages to find the photo cluster.

A recruitment less restrictive, prestige larger in the defense of a new era for mankind. Souls needed for the manning of stations, ships, and marines for the fodder. Twenty five students total, it takes a few moments for the Lieutenant to turn back a decade of time and find the man.

Nearly identical minus the unkempt hair and unshaven stubble, the face of Trainee Nikolai Chernyshevsky smiles ear to ear. Placed at the back center of the graduates, Keys blinks as he notes an arm placed over the shoulder of a fellow trainee. Pale skin and brilliant blue eyes stare back in defiance, her large frame standing just a few inches shorter than her partner.

A bond spread across photos, from the first sessions within the Tank to the ‘field trip’ out to Benito’s Tacos; Lieutenant Keys pieces together a fragmentary story.

“It’s better not to ask about her.” The Admiral advises coldly. “At least, don’t ask him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of the Marines that joined the Orbital Security Company back in the 60s left because they felt that the S.D.F. wasn’t doing enough to protect them.” Admiral Tucker sighs. “Some with more conviction than the rest. Operator Chernyshevsky has a very personal reason for leaving the Force.”

“What, he needed money or something?” Keys blinks, tilting his head in confusion. “I assume he’s got a family back home with the girl.”

The Admiral resists the urge to scoff at the insensitivity. “That girl’s Sergeant Rasine Wiśniewska, Kodiak Team. She was K.I.A. during a helium tanker hijacking by the Space Liberation Front. She and Chernyshevsky were… close.”

A pause as minds make the connection, a wave reaching over the young man.

“Fuck.” The Lieutenant realizes as he steps back, running fingers through hair. “Shit…”

“I think the Sergeant Major is undoing some of the damage from your conversation.” Admiral Tucker eases. “If you learn one thing, just remember to always do recon before you attack anything.”

“Yes sir.” Keys reorients his breath as he glances out towards the pair outside, then back towards familiar friends.

Recovered from a bout of nausea Captain Michelle Perez stands beside her fiancé. A spoken jab lost in the carnage of frying oil, the rare laughter emanating from Master Sergeant Ling Shu easily detected.

“Human relationships are complicated.” Admiral Tucker stares out at the form of Sergeant Major Lee. “But we make do, because we have too. It’s part of the human experience. Don’t let it go Lieutenant.”

To the west the sun hangs above the Pacific, a puzzle of colors scattered through thick atmosphere. The prism of a perfect world, an irreplaceable jewel at the beating heart of humanity.

The scent of burning meat mixes with fresh air, a light chill echoing as the wind carries the evening cold into the two forms.

The Old Woman pauses as the conversation hits its climactic end, words primed against an already loosened mind. Sergeant Major Katherine Lee smiles tragically as she speaks towards her former student. “сделай это для нее, do it for her sake.”