It’s like there are bubbles beside Miranda’s ears that pop and fade, and return, and pop again, censoring every word that is spoken between her mother and the head of command.

Every now and then, he takes a peek at her from behind her mother. He asks a few questions, ones that Miranda cannot bring herself to lie to verbally, ones she tries to shake off with mere shrugs and nods. She wishes she could remember her commander’s name, but they’re always coming in and out of her home station—the other versions of him. And even though the man looks as if he is more or less the same each time, Miranda knows he is not the same person as the one she spoke to a month ago, or the month before that. Whether it be his accent, the color of his eyes, or if he suddenly happens to be left-handed—she has observed that there are always slight variations whenever the man comes back from his trips to Gaia.

Today, the difference is a tad less subtle, for a piece of his finger seems to be missing beneath his gloves. Miranda decides to call him number thirty-five and, in her mind, she leaves it at that.

“You heard the man, let us have a chat and go get some rest, all right, Miranda?”

Miranda’s nose twitches. She looks up to Diane who wears a forced smile across her lips. “Excuse her,” Diane says as she turns back to the commander with an equally forced laugh. “She’s still a bit green in this field. I think it may take some time until she gets used to the death of her fellow co-workers.”

“Friends, mom,” Miranda interjects. “They’re my friends.”

“Well,” Diane pats her on the back. She leans in and lowers her voice. “Are you trying to get demoted?” she hisses.

Miranda takes a step back and shakes off her mother’s grasp. Instead of looking directly at Diane, she ignores her, and locks eyes with the commander. Today, his gaze is blue. “Please forgive me for my silence, commander,” she says, in a tone that implies she is not sorry at all. “It’s not every day that I get sent to an assassination mission only to be faced with a creature ten times my size.” Miranda gives him a curt nod.

Beside her, Diane is mortified, as she fears what might become of her daughter, should Miranda continue walking a path she believes to be a bit too close to insolence.

The commander waves the weight of her words away. “It’s no trouble, miss Brodeur,” he says, as casual as one can be in these dire times. “I can see you’ve been through a lot.” The commander takes a step forward. He clasps his hands behind his back.

Miranda wonders if his gesture is to keep what is missing away from the eyes of her mother.

“Diane is correct,” he says. “It would be an excellent idea if you saw yourself to your quarters and stayed there until we have further need for you. Right now, you are… how can I say this…” he clears his throat. “A little bit unstable, yes? It wouldn’t do you any harm to take a nap perhaps. Why don’t you take the day off?”

I’d rather punch your ugly face, Miranda thinks the words loud in her mind, yet, not loud enough for them to make it past her lips. “How very generous of you, commander,” she says, unable to keep her brows from rising at the same time. “You can trust I will use this time wisely. Now, if you’ll excuse me,”—Miranda turns around and makes for the exit—“I’m going to go shed a few tears in my room like the poor, unstable little girl I am.”

“Miranda!” Diane shouts from behind her as she stomps her foot and feels the warmth of cold rage rising to her face. “How dare you—”

As the door shuts behind Miranda, the commander grabs Diane’s upper arm and says, “It’s quite all right. We were all her age once, it is understandable.”

Diane gasps. “But, Sir, she clearly—”

“Please,” he smiles, his gaze darkening as he gives Diane’s hand a modest pat. “Call me Abe.”