THREE
CAIDEN
Something’s been off for a while — weeks, in fact. The part that’s really messing with me is how long it took me to notice.
Mason isn’t here.
He should be in the briefing room. It’s not a formal requirement, and he’s not listed as essential personnel for this slot, but he’s always there anyway. Usually sprawled into a chair, talking shit and filling the gaps by sheer volume alone. He’s been doing it for years.
Today, his chair stays empty.
I keep going. The briefing runs as it should, questions asked and answered, and people disperse with the usual scrape of chairs and low mundane conversation.
Still no Mason.
I tell myself it’s nothing. There are too many reasons why he wouldn’t be here. Different assignment. Late start. A hangover bad enough that even he couldn’t talk his way through it. The explanation doesn’t matter. It’s just where my head goes first.
It’s now mid-morning, and I see him crossing the yard with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He looks fine at first glance. He has the same careless energy as usual, but when he spots me, there’s a moment of hesitation.
“Alright?” he calls, his voice pitched deliberately casual.
“I thought you’d died,” I say. “The briefing was dull without you.”
“Lucky for you, I’ve been roped into something thrilling involving spreadsheets,” he snorts, but it sounds flat.
“That sounds like a punishment.”
“Feels like one.” He shifts the clipboard and glances past me. “Temporary, apparently.”
“Apparently,” I echo. He waits, like he expects me to ask, but I don’t.
“They’re shuffling people about,” he says finally. “Needs of the unit. You know how it is.”
“I do,” which is true. That phrase has covered everything from personality conflicts to quiet demotions to removals no one wants to justify out loud.
Mason nods, relief flickering across his face like he’s glad I didn’t push. “It won’t last,” he adds quickly. “Just until they sort whatever mess they’ve made.”
“Right, I get it.”
He flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway. Catch you later.” He moves off quickly before I can reply.
I stand there watching him walk away, and I see the way his shoulders slump lower than usual. He hasn’t been reassigned to some dangerous job, which is a relief. That much I’d have heard; this is easier to explain away.
Easier to pretend it isn’t happening.
The common room fills around lunchtime; it’s the usual mix of noise and irritations. I grab a mug; that’s when Mason comes in halfway through a conversation I’m not paying attention to, and drops into a chair like always.
The conversation around him stutters. It doesn’t stop exactly, that would be obvious. It just... slows. A joke trails off unfinished, and one guy stands to refill their drink instead of answering him. Another guy shifts seats, creating distance; no one stops to question it.
Mason keeps smiling, keeps talking, but his timing’s off.
No one’s listening, and he knows it. I can see it in the way his eyes flick from face to face, searching for something to hook onto.
When he catches my gaze, there’s a flicker of something there, then whatever it was is gone before I can place it.
The shift doesn’t change. That’s what unsettles me the most. I half-expect someone to clap Mason on the shoulder, to pull him back into the fold with a joke or a half-arsed apology, the way these things usually resolve when they’re nothing.
It doesn’t happen.
I finish my drink and leave before I say something rash or unhelpful.
Later on, I overhear someone say his name in a different tone. It’s the sort of tone people use when they don’t want to be associated too closely with whatever they’re gossiping about. “Keep an eye on him,” one of the lads mutters, not to me, but it’s close enough and loud enough that I hear it.
“Why?” the other one asks.
“Just… I’ve heard some stuff.” That’s it. There’s no elaboration or accusation. Then the conversation moves on like it never happened.
By the next day, his name comes up less. It’s not deliberately avoided — that I can tell anyway. It’s just... skipped over. Someone asks a question he would normally answer, and another voice fills the space instead.
A job he’s known for is handed to someone else without question. It’s the kind of administrative decision that looks neutral on paper and feels anything but when you’re the one being edged out.
I start noticing who watches him and who doesn’t.
Some people won’t meet his eyes at all. Others look too long; the curiosity is edged with something colder. No one says anything directly. No one needs to. The atmosphere does that for them.
I find Mason behind the equipment shed later that afternoon, sitting on an overturned crate with a cigarette he hasn’t lit. He looks up when I approach, then straightens up like he’s been caught doing something wrong, even though he hasn’t done anything at all. “You’re hiding now?” I ask.
“I’m thinking,” he says. “Dangerous, I know.”
I stop a few feet away, leaning back against the wall. “Are you alright?”
He hesitates before answering. “They pulled me from the rotation. Didn’t even say why.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” he snaps, then sighs. “That’s it. That’s the whole explanation.”
“Did anyone ask you anything?”
“Not directly,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes still fixed on the ground. “They mentioned conduct,” he says eventually. “General stuff. Situational awareness. Whether I’d noticed any changes in the group dynamic lately.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no, because what the hell am I supposed to say?” He laughs, sharp and humourless. “They didn’t ask what I thought they were going to ask.”
“Did they mention the pub?” I ask.
“No,” he says, his head coming up fast.
“Good.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it doesn’t mean,” I say. “You need to keep your head down.”
“I am.”
“Lower.”
He swallows hard. “This’ll pass, won’t it?”
I don’t answer immediately. There are a dozen responses I could give him, none of them honest enough to help right now. “Probably,” I say instead. It’s the closest I can get without lying outright.
He nods, like that’s enough. “Funny, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. “I didn’t even do anything wrong. It was just a kiss.”
“No, it’s not funny.”
“You officially get the title of ‘shit at comfort,’” he snorts.
“Hard-earned, I’d say. I put some right effort in for that title.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, finally easing a little tension out of his shoulders. He studies my face for a second as if he’s internally checking something. “Thanks for not saying anything, Caiden,” he says, sounding slightly lighter.
“Anytime, Connor.”
“Whoa, you never call me that. Are we besties now?”
“Sure,” I laugh. “But I’m not braiding your hair.”
“No? That sucks for me then,” he laughs. “I mean it. Thanks for being a mate, God knows I need one right now.” He stands up, and I watch him leave. He looks like himself again.
Almost.
That evening, on the way to comms, I overhear more people talking about Mason.
They’re speaking in the careful, moderate tones of men who assume they’re being completely reasonable.
Sadly, they see me coming and move on to something else.
I stand there longer than I probably should, every outward sign of calm in place while something inside me is screaming with rage.
It’s in that moment that what I feared is confirmed.
Someone else must have seen.
But there’s been no accusation, no evidence, no confrontation. Just a series of adjustments made quietly enough that no one can point to a single moment where the line was crossed.
In comms, I open my inbox and read Ari’s reply. I think about the way he measures risk, like breathing. About how many times I dismissed that as him being paranoid instead of down to experience. I compose a message, then delete it. Write another. Delete that as well.
None of them sound normal enough. Every sentence either reads too careful or not careful enough, and suddenly even typing his name feels stupidly loaded.
In the end, I lean back in the chair and stare at the screen for a while before forcing myself to stop thinking and just write the fucking email.
From: returnfire@
Date: Friday, February 2, 1996, 22:47
Subject: RE: Sneaky Russian
—Ari
I’m glad you waited. I like knowing you were there, and I’m sorry I made you wait this long.
I don’t mind the delays. I know what you need to do. Just knowing that you’re on the other end of this, somewhere, is enough.
What you said about Mason, I didn’t realise how tense I had been replaying everything until I read your last email, and it made me feel a little better.
You have a habit of doing that.
Don’t let it go to your head.
There’s something else I haven’t quite worked out how to say properly, but I’ll try.
Being back here has made it obvious that whatever this is, it isn’t a temporary thing for me. It doesn’t switch off because there’s distance.
I don’t know if it’s the same for you, but I guess this is me asking.
I don’t know what that means in practical terms. I don’t know if we’re meant to be patient or reckless or somewhere in between. I don’t know if this is something we’re building toward or not.
I just know I don’t want to misjudge it.
Maybe I’m being stupid. I’ve been scheduled comms in the evenings, and sleep isn’t my friend right now. Apparently, the radios need supervision after midnight.
My days feel off without you in them, but I’m here waiting for your next email.
I love you.
—Caiden
(Dumb Brit, who’s missing you endlessly.)
I send it and sit there for a moment, looking at the empty screen. I don’t feel relieved and I don’t feel any worse. I do know that, whatever happens, the decision was the right one, even if it’s not the easy one.
I log out and shut the computer down, let myself out of comms, and walk back to my room. When I lie down again, sleep still doesn’t come, but the circling in my head has stopped.
That’ll be enough for now.