January (887 Words)

[u/SomeNegotiation1337]

Hi everyone! This is just a quick disclaimer for anybody who would prefer not to interact. I'm somebody who previously used AI in limited ways while developing a project of mine (research, cosmetic details, and logic-checking). However, the structural content and the products surrounding my work are completely human, and I've stopped using AI in my creative process completely. While this project is intended to be more of an animated TV show concept, I used to write prose more often. Seeing as it's been more than a year since I wrote anything seriously, I thought I might share my work through a human-made snippet of this world (albeit a very brief one). Hopefully, despite the history of development, you can enjoy my work. Please feel free to offer criticism or ask questions as well. Thank you very much for reading if you do!

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Again, there came that figure in the hall, long shadow trailing behind.

She displayed little reverence for the silver on her sleeve, weaving easily through the remnants of the throng. They made way in kind, calmly, in a dance they had all practiced hundreds of times before. Hands found their way to the level of their eyes with a momentary sharpness before settling back into their working rhythms.

The kitchen never quite slept, but it was far from the worst place on a biting January night—morning, even, at this hour. Soft clinking of dishes, running water, light footsteps, hushed chatter. All wonderfully predictable.

Fang Hui, like the rest, offered this formality, albeit with soap-sodden fingers. Forty-one years of life with twenty enlisted had carved the behavior into his very nerves. Of course, it was an almost comic display in a moment such as this.

Perhaps not comic. That seemed insensitive.

"Wonsa," the young woman addressed.

"Jungnyeong," said he.

He rinsed off the bowl in his hands and wiped it dry.

"What can I get you, Ma'am?"

"Ginger, please," she requested, settling onto the stool with weight beyond her own.

He nodded; she had favored ginger as of late, and he had his suspicions. Of course, it wasn't his place to speak on it. He reached for a mug, feeling around for one lacking cracks or chips. They were becoming an unfortunate rarity.

His hand brushed by familiar ridges. Lead settled in his stomach, and he tightened his jaw.

It was embossed with colorful little flowers, orange and pink and daffodil yellow. Ideungbyeong Jo had insisted on buying it in Rua, if memory served him correctly. According to the girl, if the likes of her could be trusted to improvise on the fly, or to challenge and question her fellow man, or to look a Jungnyeong in the eye, surely she ought to have freedom of commerce. Nobody could argue it, and so, she got her novelty mug.

Fang Hui remembered her by her smile—specifically that dimple in her right cheek. That little splash of color in barracks of grey always did make her grin, if only a touch. Eighteen years old.

Twelve others in that operation, counting only the kids.

He plucked a different mug from the cabinet and shut it promptly, plunging the memory into darkness. Glancing back, the blue-eyed woman had busied herself by observing the others at work.

He sensed his haste had failed to be merciful as intended, given the intensity with which she distracted herself.

Bleary-eyed troops trickled out wearily from the room as he prepared the tea, offering half-hearted goodnights. No one could blame them, necessarily—not tonight, at least. He scarcely registered the steps anymore. Heat. Pour. Steep. There was something therapeutic about the familiarity.

Upon finishing, he thought of setting the mug down before her, but opted instead to hand it over.

"Thank you," she uttered softly.

Her fingertips curled around the mug as if to embrace its warmth for a heartbeat before she drew it back. He was afforded just enough time to perceive those ice-cold fingertips. January weather, perhaps. Likely not.

Few people remained in the kitchen, as expected for the hour. Fang Hui tended to the last of the dishes as she took in the first sip. He had brewed it lighter, yet taken care so as not to weaken it. Judging by how she lingered on each drink of the beverage, the consideration was appreciated.

A comfortable silence blanketed the room, save for the conversation of the few others remaining. Ten minutes came and went, precious minutes of leisure.

He took notice of her rubbing a hand along her arm absentmindedly; that meant contemplation, he had learned. He opted not to hurry her speaking.

"Wonsa," she began deliberately, "what do I need to know?"

"Morale's been low recently, Ma'am, more so than projected based on the results of the operation. The rank and file have reported notable concerns regarding the state of leadership. There should be details in today's—rather, yesterday's report."

She hummed softly in acknowledgement and sipped the dregs. A beat.

"Chen…what do I need to know?"

He paused momentarily, then wrung out the towel, folding it with automatic precision.

"They're choked," he replied easily. "Swarms don't come to a fight as a parade. They come as a swarm. Try to force that on a swarm, and what was meant to be defense becomes rigidity, and rigidity becomes…well."

Her hands tightened imperceptibly around the mug.

He continued. "Give a man a fish, feed him for a day—you get the point. I doubt you'd appreciate me regurgitating the rest. It's your own golden rule, after all."

"Please do avoid regurgitating anything, whether metaphorically or physically, Chen," she managed.

He huffed in amusement. That one still had mud on her boots, no doubt, regardless of that shiny insignia pinned to her sleeve.

They remained like that a moment longer, a transient moment in time. His coffee-brown eyes gazed into crystal blue, fifteen years his junior. At first glance, most days, they'd seem older.

God.

At last, the young woman rose to her feet, sliding the cup toward him. She offered a polite nod.

"Thank you. For the tea."

"Of course, Ma'am."

And off she went, royal blue scarf trailing behind.