Broken Mirror

Sometimes, while I’m sitting at my desk faced with a mountain of paperwork, I actually miss him. I close my eyes and sit back, remember what it was like to face him. It was like looking into broken mirror, seeing an unfamiliar face - his green eyes, my grey ones - but the same expression: determination. Sheer soldiering willpower.

And that scar, a mirror-twin to my own. Some days I think it might have been better for me to lose an eye; it’d stop the girls from cooing over me. And I’d never have ranked up for proper field training. Late at night, when I’ve worked too much and eaten too little, I come awake from an old memory, manacles around my wrists and ankles, electricity pouring through my body.

One day, after too much paperwork and not enough sanity, I leave my office. Walk out while the secretary is attempting to inform me of my schedule for the day. It’s rude, but no one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman. They’ll get mad at me and sulk, but when push comes to shove I’m the one with the weapons and the firepower, and they need me more than I need them.

I scoop up my weapon case and sling it over my shoulder. I’ve heard rumors that he lives out on the water, fishing with his two sidekicks. I’ll bet he’s spoiling for a fight, too.

(237 words; post-canon)