Chapter 20

“Come out to the pub. Drinks are on me. I’ll treat you to a full-course dinner, too.”

Lieutenant Camillia Ovia’s response was far from enthusiastic.

“I came into some money. No joke. Why would I lie about something like this? You know cash like this brings bad luck if you don't burn through it fast.”

Yet Camillia remained thoroughly unswayed.

“I’m serious! My treat.”

Precisely a month and a half had elapsed since the day Erabelle Vermilion inexplicably received a deposit of 50,000 CP into her account—sent from an unregistered party.

The origin was unmistakable.

The Dogs had lost. By the established rules of the wager, the earnings reverted to the surviving victim. Few ever lived to collect.

It stood as irrefutable proof that she had outlived the Dogs’ sick game.

A momentous milestone, surely—yet in truth, it felt utterly cursed. Erabelle resolved to squander the sum faster than humanly possible.

Drinks with Camillia, upgraded leave arrangements, the Romantic 4 limited-edition Blu-ray alongside its collector figurines, followed by even more luxurious travel upgrades...

“Yes, I mean it. I’m covering the entire bill.”

***

“We haven’t seen each other in ages, have we?”

Camillia approached the booth with a sharp, piercing glare, spotting Erabelle already indulging in a cozy corner of the tavern.

Erabelle, ever the crafty operator, deflected seamlessly.

“You’ve grown even more stunning since we last met. Truly, you’re radiant. Please, take a seat. Don’t put any undue strain on those delicate, gazelle-like ankles.”

“Shut up.”

Camillia sank into the chair Erabelle had pulled out for her, muttering under her breath.

It had been nearly six weeks.

They used to gather for drinks once or twice a week with clockwork regularity. Yet during this stretch, Erabelle had dropped entirely off the radar. Her last appearance at the medical bay had occurred just before her abrupt noise scan—after which she vanished into thin air, ignoring every incoming call.

“So, what’s the story?”

“Oh, come now. I simply wanted to see your face.”

“On a Saturday? You normally resemble a corpse on weekends.”

“It’s been far too long, hasn’t it? Here, have a glass. You have no idea how terribly I’ve missed this.”

Camillia looked profoundly unconvinced.

What in the world is going on with her?

High command had requested Erabelle’s diagnostic results. Then came six weeks of dead silence. Now, a woman who routinely refused to cross her own threshold on weekends was dragging her out, flaunting top-shelf liquor and premium cuts of meat?

Every detail screamed suspicion.

“Didn’t you use to claim chips were the absolute limit for pub snacks? You were always lamenting insurance premiums and medical expenses. Now you’re ordering aged whiskey and artisan platters? What, did you hit the lottery?”

“Not the lottery. A survival bonus.”

“A survival bonus?”

What imaginable survival bonus would accrue to someone serving in the adjutant corps?

“It’s a thing.”

What thing?

“So, seriously—what are you actually doing with your life these days?”

“Managing unit logistics, processing requisition forms, supervising storage, maintaining double ledgers, reconciling supply accounts quarterly, monitoring warp channels, scrubbing network data from operational zones...”

“Just shut up and chew your food.”

Camillia jammed a piece of roasted meat into Erabelle’s mouth. Simply listening to the list made her stomach churn.

She’s either going to collapse from a pharmaceutical overdose or sheer exhaustion.

No human could endure that volume of labor and remain functional.

“You should eat as well, Lieutenant.”

Both women paused their exchange to drain their glasses.

The entire situation reeked of absurdity, but Camillia had no intention of prying deeper. What purpose would it serve? After enduring countless rounds of this routine, she was simply too exhausted to care.

Thus, she selected what seemed to be a safe, neutral topic.

“You found a match, didn’t you?”

Unknowingly, she had stumbled directly onto the worst possible subject. How could she have known?

She had harbored her suspicions when upper management requested those test records, but that had transpired six weeks ago. Had Erabelle matched with a high-ranking officer, she would have already undergone the modularization procedure—leaving behind nothing save her skull and a segment of her spine.

Camillia had never witnessed an exception to that rule. Naturally, she deduced that Erabelle’s match must belong to a lower rank.

“What? A match? Absolutely not.”

Erabelle denied it instantly.

“I’m on prescription medication, as you well know. Just the standard regimen.”

“You are always on medication.”

“Always? Please, I am hardly a drug addict.”

Erabelle offered a protest, though the defense was laughably thin.

“Don’t you realize? If we squeezed you dry, we could launch a thriving pharmaceutical enterprise. You are practically a walking chemical concentrate.”

Camillia scoffed. Not even a full bottle of fine whiskey could dissolve the irritation and anxiety that had mounted over the past month and a half.

Perhaps picking up on that edge, Erabelle promptly signaled for another bottle.

“I assure you, I am not dependent. I take only what is strictly required. Precise dosages. I never exceed the limit.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I do possess a marvelous sense of humor, after all.”

Erabelle beamed as though that statement explained everything.

Camillia sighed, crushing the ice between her teeth before attempting to maneuver the conversation back to safe territory.

“So who is this match of yours? Wait—don’t tell me it’s that gay fellow you mentioned previously?”

“...‘Gay fellow’? What on earth are you blathering about?”

Lieutenant Erabelle Vermilion shook her head slowly.

“I am telling you, I am merely taking a new compound from that recently accredited laboratory.”

“Are you serious? More pharmaceuticals? Have you lost your mind? You’re going to end up in a grave!”

Camillia failed to catch Erabelle’s blatant deception. Over the past two years, Erabelle’s capacity for lying with a straight face had elevated to an art form.

She had reached a tier of mastery where she could spin fabrications without a single flicker of her eyelids.

“What sort of drug suppresses noise levels that drastically? Even a sedative capable of driving values into single digits comes with a mountain of severe side effects. At this rate, you’ll—!”

“Goodness, do refrain from stressing yourself so! I take only the absolute minimum, strictly as prescribed. I monitor my well-being with utmost diligence.”

“......”

Give me a break.

Camillia narrowed her eyes at Erabelle’s utterly unbothered expression.

Yet even had she uncovered the lie, what difference would it make? It was not as though she possessed the power to intervene... or even the desire to try.

And so, the matter was dropped.

“...When you die, I shall at least contribute a generous condolence payout.”

“How substantial a sum are we discussing?”

“Does the precise figure truly matter? It is the sentiment that counts.”

“Hardly. It is unequivocally the amount that matters. Settle on a number this instant.”

“Good heavens, I am getting intoxicated.”

Erabelle proved relentless. Camillia threw out a safe, modest figure—500 CP—yet Erabelle appeared visibly unimpressed, pouting as though she had suffered a profound betrayal.

“You possess no sincerity whatsoever. None!”

What in the world? How did we end up haggling over funeral arrangements?

The promised sum eventually escalated to 3,000 CP before Erabelle finally offered a satisfied grin, drawing a glossy pub promotional flyer from her bag with an air of grand magnanimity.

Camillia found herself forced to handwrite the agreed figure onto the loud advertisement, pressing her ink-stained thumb against the paper to seal it like a binding contract.

Why? Why is this happening? She is unequivocally going to attach this atrocious scrap to her final will. And then they will freeze it alongside her official documents within a cryo vault... pristine and preserved right beside her dying wishes!

“You had better enjoy a long life. Outlive me, do you hear?”

Camillia ground her teeth as she raised her glass in a tense toast.

“I am also willing to accept equivalent goods and services.”

“Be quiet!”

Six long weeks of suppressed anxiety finally snapped something deep inside Camillia. Erabelle wisely sealed her lips—though only to fan the flames of her companion's fury further.

“They say vocalizing one's anger works wonders for stress relief.”

“Hey!!”

Camillia let out a roar and lunged across the table for Erabelle’s hair.

***

Ah, so close. Had she pulled my hair just a fraction, we could have called the account settled...

Regardless, Erabelle figured she had accomplished her primary objective.

Around 9 p.m., with her stomach feeling remarkably stable for once, she downed a reckless mixture of dark stout, bottled lager, and draft beer. Then, clutching the promotional flyer bearing Camillia’s thumbprint as if it were a prized artifact, she skipped merrily on her way home.

Then she paused.

“It is the weekend, is it not?”

She froze dead in her tracks.

The realization struck out of nowhere. She turned, staring blankly through the glass window of the small base convenience store—specifically targeting the frozen food aisle.

“It’s the weekend...”

It marked her very first weekend spent in solitude after an interminable stretch. Nor was it a mundane break—it was a golden, extended weekend, courtesy of the Monday holiday.

As if drawn by a trance, Erabelle drifted into the shop.

...Pizza, and oh, those chicken wings look divine. Lasagna as well. Dumplings—where are the dumplings? Ah, right there. Ice cream—chocolate, vanilla... almond too.

She began heaping frozen goods into her basket without restraint.

Frozen pizzas, seasoned chicken wings, a multi-pack of canned beer, chocolate confections, gummy sweets, tubs of ice cream, carbonated sodas, chewy caramels, savory jerky, blocks of cheese—anything that caught her eye. If it could fit, it went into the cart.

Under normal circumstances, even on a weekend, she would never procure such an absurd mountain of junk food. Yet six continuous weeks of emotional suppression had finally shattered the floodgates of her mind.

This was precisely why people ought not to exist under unrelenting strain. Without an outlet, they inevitably resorted to unhinged behavior.

Erabelle crammed her purchases into heavy bags and lugged them back to her quarters, thoroughly resolved not to cross her threshold for the next three days.

She dumped the mountain of provisions across the living room floor, lightheaded as though drunk on pure adrenaline.

How long has it been since I last enjoyed a genuine, uninterrupted rest...?