From the hallway, Jax called out sweetly, “Everything okay in there, Havoc?”
Pharo slammed the fridge shut. “Why is it singing at me?”
“Fridge needed a firmware update,” Jax replied, way too innocently.
“You Rickrolled the refrigerator?”
Jax wandered into the kitchen looking way too smug. “I programmed it to trigger when it detects an opening motion followed by a 1.5-second pause. You always stand there zoning out before you grab the milk. Thought I’d personalize the experience.”
Pharo stared at him. “You coded a delay-trigger Rick Astley fridge ambush based on mymilk hesitation timing?”
Jax beamed. “You inspired me.”
Pharo narrowed his eyes. “You know what this means, right?”
Jax raised an eyebrow. “That you’ve been emotionally Rickrolled by a smart appliance?”
“No. It means we’re officially in a cold war.”
The fridge beeped behind them, cheerfully, as if it had chosen a side.
“ Never gonna say goodbye… ”
Pharo reached for the duct tape.
Badges and Scars
West
The waiting room smells like sanitizer and floor wax. My knee itches where the socket meets my skin, but I don’t scratch. I can’t stop bouncing my leg—the whole one—while Brandt flips through a magazine like we’re waiting for a damn oil change.
The nurse finally calls me back. It’s just a routine fit check. Simple. I’ve done this a dozen times, but it never gets more fun.
Brandt sits beside me in the exam room, arms folded, posture relaxed. He’s humming under his breath—some pop song that makes no sense—and I want to snap at him to knock it off, but I don’t. Instead, I grit my teeth while the prosthetist peels off the liner and pokes around at the connection points like he’s trying to read my mind through the stump.
“All looks good,” the guy says. “You’ve got a little inflammation near the edge here. Might need a new sleeve next month.”
I nod like I care. Like I’m not sick to death of plastic and velcro and adhesives that smell like gym socks. When the guy leaves, I spot a glossy little brochure tucked into the wall rack.
Advanced Laser Scar Therapy.I pull it down and flip through. It’s full of before-and-afters. Big angry scars turned pale and flat, some damn near invisible.
I hold it out to Brandt. “You should do this.”
He looks up. “Do what?”
“This—laser thing. You could get rid of the shrapnel scars on your chest, stomach, and back.”
Brandt blinks. He takes the brochure, scans it slowly, and without a word, he tosses it onto the counter behind us.
“No thanks,” he says.
I stare. “Why not?”
He shrugs casually, but I see the set of his jaw. “I earned those. I keep them. Badge of honor.”
“Earned them?” I scoff. “Jesus, Brandt. They nearly killed you. You want to hang ontothat?”
“They didn’t kill me.” His voice is even. “We survived. That’s what they mean.”
