She was supposed to be off peeling potatoes for tonight's casseroles, but her partner (minder) had caught some whisper on the wind (text) and pulled her along for a detour down into the spooky town. The only thing creepier than an abandoned place was one that had a few stubborn lives trying to linger and remind people how empty things really are. The measuring sticks of negative space.

Kicking rocks on her way, she made a few passive aggressive comments about mysterious quests and their likelihood of leading to her to the noble task of cleaning the Worst Toilet on the island. Creedence had heard things. Her partner, grim-faced, said nothing.

A sheltered life as a civilian had led to something of a sheltered life on island. Somewhere, some well-meaning soul had been making sure the girl didn't have to take in too much, too fast. She was a risk for running, her investment in the island and her work near non-existent, she had problems coping and adjusting in addition to the steadfast refusal to talk about, or even mention, these problems. So instead of battlefields, Creedence scrubbed down bathrooms. Instead of being faced with life and death choices, she faced piles of paperwork at bases that hadn't seen so much as a fairy in nearly a decade.

Here too, somebody has made a gentle and incredibly cruel decision for her sake.

She doesn't recognize the smell, and when they step into the kitchen, Creedence doesn't understand what she's seeing at first. Things turn surreal because this is a thing you see on TV. In a game. Maybe, in this life she lives now, it's a thing you see when eyes change colors and everyone loses their s**t (but it's okay the next day, it's just a fading set of bruises the next day).

One of the Moons on clean up duty is waiting impatiently and she doesn't catch what he says, but a moment later her partner is guiding her to the body in the middle of all the red. (It's a cliche of sorts isn't it? That you don't really know how much blood is inside a human body until it's on the floor, until you try to avoid getting it on your shoes and fail.)

Nessa is full of trilling commentary, the pleased excitement and interest near tangible, but it's stranger and more alien now than it had ever been. Messages hidden in white noise.

He has her touch the opened sides of the neck and quietly begins to explain how to know it was a blade. Why it's important to know. The neck is attached to a head which in turn bears a face. She knows him. It. Him.

Creedence pays close attention to what's being taught. This is the victim's history. There's little doubt it was self inflicted. But here's what to look for, just in case. Here's what to look for on the body. Here's what to look for at the scene. Be careful with the weapon. It's just runic, but be careful anyway.

Nobody she knew has ever died. There's been no funerals. No bodies.

He should be colder to the touch, bodies always look so cold in images. She thinks, trying to find whimsy in her shock, in the awful novelty of unresponsive skin and lifeless eyes, about liches. About that campaign three years ago. She remembers asking Mr. Bhaat question after question about the bodies of fallen enemies, at first pointless and irritating, then slowly unraveling a puzzle, corpse by corpse. It'd been fun.

How were bodies games? How did she do that, several years ago? She wanted to be that Creedence right now, and found she couldn't. There was no character to get into, there was no distance between her and the bled out (exsanguinated) corpse of someone she'd liked, admired, and trusted.

She obediently steps back as they finally move him into the bag, her instructor having her repeat back what she learned while her eyes never leave the face of the first mentor she'd had since making the choice to come here. To be this Creedence. The sound of the zipper is like a slow motion cringe and here she finally closes her eyes, head turned away. Shrinking in on herself, making herself small, Creedence starts to shake and then her partner speaks again, voice calmly insistent, that they'll go over the body in more detail once they reach the morgue.

The homesickness has been a more constant companion these months than even her weapon and now it feels further than ever. A threshold is being crossed, piece by piece as childhood and the sullen insistence of a fair world is removed. People die and maybe that's not news, but did you know that people die? That all it takes is opening a door and seeing their body?

And maybe it was safer to find out here and now, on the island and with calm guidance, than during a mission. Than out in the field. But she doesn't tell her partner thank you. Though later, in the chill of the morgue (just like the movies) she says it to the one who won't hear.