Work Header


Work Text:

That number kept circulating through his mind: 36%. Thirty-six percent loss of vision in his left eye. The medic Ellen had managed to turn up -- somehow, miraculously unaffiliated with the USCMC, as well as the Company -- had proclaimed it was better than it could have been. No, actually he had said that it was better than it should have been, given the limited information they had shared with him. By all rights, the medic had declared, given the acid, he should have lost the eye.

It spelled certain discharge from the Marines, that was for certain -- and likely, an honorable one too, unless the Company had its way. One of the guys who had been at the recruiting office at the same time he was had been rejected for having hearing one decibel lower than regulations allowed; with all the gunfire, he still didn't see how that could make much of a difference. But vision? Now that was a definite game changer. 

He wasn't too sure how much of all this Newt had understood. (He wasn't too sure how much of all this he had understood himself.) She had watched everything with eyes too solemn for her young face, seemingly taking it all in. Every so often, her eyes would flick around the room, checking all the exits one more time. He'd known grunts less paranoid, not that a little paranoia wasn't a good thing. 

In all their cases, his and Ellen's and Newt's -- even Bishop’s too, he supposed -- it was definitely a good thing. 

After all, it wasn't really paranoia if they were out to get you.