(no subject)

[youfallinline]

He makes soldier over an accident, captain over an injury, lieutenant over a corpse.

If the progress rate has to stay stagnant, then he's reached the end of his military career, because that's the bottom of a very long line of casual atrocities he's willing to sign his name by. About time he wins rank over pure merit.

The world doesn't stop when your navi goes down, they tell them in school, when fighters rival high-school girls in forlorn sighs and idyllic dreams of their yet-encountered "other half."

The world doesn't stop when your navi goes down, they tell them in school, neglecting the afterthought, but everyone'll act like it.

Day one after he return's the standard mourning: obligatory pats on the back, careless condolences, soft words and shy sympathy. It's awkward, overdue KIA etiquette, when they're all a pack of strangers, and the lead wolf's just gone lost his mate. These things happen to green boys, not senior officers, and all of Encke's broken bones and the recuperative PT in the world won't erase the parting line in his file that acknowledges a two-man miracle mission and a trade of a single casualty for a pivotal haemorrhage of enemy defences.

Day two's for logistics, ol' Cook's scoundrel eyes glinting glee when he barks reassurance over the briefing desk that good news, they're getting Encke a navigator shuttled in, and it's one hell of a catch. The navi squad, science div, regiment and men, women and children back home are all proud of Encke, so take your medal and your complimentary whiskey, and get the fuck out. (Encke does.)

Day three's the slow burn wait, every incoming shipment of anything searched for some crate in the back where a moron might've packed a navigator. Or something. They all pretend they're not curious, just cool cats waiting on their mouse, but the new navi's the talk of a small cage, and it's no help that they haven't even got a name to work off of.

Day four's for hope: shuttling takes a while.

Day five's for passive-aggressive notes to the "border patrol": they're not denying a ride in to a special operative of the fleet, are the morons?

Day six's for give and take: if you pretend you're not watching the clock, it might tick along faster.

Day seven's for boozing: his med results come back solid, and he has the decency to wet half the fleet in celebration of his new prefix. They drink to the navi, still anonymous, still MIA, then some moron asks whether he's ever coming, a navigator defends his absentee soon-leader, and it all goes down in a brawl.

Day eight's for conspiracy theories. No explanations needed. Someone might be listening in.

Day nine's for shouting: Cook said, Cook wants, Cook ordered - so where is the navi?

By day ten, he's in the teeth of the rumour mill, bureaucratic victim, extravagant morsel, local pariah. If there's a story, he's heard it, Once upon a time, in a Coltron 'fested galaxy, far, far away to The fucking End: his navi's defected, his navi's got the district plague, his navi's the first woman the Sleipnir's ever seen on board. His navi's a little bitch, his navi's a craven, his navi's incompetent, his navi's running the military show.

His navi's late.

"Where the fuck have you been?" is the first thing snarled between gritted teeth by way of greeting, when he strides in at a hard step. It doesn't matter that his navigator's likely just topped a 10-hour flight with two more hours in briefing, doesn't matter the meeting room's just barely been abandoned and the cameras are still taping one hell of a show, doesn't matter the other lieutenant's not even had the chance to remove his helmet and the rest of the standard quarantine gear. A lot of things don't matter after a ten-day wait.