Every Soldier Has His Vice

The room was dim, the only visible light coming from the captain's monitor and a dying desk lamp. The fans of his computer whirred idly, and the old machine itself was tucked away under his desk, generating enough heat to warm the entirety of his small office. Tired, gray eyes scanned over the words on the screen for the millionth time, trying to decide if this version of the mission report was good enough to send on to the brass, or if he should revise it again. It's truly astounding how many ways there are to say the same thing, to stretch a simple reconnaissance operation into something grand. Into something worth reading about, as if any of their operations lately were worth reading about. It was all the same thing; wander around, look for enemies, and come back to the base. Nothing grand about it, but, of course, the powers that be demanded to know every little move Charles and his task force made. At times, he felt like a caged animal, or a teenager whose parents didn't trust him, rather than a captain of an Alleghen Special Forces unit.

Charles gave a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. With a grunt, he stood from his chair and headed out of his office and into the hallway. Perhaps a break would be an order, it'd be good for him to stretch his legs, after all. He walked until he reached the exit to their modest base, and as he stepped into the crisp nighttime air, he felt his pockets for two items that were almost essential to him; a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds. Every soldier has his vice, after all. Charles removed a cigarette from the pack, placing it in between his lips, and with practiced ease he flicked open his lighter and lit it. The feeling of smoking was relieving in a way only smokers understood.

As he stood just outside the base, abusing his lungs and blowing large plumes of smoke into the night, he could see his boys inside the common room. Two large bay windows provided an ample view, both inside and out, and even with the low lighting inside, Charles could make out each member of his team. Axel, his lieutenant, stood in the corner, a glass of something in his hand. Likely bourbon, knowing the man. His dark hair framed his thin face in a way that somehow made him look both innocent and intimidating. What really caught Charles's eye, though, is there was a smile on that face. A small one, but a smile at that. A rare occurrence, but a welcome one. Axel rarely smiled.

The other three men, his sergeants, were gathered around the coffee table, playing cards. Angel, a soldier that surely lived up to his name and whose poker face left much to be desired, must've had a wonderful hand, as he was positively cackling at something. He watched the young man shove the fellow beside him, Cypher, and the two playfully swatted at each other. Cypher signed something Charles couldn't quite make out from where he stood, and the boys howled with laughter. Cypher, the company clerk, was almost totally deaf, as an explosion claimed his hearing during his days as a CIA sleeper agent. He could read lips fairly well, but for the most part preferred to communicate via American Sign Language. Charles was honestly surprised that the rest of his boys were so quick to learn it for him.

Of course, the man's name was Joshua, in truth. Cypher was only a handle.

Then, there was Calix, their dealer for the evening, skillfully shuffling the cards in his hands between rounds. The way the young man's side profile accentuated his features, the way his fingers so elegantly and effortlessly danced across the deck as he dealt, he almost looked as if he'd stepped right out of a movie. Calix, however, was the only member of Charles's task force that was not from the faction of Allegheny. No, he was born and raised in Libertalia, more specifically the part that used to be England, and like the rest of his teammates, he'd served in a special forces group: the Special Air Service. He, along with several others, had been part of an exchange of sorts; 20 Libertalian soldiers for 20 Alleghen soldiers as a symbol of soldiarity between the two factions, an apology for almost an entire year of cold war.

As Calix talked, shuffled, and dealt cards, Charles suddenly noticed the cigarette hanging off his lip, resting against the right side of his mouth, just the way the captain himself smoked. Calix reached up, taking his cigarette between his index and middle fingers, and tilted his head back to exhale the smoke toward the ceiling

Just the way his captain did it.

Charles had half a mind to storm in there and swat the cigarette out of Calix's hand, to lecture him about how dangerous they are, to tell him not to pick up the same bad habits he did. With his own cancer stick dangling out the side of his mouth, however, it'd be quite hypocritical of him. It wasn't his place, anyway.

Every soldier has his vice.