Unoccupied Territory, Argoan-Capricornian Border Death was like a bad whiskey. Drink enough of it—get exposed enough to it—and you got used to it. Sometimes forgot about it. The bitter taste of it lessened into something shrugged at, maybe grimaced at lightly in passing. The line, smudged. Until it was someone you knew. Someone you reallyContinue reading “15.5: Second Lieutenant, 0310 Captured”
Six Chances 