A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Chapter 5: The Hotheads

The night passes in complete silence, and I wake up wondering if the walls in this ship are soundproof. I can hear the hum of the ship around me, but nothing else. My wristcomm alarm goes off at an ungodly hour, and I reach up automatically to wipe my eyes with the palms of my hands. Oh yeah... slept in a helmet. But I've done it often enough that I don't lose out on much sleep.

I lace up my boots, slide on my gloves, and walk as quietly as I can down the corridor, around the corner, and to the refresher. I try to lean my ear in to listen for signs of movement, but the blastdoor slides up at my proximity. The room is empty, and I lock the door behind me before grabbing a wash cloth from the shelf, and heading toward the sink.

With bated breath and a fast heart, I take my helmet off and set it down on the other sink. This time, I give myself a few seconds to look in the dirty mirror. The hair around my face is messy, but the braid around my head still looks tight. I even let myself have a second to contemplate what I always think about when taking my helmet off after an extended period- cutting my hair. When it's down and clean, the straight, mouse brown locks fall to my waist. There's just something so feminine about it, and it's the only really girly thing about me apart from my sparkly green painted nails. But life would be a lot easier with cropped hair under this helmet instead of a tight braid roping around my head. I wish I could let it out to massage my scalp and brush out the tangles.

For now, I finger through the flyaways around my face with wet hands, then wash my face, splashing the back of my neck. I get just a dab of my soap on the washcloth, and shove my hand down my pants to wipe my netherregions. Then up my shirt under the padding and armor. I have to pause to loosen the strap that runs from my chest plate to the back plate, but I get the cold, soapy cloth to my armpits, and run it under my breasts strapped into an immensely tight sports bra that keeps them as flat as possible. My chest armor allows a little bit of room, but to keep my status as a strong man, I have to keep them from spilling out the side.

After a long drink, I put my helmet back on, then unlace my boots and take my socks off. One foot at a time, I rinse my toes in the sink and scrub a little soap on them. Not as good as a shower, but it will do.

When I get to the toilet, I sit for a few long minutes after I'm actually done using it, getting as much fresh air against my skin as time allows. And boy, is it a mistake! Someone tries to open the blastdoor.

"Fuck! Not again!" I hear from the other side of the door.

My blood runs cold, but before I can even wipe, a series of beeps sound, and the lock disengages. The door slides open, and someone walks in, grumbling to themselves.

"Fucking ship needs a tuneup."

The voice belongs to Cardo. The only part of my body that moves is my heart, pounding desperately in my chest. I look down at my boots, realizing the gap for airflow at the bottom is only a couple inches. Maybe he doesn't notice that someone is in here. But the other stall door is open. It's only a matter of time before-

My frantic thoughts are cut off by the sound of urine streaming into a metal urinal. He really doesn't notice me. I keep my stiff posture, waiting to see if he leaves without a glance in my direction. And sure enough, big feet pad away and through the door. Letting out my held breath, I waste no time finishing up and rushing back to my quarters, where I lock the door behind me and collapse onto the bed in a heap of stress and beskar.

My second alarm finds me much less groggy. I sift through my bag for a ration bar as soon as I get up. There's only six, so I just take one, ignoring the painful twisting in my stomach. Tilting my helmet up off my chin and mouth, I scarf down the bar in three huge bites.