THE GUARDSMEN, THE BULWARK - WARHAMMER 40K

7.

          Her eyes stared at him through the mirror—the humid steam that painted the glass distorted his appearance—as she remained in just her towel. As opposed to her, the man was still in his attire, including donning the gas mask.
          The respirator, colored in a mocha brown shade, with a black tube connected to a filter canister around the area of the chest, covered his mouth. She looked at him where his eyes would be.
          And, as her dull, naked, and exposed grey eyes looked at the pair of black lenses that exuded the same sense of coldness and emptiness, her gaze strayed from them when she noticed the white towel in his grasp.
          When she noticed, he began to walk towards her, slow and steady, before he offered the towel to her—brought in between them—as he stood in front of her, his arm still stretched to present it.
          Although a single towel was enough, it didn't hurt to have another, especially when it could barely cover her as it was. Without a single word, she accepted it and draped it around her shoulders to hide her chest. The other that was wrapped around her torso was brought low to cover a portion of her thighs. While she was doing all this, he remained watching her until she was entirely content and spared him a look. "Thank you," she whispered, trying not to strain herself.
          In return, the man simply responded with a small nod before exiting the washroom altogether, the encounter not at all bothering her despite thinking about the whole interaction. Again, she felt indifferent towards many things that this wouldn't be anything worth noting. But she did appreciate the gesture.
          As she was stuck processing her thoughts, she caught her reflection in the mirror again; black hair, grey eyes, and sickly pale lips—when she took another look—before the world turned and appeared grim when she retrieved her gas mask.
          At her return back to the barrack, the only light bulb in the barrack had been turned off, and the only source of light that mildly helped see through the dark was the red fire from the outside that was burning in a barrel. The windows were kept closed but lacked the curtains.
          Her bed creaked as it embraced her—the sensation it felt seemed like drowning—when she laid down, her mind littered by many needless thoughts. Such as how she wasn't still used to the comfort and springy feel of sleeping in a bed. And, with these thoughts, she began comparing things.
          She recalled the feeling of the hard solid ground, the vibration and the comfort when she rested her eyes. But when it had been some time and she still couldn't find sleep since she laid, there was a squeaky noise of an oil lantern being turned on, and seeing a small light gradually act as a beacon around the dark, she saw him propping himself up against the head of the bunk bed—his torso in between the state of laying and sitting up—as he seemed to retrieve a small book.
          Curious, she remained unmoving—pretending to be asleep like the rest—as she watched him without an ounce of risk at being discovered, thanks to the mask that was kept on her face. But as she continued to watch him silently read through the book, whatever the content may be, she started to feel the growing drowsiness since she began to observe him. Until gradually, her limbs and nerves relaxed—and the tension that she never noticed, dissipated—she fell asleep.
          Before morning came, and the ray of light even began to bleed through the sky, the company had fallen in with the rest of the others until the entire 76th line korps was brought to the front line. They traversed through the maze of trenches—through sharp cuts and corners, and narrow lines—until it became apparent that they were becoming increasingly close. The putrid stench and smell were indicators of that, as well as the blood stains that were painted throughout the trenches, some of which weren't even particularly dry yet. Without even a single mutter from anyone, or an order to be said from the commissars, everyone attended to their positions.
          The ammunition boxes were set in an open space for easier reach, and any remains—a decapitated finger or maybe a splattered flesh—were cleaned by them, at least those who had the misfortune to have their position at one. She wanted to sigh, but she gave it a long hard stare instead—almost as if scolding it for making a chore for her—before she relented and got to it. With a cloth in her hand, she scrubbed her spot clean and removed any bloodied member, limb, or organ until she was satisfied with her job. Even though the strong smell seemed to remain.
          Her back leaned against the wooden parapet wall as she sat on the firing step—used when firing at the enemies but a chair when they weren't—before she closed her eyes for merely a moment until she sensed someone in front of her.
          "You seem to have made yourself comfortable, Watchmaster," a familiar voice bloomed and she immediately stood at attention with a salute. "Commissar."