One Shots

(Not So) Private Logs

-March 12th, 2110, 12:26 A.M. -
So for some reason, good ol' Minerva decided that writing (typing, really) down my feelings and shit would "be good for my fragile masculinity". I don't know how I'll remember to do these, but I'll make it work. Uh...still no dogs on this windy planet yet, but I'm waiting for the day. Anyway, I suppose I need to sleep.

Ah shit, I have a meeting tomorrow.

If Treston was particular about anything, it was his morning routine. He'd shower, brush his teeth and hair, then get dressed and make breakfast. Any disruption would irritate him more than it should, so many learned to let him wake up on his own accord.

Of course, his day didn't start like that.

He should have known that things wouldn't go as smooth with the important meeting later that morning. He woke up an hour late, burned his food (and hand), and his shower refused to work. So when he approached the room's door, he was ecstatic to discover that it had been cancelled by Minerva herself. The excitement didn't last long as Minerva never cancelled meetings.

Unless...

His brisk footfalls echoed throughout the hall as he headed to the ICU, anxiety wrapping its inky tendrils around his stomach. He couldn't explain it in any words other than gut feeling that that's where she'd be found, seeing as she had been there ever since he arrived. The poor man was afraid of every shadow, creak, and chuckle, leading them to believe that something in his mind finally gave way under the torture he endured. Just last week, he had almost choked out a nurse, it took three guards to pry him off as he flailed and screamed to let him go.

It hadn't been easy to see, but Minerva seemed to be taking it the hardest. Seeing Isaiah be rendered to a husk of whom he used to be? It would get to even the strongest of people. Nonetheless, even with a million things demanding her attention, she always made time for him.

He didn't dare to knock on the door, for the quiet mumbles behind it gave enough clue that whatever was being said was only for two pairs of ears, and that didn't include his. With respect for their privacy, he quietly went back the way he came. It didn't take long for him to drift off into some train of thought, only for it to screech to a stop when he ran into someone quite shorter than he.

"You idiot, were you even looking where you were going?"

Oh boy.

"Uh," Treston blinked for a moment, instinct kicking in to retort with, "Honest answer or...?"

The man was shorter than him, but the fury in his eyes burned brighter than any star in the sky. And there were a lot of fucking stars.

"For someone who just bumped into me and made me drop my fucking tools," he gestured to the toolbox, where the sum of one wrench had fallen out onto the floor, "you have a lot of jokes."

"And for someone so damn short, you've got quite a big stick up your ass," Treston retorted, eyes falling onto the metal tag on his uniform. Of course his name was Levi, it matched his attitude.

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused."

"That's not what I mea-" the man must have reached his peak at that point, for he let out an agitated growl before picking up his things (promptly forgetting his wrench) , pivoting, and walking towards the hangars.