[indent]The Candidates fell in behind her swiftly. Olivia eyed them for a moment—they all had the look. She didn’t know exactly what the criteria for candidacy was, but the good Captain had called it [i]grit[/i]. You needed more than brains and brawns to do this, he had told her one night over chow. You needed an almost suicidal drive to run straight at those fucking bastards and punch them straight in the face. She made a sound, almost approving, and turned smartly on heel. The halls were familiar to her now, and she was so lost in routine that she almost missed the call of her name.

“Olivi—Lieutenant Murphy! Hold up!” 

Her brow furrowed as she caught sight of a familiar, lanky redhead. His lab coat was covered in grease and a look in his eyes so manic she thought he might explode. He squeezed past a group of workers, half running to catch up with the group. She hadn’t seen Darren this excited since he’d bumbled through his vows nearly nine months ago. He’d grown a terrible, patchy beard and his skin had become clammy. Somehow his freckles seemed dimmer, drowned out by all the grey. Olivia let him catch his breath.

“Hello again, candidates,” he greeted, “Sorry to keep you up all night with tests. Lieutenant,” he addressed her so formally it almost stung. Olivia accepted the large folder he offered her. “Room assignments and, ah, a bit of light reading.”

“Thanks, Harrigan.” She flipped it open briefly. As promised, room assignments, and—her stomach went cold. Photographs. Letters. What looked like a will, legalese and a detailed list beneath her name. She hadn’t even thought of this. They had buried John and she’d thought everything settled. Upon reflection, that was silly. Paperwork didn’t care if the world was ending. Estates still had to be managed. It had probably taken this long [i]because[/i] the world was ending. Lawyers were probably making a fortune off all the dead. She snapped the folder shut with a sharp inhale, trying to ignore the way his face had burned into her mind. Darren looked grim. She’d thought he was keeping it together, whenever she caught glimpses of him during candidacy testing, but he looked as dead as she felt. Olivia tried not to indulge that thought. “You look like shit, man. Get some sleep.”

He barked a laugh at that, almost half-crazed. Olivia’s frown deepened. 

“Trust me, there’s no time for that. We’re all on double shifts to get ready for tomorrow. You’ll love it. Actually, you’ll hate it, but it’ll be fun to watch.” 

Amazingly, he didn’t seem worried—nervous, excited energy rolled off him in waves, and though he looked ready to collapse he appeared hopeful. Had they had a breakthrough? Olivia didn’t want to believe it, but shit, he looked ready to crap rainbows and puke puppies. Her nose scrunched. Darren looked entirely too gleeful. Maybe he’d cracked. Or maybe, just maybe, they’d fixed the damn thing. Maybe this would [i]work[/i]. She could almost believe it. Shit, maybe she[i] did[/i] want to believe it. Not dying sounded good to her.

“Lovely. Don’t have too much fun,” she shifted the room assignments out of the folder, avoiding looking at her brother’s face. The [i]Pan Pacific Defence Corpse[/i] gleamed up at her with a whole host of names, half of which she couldn’t pronounce. Awesome.

“Always do. Take care, candidates,” he waved, departing at a run. He’d probably get his ass chewed for leaving his shop, but she appreciated the delivery. It was good to see him again. Her knuckles went white around the folder. John would have kicked her ass for letting herself get so defeated. He’d never give up hope. Olivia hooked her dark bangs behind her ear. She needed to get her shit together.

“Right,” it was easy to slip back into the professionalism expected of a Navy Lieutenant. It gave her strength, something to find meaning in. She was here not only for John, but her countrymen. For the world. They had to fucking kill these bastards. Her gut tightened at the thought. “You’ve seen the medical bay by now, so we won’t waste time on our tour there. You’ll get real familiar with it during your stay. We’ll stop by the mess quick; we’re in Dining Group Alpha, so meal times are 0700, 1300, and 2000. Get there early or go hungry.”

She gestured for the group to follow, rattling off advice and information. The mess hall was busy as ever, putting the carrier mess to shame. How they fed nearly thirty thousand people every day, Olivia would never know. It was fucking impressive, even if the food was worse than Navy crap. The halls were noticeably less busy as they made the long walk to the barracks. Olivia tried to remember all the tricks of the place—take this route to get to places without getting stuck behind supply trains, these are the guys at Supply who can get you things you need under the table, the showers don’t give hot water past four thirty am—useful shit that had taken her some time to figure out. By the time they reached the Barracks, her daily allotment of professionalism had been used up and her advice had become far more snarky.

The barracks was infinitely quieter than the rest of the main complex, especially when they reached their wing. Few Candidates spent time here. She understood why—somehow, more than the rest of the Proving Grounds, the barracks seemed hollow. The weight of the war always seemed to hit her most here. The folder burned in her hand.

“It’s four to a room, dudes on the left, lady-dudes on the right,” she explained mechanically, glancing back to the assignments. “Lights out is at 2200. Marco got his ass beat for being loud past that, so don’t be a jackass or you’ll get the same. Fucking with another Candidate’s sleep is the fastest way to get on the shit list. Keep your shit neat and lock it up, expensive things have been known to go missing, because even the apocalypse can’t stop people from being dicks.” She paused, considered them. “You’re fuckin’ adults, so I shouldn’t have to tell you to shower, but holy shit, I’ve already been proven wrong once, so [i]shower[/i]. Alright, I’m going to butcher your names because I’m fucking terrible at this. Yuthee Tabtiang, Kyle Kuzowski, Lang-hao Ma—yeah, fuck, sorry—Owen Davis, you’ll be taking Room 221. Wotjek Jozwiak—[i]voy-tek[/i]? Okay, shit, I’ll work on that—you’ve got 225 with Clemens, Marco, and Johnson. Good luck with that. That leaves Amanda Tucker,” she glanced to an impressively tall woman. Olivia rarely felt short at five foot eight, but the woman put her to shame. Damn. “You’ll be in 230 with me and Shankari. All your shit should already be in your rooms. If it’s not, let me know and I’ll track it down. Schedules for the next day are usually uploaded by like, 1930, on the network, so check that shit. Being late is for douchebags.”

Shit, she was sick of talking. Olivia looked at the group, arched a brow.

“Right, well, that should be everything. Don’t get yourselves into trouble.”[/indent]