RONAN It was a careful balance, one I had thought about far too much since waking up in the field hospital. How much should the pain patch block? The wearer needed to know they were injured. They needed that feedback to move carefully and not make things worse. But they also had to be able to think clearly. Pain sharpened awareness, until it drowned everything else. Walking behind the private escorting me, I doubted my doctor truly understood how the patch worked in practice. On paper, maybe. In a controlled ward, definitely. Out here, with cracked ribs and a camp that still smelled like smoke and blood, it felt inadequate. The pain was still a sharp fire, even with the patch active. It felt like a hot blade buried under my skin, flaring with every step and every breath. To face the Lieutenant Colonel, now the commanding officer, I needed more relief than this. I told myself I should not complain. As we crossed dirt churned into mud and patches of trampled grass, the entire unit was preparing to move. There was an urgency to it, sharp and nervous. Our position was exposed, and the new CO wanted us gone as soon as possible for security reasons. Soldiers shouted to one another over engine noise. Cargo was lashed down and double checked. Crates were dragged, lifted, and slammed into place. Anything broken beyond use was left behind without ceremony. The portable buildings were the worst. Some still smoldered, thin streams of smoke leaking from warped seams. They had been emptied of equipment, of weapons, of anything that could be salvaged. The bodies inside had not been moved yet. No one lingered near them. So I should not complain. Others had it worse. Others were not walking at all. But the pain made it hard to focus. It blurred the edges of my thoughts. I reached inward, accessing my internal system, and searched for the wireless link to the pain device adhered beneath my new tan shirt. The hospital had given me the shirt, a pair of BDU pants, and worn combat boots. The clothes were loose on me, clearly not sized with much care, but a belt kept the pants from slipping. The boots had already been broken in by someone else. I did not think too hard about who that might have been. I was about to break into the pain device’s system, just a minor override and a temporary adjustment, when the private stopped short. He grabbed my shoulder to steady me. A hiss escaped my lips before I could stop it. Pain flared bright and sudden where his fingers pressed. That decided it. Right then, I chose to override the settings. The private nodded, listening to something over his comm. “Understood, Actual. Taking him there now.” I increased the signal output from the device bonded to my ribs. The sharp fire dimmed, retreating into a manageable, distant ache. A dull throb replaced it, something I could compartmentalize. I breathed out slowly. Tension drained from my chest. The private turned slightly toward me. “Change in plans,” he said. “I am to take you to the SCIF.” “Why?” I asked, my voice steadier now. “Above my pay grade,” he replied, lifting a hand and pointing east. We changed direction.As I turned my head, a faint liquid swish sounded in my ear. The nanofluid there was still at work, knitting damaged tissue and repairing my eardrums molecule by molecule. It was the reason I could hear at all. I was grateful for it. I followed the private, relieved that my senses were functioning and that the pain from my ribs no longer made my stomach churn. Then the memory hit me, uninvited and sharp. A teenager slouched on a couch. My parents standing over me, shouting. My mother shaking a bottle of my grandmother’s pain pills, the rattle loud in the quiet room. Elliot’s pale face flashed in my mind. My friend, barely conscious, almost dead. He had nearly overdosed on those same pills that Saturday morning. Pills he and I had stolen together. We had stolen from more than just our grandmothers, chasing that numb, floating feeling wherever we could find it. A small, insidious voice whispered that adjusting the pain device now was no different. Just another way of avoiding discomfort. Just another excuse. I shook my head hard, as much as my ribs would allow. “Not the same thing,” I muttered under my breath. The private glanced back at me. “Sir?” “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just talking to myself. Like someone with too many head wounds.” He nodded and faced forward again, guiding me through the busy camp. I could not see his expression, but I knew it anyway. Concern, mixed with a hint of scorn. The kind of look you gave someone who should know better but was still human enough to struggle. I would have worn the same look if our positions were reversed. Soon we reached a cluster of prefabricated buildings set slightly apart from the rest of the camp. A plain sign was bolted beside the door. Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. The private opened the door and passed me inside, handing me off without ceremony. A warrant officer met me just inside. He took my fingerprint, then a DNA sample, efficient and impersonal. He ordered me to hand over all electronics. I emptied my pockets, then removed my watch and placed it on the tray. He swept a wand slowly over my face. My contacts blinked once, then dropped into safe mode, severing my access to their interface. I could see through them, but that was all. No overlays. No data. No assistance unless someone explicitly authorized it. The procedure was familiar. Clinical. Almost comforting in its rigidity. I had consulted for agency leadership on operations before. I knew the drill.