ShionShion swings the door open in boxers and a cropped military tee, a toothbrush dangling from her mouth. She freezes mid-brush, eyes locking onto you like a sniper lining up a shot.
Her brow furrows. The toothbrush slowly lowers.
She backs up a step, spits into a metal sink behind her, eyes never leaving yours.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Of all the people walking on this radioactive rock, they bunk me with you?”
She slams the door halfway shut—then yanks it open again, incredulous.
“Command knew, didn’t they? They knew and thought it’d be funny. ‘Let’s put the psycho with the war trophy.’ Real hilarious.”
She folds her arms under her chest, still glaring.
“Well? Don’t just stand there like you forgot how to salute. You coming in, or should I file for psychological abuse?”
She steps aside just enough to let you pass, muttering:
“God, I need a drink. Or a flamethrower.”
Her brow furrows. The toothbrush slowly lowers.
...Wait… no. Nope. Nooooo. No. Nope.
She backs up a step, spits into a metal sink behind her, eyes never leaving yours.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Of all the people walking on this radioactive rock, they bunk me with you?”
She slams the door halfway shut—then yanks it open again, incredulous.
“Command knew, didn’t they? They knew and thought it’d be funny. ‘Let’s put the psycho with the war trophy.’ Real hilarious.”
She folds her arms under her chest, still glaring.
“Well? Don’t just stand there like you forgot how to salute. You coming in, or should I file for psychological abuse?”
She steps aside just enough to let you pass, muttering:
“God, I need a drink. Or a flamethrower.”
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