These Bloody Hands

"I'm calling it. Time of death, 25:41."

Rosa Morales didn't say anything. She just stood there in her scrubs, looking at the body of one Private Michael Temple, Dominion Marine Corps, born 26/03/2487, blood type AB positive, service number 300-320-DR1. One of many soldiers who'd given their lives on Ilona VII. One of many fringe worlds, and one of many more words that were under attack by Amon's forces. Moebius Corps fanatics who attacked during the day, while shambling monstrosities hurled themselves at Dominion lines at night. All of them defeated. Defeated at too high a cost.

She looked around the compound that formed the centre of their position. Body bags on one side, ready to be cremated. Wounded on the other. Sighing, she reached into her pocket, pulling out some stims and-

"Don't."

She looked at Lieutenant Paul. "What?" she asked.

"That's your third batch," he said.

"I haven't taken it yet."

"And you're not going to take it," he said. He held out a hand. "Give it. Now."

"You don't outrank me."

"And I'm going to kick your arse to Tarsonis if you don't take an hour," he said, palm still outstretched. "Stims. Now."

Morales glared at him, but nonetheless acquiesced. She began walking off and-

"And the other one."

She tossed the second stim pack to Paul. "Fekk you," she whispered.

Paul ignored her. He instead gestured to the nurses, who brought yet another marine on a stretcher. Technicians began cutting off his armour, while the medics did what they could to keep his organs in place.

She kept walking to the barracks. Water, food, sleep. She hated having to do that, she hated Lieutenant Paul, but fekk it, the pan-brain was right. She'd been on her feet for eighteen hours straight. Ilona VII had an incredibly short day-night cycle, but she was still human, and humans had evolved on a planet with a twenty-four hour day cycle, and needed eight of those hours for rest. The only solace she had was that since the infested had been destroyed, she'd long since slipped out of her CMC-405 suit, and didn't have to worry about getting the damn thing off. All she had to do was enter the barracks, head for the galley, pour the tap and-

Fekk.

There was no water.

"Fekk!" she yelled, kicking the cupboard. "Fekk fekk fekk!"

She kept kicking. She kept punching. She counted the tears that came down her face – not nearly as many soldiers who'd died over the last week. Well, Ilona VII's week. She didn't know what a normal week was like anymore. Didn't know much of anything, as she slid into a chair, leant on the coffee table, and put her face in her palms.

"Lieutenant."

She looked up, and on instinct, shot up straight. She began to salute and-

"At ease," said the newcomer. "I think we're a bit past that."

She slowly sat back down, too tired to argue. Too tired to claim that James O'Neill was a major, and that she owed him the respect the rank demanded. Too tired to do anything but just sit at the table, eyes closed. Dreaming of sleep, but too tired to make the trek to the bunk room.

"Want anything?" O'Neill asked.

She heard the sound of the fridge being opened and shook her head.

"Your choice."

Opening one eye, she saw him sit down, a beer in one hand. "Aren't you on duty?" she murmured.

"Fekk duty," he said, taking a swig. "Fekk the zerg, fekk the protoss, fekk this motherfekking war, and fekk that pretty boy on Korhal as well."

"Korhal came under attack you know."

"Fekk 'em," he grunted. He looked at her. "I lost over two-hundred men this last week. That's a company's worth. You think the zerg are going to care how many IT's we burned?"

IT's. Infested terrans. One of a number of slang terms she'd gotten used to over the last six years."

"Say," O'Neill continued, "you're Morales, right?"

She nodded. "Rosa Morales. Dominion Navy Medical Corps."

"Right," he said, taking another sip. "And former UED as well."

Her heart skipped a beat. She opened her eyes. And suddenly felt very, very, awake. O'Neill smirked at her.

"Oh, it's no secret," he continued. "I don't care that I've got an Earther in my ranks, I care that you can do your job." He took another sip. "I was at Korhal, you know. A captain. I was there when you Earthers came up, toppled dear Arcturus, and declared that Korhal was now a UED protectorate."

Morales remained silent. There were many slights the terrans of the Koprulu sector could level against the universe – the zerg, the protoss, other terrans. What wasn't mentioned as often was the UED's invasion. Maybe because Mengsk could barely take any credit for booting them out, and had even sided with them at the end of the Brood War.

"Took my unit into the desert," he continued. "Guerrilla attacks until the UED was booted off the planet. Course things went south immediately afterwards with the zerg, but hey, I'm here, and I'm a fekking major." He burped. "I get to send even more men off to die."

Morales remained silent, even as O'Neill took one final sip from the glass and slammed it on the table. He looked at her through bloodshot eyes. Alcohol, tears, he couldn't tell.

"Permission to take my designated one hour sleep period," she said.

"Yeah, sure, sure," O'Neill said, taking out a hip flask, and drinking what smelt like whiskey. "Just piss off."

She slowly got up – she'd been on Char, when the Overmind had been killed. When the UED had fled into space, and she'd been lucky enough to be among them. How she'd fought on Char Aleph, but had been wounded. How it had been Dominion, not UED soldiers, who'd rescued her, and by doing so, saved her from being wiped out by the zerg. How she'd been inducted into the Navy Medical Corps, all slights forgotten – Mengsk needed to rebuild, and Earthers were welcome if they did their job. And now, six years later, here she was on a world over 60,000 light years from Earth. Fighting another war, almost the same as the other one.

She began walking to the bunk room. But she stopped, as O'Neill called out to her.

"Tell me," he said. "Why do you do it?"

She looked at him. "What?"

"Why?" he asked, and it was clear that he was now very drunk – obviously he'd had some of that whiskey before entering the barracks. "Why are you here, when you're not even from this sector?" He leant over the desk, his face a mix of rage and grief. "Why help us? You're…you're from Earth, you fekker. U…UE…Dee…" He burped. "Why? You're…you're not even a real terran."

"My blood's red."

She stood there, and he looked up at her. "What?"

"My blood's red," she repeated. "What colour's your blood?"

"The fekk you on…hic…about?"

"Your blood is red," she said. "My blood is red. We're biologically identical – the only racial marker of terrans, if you want to make the distinction, is that you have a slightly higher pre-disposition to psionic ability. We're closer to each other than chimpanzees."

O'Neill stared at her – maybe he didn't even know what a chimpanzee was.

"So, yeah," she said. "Want to know why I help? Because I don't like seeing people die. Because we're all human, or terran, or whatever term you want to use to describe humanity. I'll help, because that's my job."

O'Neill just sat there. Silent.

"Permission to leave, Sir?"

He threw her a salute. She returned it, and headed for the bunk room.

Sleep took her quickly.

Even faster than death.