Dom Santiago sat on one end of Chelsea Ferria's couch, staring at the clock with his head propped up on his fist. Bored. So bored.

"Dom," Ms. Ferria said, her voice carefully neutral. "We have forty minutes left. Why don't you tell me about work?"

Forty more minutes—whoopdi-do, Dom's expression clearly read.

Chelsea Ferria had seen that same expression on half a dozen other men just in the past two days. She knew getting frustrated wouldn't help, but sometimes she wanted to scream "Just say something!" at them. It wasn't her fault the war with the Locusts happened, and it damn well wasn't her fault it ended three years ago. She'd been fast-tracked into a medical triage program and about to ship out to a mobile COG hospital when the war finally ended. From there she'd skipped through several medical units before receiving her discharge and finally landing a job three weeks ago as a psychiatric consultant for Bender Fields Incorporated, a newly formed demolition company specializing in tearing down and cleaning up buildings made uninhabitable during the war.

The vast majority of Bender Fields' workers were former Gears, like Dom, and they all struggled with making the jump to civilian life. Many of them left the COG involuntarily, pushed out by injuries or because they were 'too old.' COG had a limited budget these days—and once a soldier hit the magic number 30, they were often forced out. Most of these guys had lost their families in the war, they suffered from post-traumatic stress, and none of them wanted her help.

But tri-weekly psych exams were mandatory, and Bender Fields wanted Chelsea's stamp of approval on all employees every single month. They hired her after a number of increasingly disturbing incidents climaxed with one man coming to work and emptying a pistol clip into his demo team before eating a bullet himself.

These men were all dangerous and, even with the war over, under a great deal of stress.

"How are things going with your team, Dom?"

Uninterested in her questions, Dom rubbed his nose with his knuckles. He snorted long and hard, like he needed a Kleenex but couldn't stomach being polite enough to use one.

It had taken only three weeks to wear Chelsea's patience thin. She knew it was important to remain calm and professional, but she was young—still in her early twenties—and far under-trained for a shrink, especially a therapist expected to deal with men half again her age with their brains shell-shocked into a pile of goo.

Hell, 'Dom Santiago' had probably lost more knowledge about dismembering Locusts to closed-head blast injuries than she would ever know about psych therapy. A real kick in the pants that was. They were both here for the same reason; because they needed jobs, and they didn't know how to get by any other way.

Chelsea tossed her notebook on the floor and took a minute to crack her neck to each side.

"Damn, I'm starving," she said. It was the least professional thing she'd said in front of a 'client' and she wasn't too surprised when it garnered some interest. Dom actually seemed to perk up a little.

Food? What, where? his expression said for a minute, and then the monotone face slammed back down. Oh no, she wouldn't maneuver past his defenses via his stomach. No, ma'am. Not in this man's army.

Chelsea got up and headed for the rack to get her coat. "There's an awesome cheese steak vendor on the corner. It's really good as long as you don't think too hard about where he probably got the steak—or the cheese," Chelsea smiled, throwing on her coat. "Come if you want, or feel free to stay."

For a moment she thought he wouldn't follow her. She got out the door and all the way down the hall before her office door opened, and he appeared—head down as he trudged after her. She paused at the stairwell, waiting for him to catch up.

"Aren't you going to be cold?" she asked, eying his outfit: the same work-boots and cargo pants worn by most of the workers and a grease-stained white t-shirt, tattered around the collar. It had to be only forty degrees outside.

"Nope," Dom said, sliding past her and starting down the stairs. He easily hopped down the last three stairs to the landing, just like a kid. The vast majority of COG veterans weren't so spry. Chelsea knew that first hand from moonlighting at a free clinic. There was a waiting list numbering in the thousands for reconstructive surgeries, prosthetic limbs and physical therapy.

Delta must've had angels watching over them, she thought, following him down to the building exit.

Bender Fields' main office building was a bleak gray structure, more utilitarian than anything. The front door opened out into downtown, and it was surrounded by the first cluster of buildings that had been restored to fully functional capacity. It was lunch time, and office workers, construction crews and less savory characters alike swarmed the area, spending their hard-earned coin—or begging for it.

Dom walked next to her, always keeping his bulky frame between her and the street, both hands crammed into his pockets. He stood between her and most of the people they passed. He never split away—sometimes forcing other pedestrians to change course to avoid walking into him—nor did he encroach on her personal space. He remained simply there beside her, a silent but formidable force.

Three years after the defeat of the Locust horde it was still easy to spot a front-line Gear a mile away. They were the only ones left with serious meat on their bones. The rest of Sera had gone under severe food rationing for nearly two decades while the Gears on the front line were put on full feed. Dom was fit and trim, but he had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and trunk-like arms and legs. He was tall, but not tall enough to justify the degree to which he resembled a giant. Out in public he got plenty of stares and was afforded a wide berth. She could only imagine how imposing he'd been in COG armor.

She also wondered if he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets because they itched to hold the Lancer he no longer carried everywhere.

Chelsea also got a few curious looks. A hurried business woman with short steely-silver hair appraised Dom on her way by, and then shot Chelsea an approving glance with one eyebrow raised. As if to say, If I were younger, I'd be jealous. Nice catch, girl.

Most of the other bystanders who noticed her were lanky young men. They'd glance at her and then scowl at Dom, though he seemed oblivious to their accusatory stares.

First you take our food, and now our women. When're you asshole Gears going to stop?

Single females were in extremely short supply these days. Women her age typically already had a husband and kids—lots of kids, if the government had anything to say about it. Young women could essentially choose the man they wanted, and Gears were a popular choice. Former front-line Gears unhindered by injury were rare but highly sought prizes because they were strong, battle tested and wouldn't be sent out on missions or patrols. More and more frequently Chelsea heard stories from tearful girls about how they'd gotten involved with a much older man, only to find they couldn't deal with his war-torn psyche.

Dom didn't say anything during the short walk, but Chelsea still learned a great deal just observing his behavior. Dom Santiago was a gentleman. He might not like talking to her, or even seeing her, but she was a young lady in his care nonetheless. He ignored the clear signs of loathing received from some pedestrians. These were good signs. Sensibilities were often a good indicator of retained sanity.

Inside Bender Fields' he'd sulked with his head down in her presence, but outside he kept his head up. She had a feeling those dark eyes of his didn't miss much, even in a crowd. Especially in a crowd. Dom might be a gentleman, but he'd always be a soldier first. She must never forget that about any of them.

Maybe he resisted speaking to her because he thought she secretly harbored those same feelings of loathing he saw on a daily basis. Even with the nightmare of the war still fresh, there was an undeniable sense of tension between civilians and the armed forces. Rationing had eased, but remained in effect. After twenty years of shitting themselves in fear, everyone wanted control over their own destiny without the COG standing in the way with all their rules.

In the position she currently held, it would be all too easy for Chelsea to patronize and humiliate them, and perhaps even use anything said to her in confidence to take shots at COG Command.

"Thank you," Chelsea said abruptly.

Dom's head swiveled around to look at her, the question in his eyes clear. Thanks for what?

"For kicking ass." At first she wondered if he'd understand what she meant. She could think of no better way to put into words how she felt about frontliners that wouldn't sound cheesy or fake. Then she saw the look in his eyes change, and she closed her mouth, realizing nothing more needed to be said.

He got it.