Character Story | Moldir [A Moment on the White Expanse]
Part 8: "A Soldier"
41 hours, 25 minutes.
Over four hours past the safe rescue window, but still well within the absolute survival limit.
They administer a stabilizer to quiet David's feverish muttering. Once he settles, Moldir and Sergeant White Gloves step out from the makeshift infirmary.
Sergeant White Gloves: What's his condition?
Moldir: Delirium, high fever, mental disorientation ... It's hard to say if he's still capable of basic reasoning.
Sergeant White Gloves: ...
Moldir: At the very least, we got him back.
Moldir: We'll figure the rest out ... Father will find a way.
Sergeant White Gloves: How's your injury, Lieutenant?
Moldir: Just a few scrapes—not enough to warrant even an arcane potion. Nothing to worry about.
Moldir: You did well out there, Sergeant. If your team hadn't pulled off that stealth entry, this whole mission could've gone sideways.
The sergeant looks at her, an unusual flicker of disapproval in his eyes.
Sergeant White Gloves: You know what I'm thinking, Lieutenant.
Moldir: I'm just stating facts, Sergeant. And I'll say the same when I report this to Command.
Sergeant White Gloves: You mean it was an unauthorized mission, then.
Moldir pauses, weighing her answer. Then, she shakes her head.
Moldir: I don't believe the admiral would ever abandon one of his own.
Moldir: This isn't the kind of mission Command would reject. I do believe that.
Even a soldier as certain as Moldir needs a moment alone to steady her thoughts.
The liquid in her hip flask is almost gone. She lifts it to her lips and takes another slow sip.
Moldir: ...?
Moldir: Next time, I'd prefer you use the front door.
A squirrel pops halfway out of the ground and taps a paw against the nearby ice.
Buddy Fairchild: Requestin' entry, Lieutenant.
Moldir: ... Permission granted.
Buddy Fairchild: M-h-m.
The squirrel wriggles out of a hidden vent, dragging a frozen fish behind him.
Buddy Fairchild: Back in Florida, we Fairchilds go about celebratin' our victories by keepin' our promises.
Moldir: We don't have that custom in Zeno, but ... I like the sound of it.
A combat knife slices through the frozen fish. Rose-pink frost gleams along the blade's edge.
Moldir: You brought the food. You get the first taste.
Buddy Fairchild: Thank you kindly. To be honest with ya, I ain't never tried fish this way. Ain't exactly easy to make a fish popsicle under the Florida sun.
He picks up a sliver of fish in his paws and gives it a sniff.
Moldir: That makes two of us.
Buddy Fairchild: Well now, we got ourselves some food and a bit o' peace and quiet. All we're missin' is a good story. So, who's goin' first?
The scene feels oddly familiar. Moldir's breath is steady, her posture calm. She draws in the crisp, chilly, and tasteless air.
It's so different from the air in São Paulo—warm, floral, bursting with life.
Moldir: I've never been much good with stories, so I always offer to go first. That way the better storytellers can take over.
Buddy Fairchild: You mean to say ya got a decent storyteller 'round these parts? Where ya been hidin' 'em? I was startin' to think that icy-and-silent attitude came in a box with the uniform—what with you and the sergeant.
Ripples dance across her olive-green eyes.
Moldir: There used to be.
Buddy Fairchild: Aw, heck ... I'm sorry.
Moldir: No, it's alright. She ... she's probably doing well. I like to think so.
Moldir: She just ... left us.
Buddy Fairchild: That's good ... uh, I mean ... wait, why?
The lieutenant doesn't answer.
Instead, she slides a slice of fish into her mouth. It's icy and smooth, with a strange sweetness, like salty ice cream.
Moldir: Hm. Not bad—quite pleasant, actually. Thank you.
Buddy Fairchild: It is? Huh. I figured this'd be another one o' Jake's pranks.
He follows her lead and takes a bite. A moment later, his entire body shakes from head to tail.
Buddy Fairchild: Yikes! That near knocked the teeth clean outta my mouth!
Buddy Fairchild: Anyways, Lieutenant, you and I are friends now ... but I still don't hardly know a lick about ya! Come on, share a lil somethin' with me.
Moldir: Me?
The lieutenant falls into thought, as if she's just been handed a mission far more difficult than any battle.
Buddy Fairchild: Come on now, I know ya got a story to tell—or ten. Drinkin' all alone like that? Somethin's on yer mind.
Buddy Fairchild: Lucky for you, I happen to be the very best listener from Key West to the Panhandle. Yer secrets're safe in this lil noggin o' mine, and I got yer back. Believe you me!
She doesn't answer, and again he thinks for a second he may be getting brushed off, until Moldir points to a nearby ammo crate and gestures for him to sit.
Moldir: I'm afraid my story's not all that exciting. But I can tell you another; just know it's ... not cheery.
Buddy Fairchild: Fine by me.
Moldir: It's a familiar tale. A girl loses her family, finds a new one ... and then loses them again.
Moldir: Things she swore she'd never betray start slipping through the cracks. Things she couldn't afford to lose are suddenly gone, maybe for good.
Moldir: And our main character? Completely helpless. Drinks too much to numb the pain but still can't sleep.
Buddy Fairchild: Golly ... Yeah, that's a real tugger on the heartstrings.
Buddy Fairchild: So, what's this main character fixin' to do about it?
Moldir: Well ... when the sun comes up, she'll get out of bed, hitch the horses, and go right back to work.
Buddy Fairchild: Huh?! Ya mean ... instead o' leavin' it all behind, she's just gonna keep on workin' like nuttin' happened? She got nuts for brains or somethin'?
Moldir: It's her job. Her duty. Her mission.
Buddy Fairchild: So even luggin' around all that pain, she still gets up and pulls her share day after day?
The lieutenant takes another sip from her flask and nods.
Moldir: Yes. Even then.
Buddy Fairchild: Gee. I sure wish I could give that poor soul a word or two of advice.
Buddy Fairchild: Like maybe she oughta just be kinder to herself, ya know? Why not do somethin' she wants to do?
Moldir: Because what we want isn't always what's right. And besides, she chooses to believe. Believe in fate ... and in the one who shapes it.
Moldir: And now that she's given herself the whole night to process everything, it's time to do what needs to be done.
The lieutenant runs her fingers across her radio, then smiles.
Moldir: Thanks for listening. And for the fish. But now, I've got something important to take care of.
She picks up the radio and steps outside.
Buddy Fairchild: Hey! You ain't gonna just leave me here on my lonesome are ya ...?! Really ...
The squirrel grumbles and shrugs. Then, he notices the flask Moldir left behind.
He remembers what she said, that the main character "drinks too much to numb the pain."
Buddy Fairchild: Just one tiny sip ... she ain't gonna mind.
He tips the flask and drips a few crystal-clear drops onto his tail, then gives it a quick lick.
But the burn of liquor never comes. Instead, cool water soothes his throat.
Buddy Fairchild: Huh ... Figures.