The summer heat had descended. It was the sort of heat where even the breeze felt more like a searing touch. People ducked under the shade of buildings; the birds sat on their branches to take rescue in the shadows of the leaves. Sweat would pearl behind your knees, cooling just to bubble up again. The sound of privates fanning themselves, some bold enough to complain aloud.

Nadya Reiter stood at the shooting range. The back of her military-issued tank top had stuck to her; the sports bra was already soaked through with sweat. Her hands gripped the handgun as she looked at the target and pulled the trigger. The shot hit the target, like always. That stayed the same. No matter how many seasons went by, no matter if they blended into one greyed out timeline. The paper came closer, and she took it off the holder. Dead centre mass.

She turned on her boots. Each step was a shotgun shot — loud, controlled. Her hands hung by her sides, the handgun hanging on her hip as she strode through Azarine's hallways. The AC sputtered — loud, frustrating sound in the quiet hallways. It was dying again, like it did every summer since Nadya tied the knot. Her hair stuck to her neck — those strands that had slipped from her ponytail now laid flat against her dampened skin.

Everything felt like too much, and not enough at the same time. Charlie would nag her ears out — telling her how she should love. How she should want. But she had never learnt to want like a person. All she knew was insults, the smell of alcohol and the cold sting of broken rules, of her mother's backhand. She tried, once, to say it. The l-word. It caught in her throat like a fishbone, scraped at her insides as she stared. She didn't try again.

Because, God, if she said it, her wife would react. That possibility felt like someone was peeling the silicone holding her broken edges together — and Nadya had to stay glued together. For her father, for ACE, for her wife's own good. Even as Charlie's disappointed glare burned deep into her marrow. She brushed it off with a glare back and hid how the fear had begun to swirl into dread at the bottom of her stomach.

Not even her own father had expected her to get married. She'd asked after a rough night out, just thirty minutes after a massive fight — holding her wife's hair back while she threw up in that dusty apartment of hers. 'Let me marry you?' She'd asked. Nadya didn't even have a ring. She just looked at her wife, the way her eyes were red rimmed from crying. It burned. Her skin itched, and Nadya, to this day, swore she broke out in hives. She still remembered counting each breath she took — waiting, like a prisoner for the executioner's swing. Back when they were just dating, there was less fear, more action.

The door to their house creaked — its hinges whined like it was dying. Her wife had mentioned it at least a million times, but had Nadya done it? No. On the drive over, Nadya had picked her thumbs raw, and blood had smeared all over the tip. Her mother's voice had been hissing in her ear the whole way home. '..wife.' Her voice shot through the house, as she toed the boots off by the shoe rack. Never on it, even as her wife's nags grated at her spine. When no answer came immediately, the dread built even more. She strode through the hallway, and into the living room.

Nadya loomed at the end of the couch — staring at her wife. Maybe, years ago, her expression would've softened. Now, she just stared. Her index finger dug into the bleeding part of her thumb, using the pain as a tether. '.. why didn't you respond?,' She asked, her eyes hardened.

Her mother's voice hissed 'this is the swing of the executioner, Nadya.' in her ear.