Capítulo 3: Guardians of the Galaxy, Probably
Location: Colonial Administration Complex, Avenport, Virek
Date and Time: December 15, 2552 – 1100 Hours
The tension from the market still hasn't faded, like a lingering ache after a bad hit. We've been back at the Colonial Administration Complex for almost a day now, but my mind keeps drifting back to the looks on their faces. That kind of anger doesn't just disappear overnight.
The squad is quieter than usual as we stand on post in the administrative wing of the complex. Even Santiago hasn't cracked a joke in hours. I shift my weight, trying to push the feeling of unease out of my head, but it sticks like mud in my boots.
Across from me, Grayson is focused, eyes scanning the hall in his usual calm way. The man doesn't rattle easily. It's a skill I haven't learned yet. Every time I close my eyes, I see the face of that guy from the market—the way he spat out his words like they were poison.
I tighten my grip on the rifle, the weight of it grounding me. This is my job now. Stand guard. Keep the peace. Even if the peace feels like it's about to crack wide open.
"Hey, Kowalski," Santiago says, his voice low but cutting through the silence. I glance over at him, and he raises an eyebrow. "You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't stuck here?"
I shrug, not really in the mood for conversation, but I get the sense that Santiago's trying to break the silence. "I don't know. Maybe in a real rifle battalion. Frontline duty."
He smirks, adjusting the strap on his M247H. "Careful what you wish for. Could be a lot worse than standing here watching bureaucrats shuffle papers."
"Maybe," I say, glancing down the hallway. "But it doesn't feel like we're making much of a difference."
"Difference?" He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "You think the Marines are about making a difference? We're about making sure things don't get worse. Right now, that means babysitting some suits. Tomorrow, who knows?"
I give him a nod, not entirely sure how to respond. I get what he's saying, but it doesn't make it any easier. This isn't what I signed up for, but maybe it's what's necessary. Keep things from getting worse. Santiago's right about that, at least.
A sudden shift in the air breaks the monotony of the last few hours. There's movement at the far end of the hall. Grayson tenses, his hand subtly shifting toward his sidearm. I follow his gaze and see a group of Colonial Administration officials approaching us, flanked by local security. One of the men in the center stands out immediately—a Governor or high-ranking official, dressed in a dark suit with sharp eyes that scan the room like he owns the place.
"Guess we're about to earn our paycheck," Santiago mutters.
Grayson steps forward, meeting the group halfway. "Morning, sir," he says in a formal tone, nodding to the central figure. "Everything set for today's meeting?"
The official nods curtly, not bothering with pleasantries. "We expect everything to go smoothly. I assume your men are prepared."
Grayson keeps his expression neutral. "Yes, sir. Bravo Fireteam is stationed here for security. We're ready."
The man's eyes linger on me for a moment longer than I'd like. "Good," he says flatly, then turns back to his entourage. They continue down the hall, disappearing into the conference room at the end.
"Friendly bunch," I mutter under my breath.
"Get used to it," Grayson replies, stepping back into his usual position. "The higher-ups around here have no love for the UNSC, but they still need us."
We resume our post, the tension settling in again. I don't know much about the Colonial Administration, but I can tell from the way they move, the way they talk, that they see us as a necessary evil. It makes me wonder what kind of pressure they're under. The rumors about insurrectionist activity keep swirling, and after yesterday's incident in the market, it feels like things could boil over any minute.
The hours drag on as we keep watch. I keep glancing at the doors to the conference room, half-expecting someone to burst through with bad news. But nothing happens. Just more silence.
Later, during a brief break in our shift, I find myself leaning against the wall next to Doc Alvarez. She's tapping her fingers against her med kit, eyes distant. I've never seen her rattled, but today she seems off.
"You alright, Doc?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
She blinks, snapping out of whatever thoughts were running through her mind, and gives me a half-smile. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"About yesterday?"
"Part of it." She pauses, then sighs. "This place, Kowalski… it's not what it seems. I know we're here to keep the peace, but sometimes it feels like we're just putting band-aids on a sinking ship."
I frown, not sure how to respond. "What do you mean?"
"I've been around for a while," she continues. "Seen a lot of places like this. And the thing is, when people don't feel like they're being listened to, when they feel like they've got nothing left to lose… that's when things get dangerous. I can see it in the people here. They're not just mad. They're desperate."
Her words settle in like a stone in my gut. Desperate people do desperate things. I've seen it before, during the evacuations on Paris IV. The civilians there weren't fighting for survival—they were fighting for a way out. There's a difference, and it's a dangerous one.
Our break ends, and we're back on post, standing outside the conference room. Grayson checks in with 1st Squad over the comms, making sure everything's quiet on their side. But even though everything seems calm, I can't shake the feeling that something's coming.
As we stand there in silence, waiting for the meeting to end, I keep running Doc's words through my head. The market yesterday, the graffiti, the looks on people's faces—it all adds up to something. I don't know what yet, but I'm starting to think this posting isn't as routine as I thought.
Santiago glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "You alright, Kowalski? You look like you're about to throw up."
I shake my head. "Just thinking."
He smirks. "Don't do that. Bad habit."
I chuckle, but it's half-hearted. My gut tells me there's more going on here than we realize. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that I need to be ready. For whatever comes next.
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