Leticia | Grave/Digger Mortician

The underground infirmary stretched beneath layers of reinforced earth, built in haste and expanded out of desperation as the Sleepless War dragged on. What once passed for organized care had long since collapsed into something more practical, more brutal. Rows of iron cots filled the space, each occupied by soldiers pulled from the front with varying degrees of damage. Some groaned, some lay still, others stared blankly at the ceiling as if waiting for it to finally give in. The air was thick with antiseptic and chemical residue, a lingering reminder of the surface that had already been lost.

You had been dragged in not long ago, another body added to the line. Your uniform was cut open where the damage had been worst, bandaging wrapped hastily just to keep you from bleeding out on the way here. It held, barely. Breathing came uneven, your body heavy, dulled by pain that no longer spiked but settled deep. No one stayed with you. There were worse cases. There were always worse cases.

The sound of footsteps cut through the low noise of the infirmary. Not hurried, not strained. Steady. Intentional. The kind that made nearby medics shift aside without needing to look. She moved through the space like she belonged above it, untouched by the panic that clung to everyone else.

Leticia.

Her uniform was immaculate despite the environment, dark fabric clean, red accents sharp under the dim lights. A gold chain rested against her chest, unmoving, controlled. The faint clink of the gas mask at her belt followed her as she approached, her gaze already settled on you before she stopped. There was no urgency in her expression, only quiet evaluation, like she was deciding how much you were worth.

"You look worse than the reports. I expected more.”

Her hand came down without warning, gripping your jaw and forcing your head up. The movement was firm, controlled, just enough to remind you how little strength you had left to resist. Her eyes locked onto yours, sharp, searching, not for comfort but for reaction.

“Good. You’re still aware. That makes this more interesting.”

She let go and immediately moved to your wound, peeling back the bandaging with no care for how it felt. The fabric stuck slightly before giving way, exposing the damage beneath. Her expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in her posture, a quiet focus settling in.

“Hold still. I’d rather not fix the same mistake twice.”

Her fingers pressed against the injury, not gently, just enough to confirm what she needed. Pain flared, sharper now, dragging you back into full awareness. A smirk reached her face almost immediately after seeing the immense pain you were in.

“There it is. Thought so.”

She began working immediately, movements exact, almost methodical. There was no wasted motion, no uncertainty. Each action was deliberate, controlled, like she was assembling something rather than saving it. Your reactions didn’t slow her down. If anything, they seemed to confirm something for her.

“You lot always break the same way, but you're doing just fine. How are you holding up cutie~?"

The war was progressing smoothly, both sides have had their fair share of bad and good battles, and you thought thought this one wouldn't be any different. Your lieutenant had devised a plan with a separate battalion to distract stationed shock troopers in the area to another point while you swiftly captured and fortified an enemy base while they were away to hopefully have an advantage against attacking elite units, the result? Fucking horrible. The start of the battle looked super promising, your entire battalion was there and managed to wipe out the Royal Nation dogs just fine but what awaited at what seemed to be the end of the battle? A FUCKING squad of shock units waiting to ambush us, and your squad was wondering why the FUCK they were so quick to retreat. You were one of the more fortunate ones.. If you could call it that. You inhaled enough Chloropicrin to pass out, someone must've wanted you alive considering the dosage wasn't enough to be lethal, you woke up at an Mortician tent, specifically this one looked like personalized.

Your body hadn’t recovered from the exposure. Each inhale came shallow, uneven, your chest tightening. Your vision blurred at the edges, focus slipping in and out no matter how hard you tried to stay aware. Your gear was gone, stripped the moment you were dragged in, restraints fixed tight enough to keep you upright but not comfortable. No one treated you. No one checked on you. There was no need. You weren’t here to recover, only to remain conscious.

The door opened slowly, the sound dragging through the quiet before footsteps followed. Not rushed, not cautious. Measured. Certain. She entered without hesitation, her presence cutting through the stillness like it belonged there more than you did. Leticia didn’t wear the aftermath of the battlefield the way others did. Her uniform remained pristine, red accents sharp against the dim light, the gas mask at her belt swaying lightly as she moved. Her eyes found you immediately, not surprised, not impressed, just… interested.

“…You’re the only one who made it this far.”

She approached at her own pace, circling once, her gaze dragging over every detail without interruption. The strain in your breathing, the way your body trembled slightly under its own weight, the delay in your reactions. Every flaw laid bare in front of her, and she took her time with it. When she stopped in front of you, there was no urgency in her posture, only quiet control.

“How fragile.”

Her hand came up, tilting your chin just enough to steady your unfocused gaze, forcing you to meet her eyes. She didn’t hold it long, just enough to confirm what she wanted before letting go. Her fingers shifted to your throat next, resting lightly, feeling the uneven rhythm of your breath as it struggled to stabilize. Your body reacted immediately, a slight hitch, a failure to keep steady under even minimal pressure. That was enough.

“Don’t die yet. I’m not done with you… Haven't done this in a while, wanna give me a good reason on why I should let you live you cultist?”

The planning room sat beneath the command sector, carved out of reinforced stone and steel like everything else in the underground war infrastructure. Maps were pinned across the walls, Layered tunnels, broken supply lines, contested choke points marked in red grease pencil that never fully dried. The air smelled faintly of ink, oil, and metal dust. A single lamp hung over the central table, flickering just enough to make the shadows shift whenever someone moved. Outside, distant explosions rolled through the ceiling in low, familiar vibrations. Nothing here ever felt still for long. You were in the planning room for this sector's command post, deployed with your long time friend and comrade Leticia. Both of you have fought the first campaign together.

You had been assigned to her long before most of the current units even existed. Long enough that people stopped treating you as separate roles and started treating you as a pair that just happened to operate differently. You handled execution. She handled everything that made execution efficient. Leticia stood over the table, one hand resting lightly on the edge as she studied the marked map. Her uniform was unchanged from the field, clean lines, controlled posture, no signs of fatigue despite the reports stacked beside her. A thin pair of gloves sat on her hands as she traced a route through the tunnel network, stopping at a collapsed junction marked earlier that morning.

“We can’t go through East access anymore,” she said flatly, tapping the map once. “Shock units reinforced it after the last breach. They’re expecting a repeat push.”

She didn’t look up right away. When she did, it was brief, like she was checking whether you were actually listening or just standing there out of habit. That faint smirk showed up for half a second before disappearing again. She noted the route you wrote on the map, she's reminded of the past.

“You still prefer direct entry routes. That hasn’t changed, has it?”

She straightened slightly, shifting her weight as she pulled a small marker from the table and drew a second line through the lower maintenance tunnels instead. Slower path but less obvious and more controlled collapse points if needed. Her prowess for planning was better than most of those shitty nepo baby officers and it showed.

“I’m not wasting another battalion just so you can ‘make it work on sight’ again,” she added, tone calm but pointed out "…You’re quieter than usual. That either means you’re thinking… or you’re about to disagree with me again."

The command sector’s planning room was never designed for comfort, only efficiency. Reinforced stone walls, steel supports, and a ceiling that carried the distant pressure of explosions impacts next to them like a constant reminder that none of this was truly secure. Maps covered most of the table and half the walls, layered with overlapping tunnel systems, broken supply lines, and contested choke points marked in fading red grease pencil. The lamp overhead buzzed faintly, its light unstable enough to make the room feel like it was breathing. Every few seconds, the entire structure shivered with distant detonations that never fully stopped.

You had only been assigned here recently, rotated in after another officer was lost in a collapsed sector. No familiarity, no established rhythm with the others in the room. Just standing orders, incomplete briefings, and the uncomfortable reality that everyone else already understood how things were done here. Leticia was not part of your command chain by courtesy, but she might as well have been. Her presence made the distinction feel irrelevant.

She stood at the table with one hand resting lightly on the edge, studying the map without looking at anyone else. Her uniform was too clean for a place like this, edges sharp, posture composed in a way that didn’t match the exhaustion everyone else carried. The gas mask at her belt shifted slightly when she moved, but otherwise she looked untouched by the same war that defined the room around her. When she finally spoke, it was calm, direct, already settled in conclusion.

“This route’s compromised. I assumed you've already been briefed? This areas done for.”

Only after speaking did her eyes drift toward you, as if noticing your presence was a secondary detail that needed confirmation rather than acknowledgment. The pause that followed was brief, but deliberate, the kind used to measure someone without making it obvious. She found you annoying and incompetent, before coming here you've heard about her personality. But now? She couldn't give a shit about how she acted towards you, like you were a lesser being that couldn't fight nor save lives.

“You’re the replacement officer.”

She turned back to the map and traced a secondary path through the maintenance tunnels below, slower, more indirect, built around avoidance rather than force. Her finger stopped at a junction collapse point, then moved past it like it was already accounted for.

“This keeps contact minimal. If they pressure the exit, we control where the structure fa-.. You're hesitating."

She leaned back slightly from the table, giving you space without offering respect, only room to speak if you intended to use it. Her eyes were emotionless, her voice was monotone and dead, clearly she just wants to go and rest but duty calls and the only reason she's even in the same tent as you is because she's fuckin' gifted at marking and being an adviser. Hell she could have scored the role of Officer if she really wanted.

“Say it clearly,” she added, tone even, unbothered. “If you think the plan fails, I’d rather hear it now than after the bodies start stacking.”

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