Vesper Rayne wakes five minutes before his alarm clock. It is not by any means unusual- he wakes at the same time everyday, five minutes before the annoying jingling tune of it plays. 

The source of his annoyance goes off, after he does nothing but open his eye and stare at the walls, and he sighs heavily and presses the soft button. 

[04:00 AM] his clock shines, with the soft yellow light designed to ease the burden on his working eye. It is the same time he gets up everyday. Old habits die hard, really. 

He runs a hand along his face, the slight bumpy indents of his scars all too familiar against his fingertips, and he gently, gently rubs the reconstructed eyelid around his missing eye. It’s always sore in the morning- like his body is remembering the pain. 

He sighs again and reaches to his bedside to grab his replacement. 

The eye was funded, of course, by the government- they couldn’t not fund it really, not when he was a war hero and an honorably discharged high ranking officer. However, it was only funded once, so he fiddles around with the model that was designed six glorious years ago. 

To be fair, he hasn’t asked for a replacement. They’d probably give him the top of the line, and would practically frothe at the chance to assist him. But, he’s a little attached to this one, if he’s forced to be honest. 

The socket doesn’t always feed input to his brain correctly, a design flaw that is mildly annoying but not serious enough for him to ask to fix, and he sighs heavily and opens his eyelid to slide it in. An unpleasant feeling, but not one he’s unused to. 

__CONNECTING___–) INPUT FOUND –) OWNER RECOGNIZED____–) 

The usual words flash across his vision, far too bright for the morning, but welcoming anyway. Another routine, and routines have always been safe, really. He slides himself out of bed, rolling his shoulders, and stands. His vision sways just a bit, the input crackling- but that’s fine, and he opens his drawers as quietly as he can to retrieve his workout clothes. 

Another routine- built, admittedly, when he was still in the Marines- he throws the clothes on unceremoniously and makes his bed with precision only born out of discipline. All marines back in the Catalyst War would do the same, before everything went to shit. 

He ignores the slight ache in his scars, a twinge of pain not really physical, at the reminder of the good old days. When he and 2 would run through Force fire, equipped with only the barest of shields. 

It wouldn’t be fun to do it alone, if 2 wasn’t right there along with him, but for some reason, he and his best friend had always been the exception. 

He shakes away the sudden tremble in his hands with a familiar motion of forcing his hands through his knotted hair. He grabs his well-packed gym bag to do the only thing he really does these days, other than work- work out. 

He doesn’t mind. It’s easier to fall into the heavy familiarity of constant work. It’s easy to pretend it didn’t happen, that what he’s done hasn’t happened, that he’s like any other veteran. Sometimes, if he doesn’t get enough sleep, he can even pretend 2 is right there beside him. 

He closes the door behind him, and pretends not to see ghosts in the corners of his eyelids. 

—

The workout leaves him panting for breath, muscles making their newfound tears rather obvious. He grabs his water, ignores the slight tremble in his legs, and steadies his pace. The key is to work out just in that perfect zone of not-exhausted, because he has to work more anyway. 

He can’t ruin whatever he has to do today at the newest site- some random rich home that needs boards nailed in, foundations set, etc. 

It’s a strange kind of dissonance building for the others untouched by the war. He and Bob always share a kind of look whenever they’re building a new penthouse floor for the ones untouched, because that’s what they are- the bombs never seemed to target any of their acres wide houses. 

He finishes cleaning up quickly, showers, and drops the bar of soap on his pinky toe. It’s insignificant, but insignificant things tend to stack up when nothing else goes on in your life. 

He makes his smoothie, dumps in the desperately needed protein powder, and goes to check on Aria. She’s normally awake, and she is today too- looking up at him with a quick nod when he opens her door, before turning back to her phone. He shuts the door behind him, and moves onto his younger brother. 

Leo is still asleep. He probably shouldn’t be, but the school isn’t far away, and his sister is reliable enough. 

He grabs his bag, clock reading 6:17, roughly the same time he gets out of the house everyday, and heads to work. 

Bob is waiting for him when he arrives with a wave and a smile too bright for the early morning. Bob is, perhaps, his polar opposite. Short, slightly rotund, and smiley. Kind, caring, and old, just old enough where gray is starting to show in the roots of his hair. He wouldn’t be the type to dye it back to its dark brown. 

“Good morning, Vesper!” Bob says, and he nods his head solemnly. “How was your workout? What did you do today?” Somehow, the little man had managed to pry the information from him. He isn’t much of a sharer, anymore. As if that would change Bob’s determination. 

“Same as always.” Bob gestures him forwards with a slight wiggle of eyebrow. “Legs. 4x8.” 

He smiles. “Still good enough to work?” With a friendly clap on the shoulder, Vesper slightly grimaces but nods. “Good. We’re putting up the frame today, and they ordered bombproof.” 

“Fuck.” Bob laughs. 

“Say, you really should go to Toby’s for the beers tonight with me and the young ones. You deserve a break.” 

“My answer is the same.” Bob frowns a little. 

“You sure?” He nods. “The guys really think you’re cool, you know.” He turns towards Bob with what must look like abstract surprise, because he chuckles a bit, full of belly and slightly congested. “You’re one of the survivors, until the end. Young, and still alive-  not only a survivor, a hero. With a scar as cool as that,” Vesper rolls his real eye, the other one twitching behind awkwardly with his delayed intention. “And- an eye that’s straight out of a comic book, it’d be weird if they didn’t think you were cool.” 

“A lot of veterans look like me.” 

“Not a lot of veterans act like you, though. Cool, mysterious- everything the young ones think a hero should act.” He furrows his brows a bit, and Bob nods, casting his eyes away with solemn understanding. 

“Not a lot of veterans act like you, Bob.” He should say more, but he’s not very good at talking to humans anymore. Bob smiles. Vesper’s facial muscles slightly twitch, aound the mouth. Bob laughs, harder this time, and some of the guys look up. 

He meets their eyes, and they look away, busying themselves by checking Qwell, Weather. As if it matters, when the to be built house is an isolated dome. 

“You sure?” 

“Oh, definitely. When they’re not too busy pissing their pants.” His mouth twitches, even the scar near the nose drags up a bit. Bob raises his eyebrows. “That was a big one.” 

Vesper sighs, claps the mans back slightly forwards, and Bob stumbles. “Let’s get to work.” 

“As always,” Bob says, and Vesper stares onto the world around him. Why is he here? Because he was tired of war? Because he asked to be?

“As always.” 

—

Bob asks one more time before he leaves if he would come. It’s a sort of routine, a push and pull that’s been there as long as they’ve known each other- an unstoppable force, and an immovable object. 

He had, rather foolishly, tried to keep Bob away when they first met. Was as mean as he could be when he got insistent, but it didn’t really falter him. He just looked him up and down, and said the same thing he says now- “Come on. It’ll be fun.” 

“No.” And he leaves it at that. 

Somehow, though… Bob knows more things than maybe anyone else, at least not from Ada or the war. Isn’t that pathetic? The guy who’s everyone’s friend, no matter age, war status, anything- is his only new friend. 

He heads on the speed train home, tries to ignore the fact that he can still see the rubble even though the buildings have been rebuilt, tries to ignore the ache of his scars. Just another day. 

As always, they would say in the middle of the hastily built force-proof trenches. 

As always. They would scream, gunning to their death, flying to their death, driving to their death, running from it. As always. 

“Ready, Vesper!?” Red Jian 2 screams, in Vespers memories, on the day he died. 

“As always—!”