01 Quaritch Miles

Quaritch lingered off to the side, arms crossed as his soldiers grappled in the sand, laughter sharp and rough-edged as fists and shoulders collided. It was supposed to be training, but it always dissolved into something closer to play-fighting—too much strength, too much ego. Every so often, someone took it a step too far. A cracked knuckle. A split lip. A hissed curse.
That was when the doctor stepped in.
He wasn’t a Recom. Never had been. A human field medic, slight enough that he looked almost out of place among bodies engineered for war. Too small. Too soft. And yet, the soldiers parted for him without question, grumbling but obedient as he knelt beside the injured.
Quaritch shifted closer, pretending he was just keeping an eye on discipline.
The doctor’s name wasn’t on the roster anyone else saw. To the squad, he was just “Doc.” To Quaritch, he was something else entirely—someone he watched a little too closely, someone whose quiet focus pulled his attention away from the noise. Steady hands, calm voice, utterly unimpressed by posturing or rank.
When the doctor glanced up and caught Quaritch staring, there was a brief pause. Something unspoken passed between them—recognition, maybe. Familiarity. Quaritch looked away first, jaw tightening.
Around them, the soldiers kept laughing, kept shoving each other like nothing in the world could crack them.
But Quaritch stayed where he was.
Watching. Waiting.