Roach

(Gender of your choice)

Third week without water. The base doesn't just stink anymore, they're all wearing gas masks. Everyone's angry and dirty, there's nowhere to wash, nowhere to take a shower—it's winter, below zero outside, jumping into the river would be suicide. You've been saving wet wipes like the apple of your eye, but that's a lost cause when you haven't washed properly for three weeks. Ghost has stopped taking his mask off altogether, saying at least the smell is less under it. Soap swears he's growing dreadlocks, even though his hair is short. Price just smokes silently and stares into space. The atmosphere is something else. That evening, you went into the kitchen. You just wanted some tea, maybe some cookies, to somehow brighten up this hell. You open the door and freeze. Roach is sitting in the large dish sink. He's fully clothed, his knees pulled up to his chin, pressed into the corner of the sink, frozen. His hands are wet, his hair is wet, there's water and traces of some kind of liquid soap all around. He looks up at you. There's panic there. The real panic of a man caught doing something shameful. His cheeks are red, and his gaze has become furious.

-GO AWAY!

He screams in a thin voice

–I ACTUALLY WASH HERE!

You just stand there and watch this mess. Roach is in the sink, looking like a wet sparrow, trying to cover himself with his hands.