Last cigarette in the package . . . one remaining out of the two-dozen that had once occupied the box. One last bit of sanity and self-control in a world gone to hell. In hindsight, it was almost funny that ciggies, of all of the things he'd ever been exposed to, were one of the small selections of items that he habitually held close to his heart. A lucky rabbit's foot, a pressed clover, a ring from a failed marriage . . . and a box of smokes. There was nothing special about the box. It was just a regular packet of standard-issue cigarettes drawn forth from the stores, just twenty-four rolled tubes of paper and nicotine with a filter at one end. One box out of the many he'd lived through, and the last remnants of one box before he moved on to the next one. In the trenches and the shell-holes, surrounded by strafing death and suppressed to within centimetres of the waterline, with life hanging by a frayed thread, cigarettes were the one thing left that he could control, that he had mastery over. Failing that, it was fight or flight, live or die, a last frantic struggle before an unpleasant end or an ill-deserved survival. Another handful of scars, both mental and physical, and another box of smokes to occupy the time.<br/><br/>Donovan Holmes, sometimes known by his old callsign of 'Hocus', picked up as a result of some card tricks he'd performed in a far-off barracks on a far-off world for the amusement of a squad of men and women who had since slowly and inexorably been whittled down to molecules and memories, kneaded his brow in the gloom, the last cigarette between his lips and a lighter playing about in his hand. It too was nothing special. Cheap and well-used, with a worn exterior displaying a sunrise over a lonely beach, the lighter was yet another thing in the stream of little trinkets and whims that he loved dearly enough to place in dominant positions around his life. Just as much as the human beings he lives with, worked with, killed with, and periodically slept with, the lighter was his friend. There wasn't anything psychotic about it, at least not as he saw it - rather, people in his position, with years of service under their belts, tended to find peace and pleasure in the little things in life. Some people wrote poetry, others whittled little mannequins, he smoked. C'est la vie.<br/><br/>He didn't know what time it was - the clock had never been properly set - but he was alone in his bunkroom and it was something approximating early morning. Time had little meaning in space - all that mattered was that his day would officially be beginning soon, and he'd have enough time for a smoke, a shower, and hopefully a jog down to the cargo bay to snag another pack. Failing that, he'd get one later, when he had a spare moment - adrenaline did wonders to stave off the need for a cigarette. The time would have been convenient to have, certainly, but for what it was worth he was taking it smoothly, letting the minutes meld into one-another as he raised the lighter, flicking the lid open and activating the flame, throwing his features into relief. Tired, a little worn. Prematurely balding, crow's feet around the eyes. Not enough laugh lines. Touching the flame to the tip of the cigarette, he paused a moment, letting the paper and the nicotine burn, before flicking the lighter closed with a snap of his wrist and inhaling deeply on the stick. He didn't expect to live long enough to contract cancer - the Greys made it a little silly to worry about. Filling his lungs with the calming, pleasant smoke, he relaxed, breathing it back out in a thin cloud of hazy death. One cigarette - then he'd shower, and then the day would begin.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>