peppers

one one."
Dan pursed his lips. He still thought of himself as military.
"Notice his response," Francisco commented. "He's cast us as the enemy, himself as the prisoner of war."
"Yes, I caught that." Dan wondered if his prisoner had ever been captured by enemy forces. It wasn't mentioned in his records, if he had been. Dan shrugged slightly and plugged into McKee's hallucination, with a twist. "Captain McKee, this is your commanding officer. You've been in the field on a mission. It's time for me to debrief you on that mission, Captain. Do you understand, Captain McKee?"
"Sir . . . yessir." It came out slurred. He tried to stiffen to attention. Citadel grad, Dan sighed inwardly. They made the best—or worst—officers in the service. According to his records, Logan McKee had been one of the former, not the latter. But he didn't look much like a Citadel man anymore. He didn't look like much of anything, any longer, except a rag-bag of wasted training and potential. And who are you to judge anyone, Dan Collins?
"At ease, Captain." Dan sighed.
McKee slumped again.
"Now, McKee, tell me about your mission."
"Mission . . . mission, sir?" McKee was visibly struggling with the concept.
Dan paused and wondered about that, then continued on the same tack. "You left Florida. You were posted in Florida. Do you remember Florida, Captain? Gainesville, Florida."
McKee's face glistened under a sheen of sweat. "Hospital . . ."
"That's right, Captain. You were in the hospital. Then you left. Tell me what happened when you left."
"Had me a Asher Special, over to Skeeters', eggs 'n cheese, peppers 'n onions over hashbrowns, grits on the side . . . Can't get a decent breakfast inna damn hospital." His accent had become far more pronounced, reminding Dan of a Deep South drill sergeant he'd known several