Sephy was tired.
She had slept 16 hours, but she was tired. She was always tired, this wasn't new, and maybe, sometimes, it wasn't annoying, but today it was. Today she had to work, she had to get up and do what the company told her to do, be their good little HAZED and kill anything they threw her at.
She got out of bed, pushing her stuffed rabbit to the side. Her stomach turned - too fast, had to slow down. Gotta remember not to go that quickly, throwing up on her bedsheets wasn't a fun way to start her day, and besides, she didn't have the cash to buy new ones again - rent was due.
The notification light on her phone blinked, probably her handler, a medication reminder, and a debt collector, if she had to guess. At least one of those were useful.
She fumbled around, looking for her medbag. The dim light filtered through the blinds didn't help any, but “bright lights” and “I just woke up” didn't mix - best case scenario she get a migraine, worst case scenario, a seizure. She found the autoinjector, pulled up the side of her nightgown, grit her teeth, and jabbed the device into her thigh.
It hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt so much, she wanted to cry.
At least it was better than being sick.
She changed - from the nightgown into her pilot suit, plugging in the neural adapters into the ring of plugs around her neck. The third-generation dive system was supposed to be safer. It was supposed to be easier. But it made her sick - she was the only HAZED that got sick.











