[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor of the living room. It was the kind of afternoon that demanded absolute stillness, the kind where the dust motes danced in the light and the only acceptable activity was breathing in sync with the person lying against your chest.
I was reclined deep into the cushions of the L shaped sofa, my legs stretched out beneath the glass coffee table.
Wanda was curled up sideways in my lap. Her knees were tucked comfortably against the armrest and her head was resting perfectly in the hollow of my shoulder.
One of her hands was resting flat against the center of my chest, rising and falling with every breath I took.
The television was on, its volume dialed down to a low hum. We had been half watching a nature documentary, letting the soothing voice of the narrator wash over us, when the screen suddenly cut to a blaring red graphic.
BREAKING NEWS: EXPLOSION IN VIRGINIA SUBURBS.
I felt Wanda stiffen slightly against me. Her fingers curled into the fabric of my t-shirt. I immediately brought my hand up, resting it flat against her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades to keep her grounded.
"We interrupt our scheduled programming," the news anchor announced, her expression adopting that practiced mask of serious concern.
She was standing in a field, the wind whipping her hair around her face. Behind her, a massive plume of thick smoke was rising into the otherwise clear blue sky. "I am reporting live from a safe distance outside of a classified military installation in Virginia, roughly forty miles south of the Westview border. Just hours ago, a massive explosion devastated the compound."
I kept my face perfectly neutral, letting out a soft sigh as if I were merely a concerned citizen having my lazy afternoon interrupted.
The camera cut away from the anchor to show a split screen. On the right side, a military representative in an olive green uniform was standing behind a hastily arranged podium. He was sweating. It was visible even through the low resolution of the broadcast.
"We have General Thaddeus Ross here to provide an official statement on the incident," the anchor said.
The General cleared his throat, adjusting the microphone. He looked like a man who had just been handed a live grenade and asked to explain how it worked.
"Earlier today," the General began, his voice booming over the speakers, "a catastrophic event occurred at Sector Four. I want to immediately assure the public that there is absolutely no cause for alarm and there is zero risk of hazardous materials or radiation in the surrounding counties."
He paused, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
"This was... a scheduled test," the General lied, his eyes darting to the reporters in the press pool. "We were conducting a routine diagnostic of a highly advanced tactical cruise missile system. The purpose of this test was to measure the maximum yield and efficiency of the payload under extreme stress conditions. Unfortunately, the yield exceeded our projected mathematical models, resulting in structural damage to our own temporary staging area. It was a successful test of the weapon's power, albeit with... unintended logistical consequences to the facility."
Wanda let out an incredulous breath, pulling her head back to look at the screen. Her brow was furrowed, her green eyes wide with disbelief.
"A test?" she asked, her voice laced with quiet outrage. "They fired a missile at their own facility and they are calling it a test?"
"If there is one thing the government excels at, Wanda," I said, keeping my tone light and conversational as I stroked her arm, "it's turning a colossal screw up into a PowerPoint presentation on progress. They just vaporized a billion dollars of taxpayer money and they're trying to sell it as an upgrade."
"But it is so close," she said, turning her head to look up at me, her expression fraught with genuine concern. "Forty miles. What if their 'test' had miscalculated by a few degrees? What if it had hit a town? What if it had hit Westview?"
I smiled down at her, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
"They're incompetent, my love, but they aren't that incompetent," I assured her softly. "And besides, even if they did miscalculate, they'd have to get through me first. I have a very strict policy against heavy artillery interrupting my couch time. I would simply ask the missile politely to turn around."
Wanda's lips twitched, the worry in her eyes melting into an exasperated amusement. She rested her chin on my chest, looking back at the television.
"They are getting too used to themselves," she murmured, shaking her head. "They play with fire and when it burns them, they pretend they invented warmth."
"That is the most poetic insult of the military industrial complex I have ever heard," I laughed, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone. "Let's see what the jury of the public thinks. I guarantee you the internet is not buying the 'scheduled test' narrative."
I unlocked the screen and opened up social media, holding the phone so she could see it. The trending topics were already a warzone of conspiracy theories and memes.
"Okay, here we go," I said, scrolling down with my thumb. "User TinFoilHat99 says: 'A test? Please. I live twenty miles away and my dog hasn't stopped barking since noon. That was a UFO crash. The government is covering up a Martian landing.'"
Wanda chuckled softly. "Martians. Always the Martians."
"It's a classic for a reason," I agreed, scrolling further. "Oh, here's a good one. User BuckyFan20 writes: 'Why are we testing high yield missiles in Virginia? Property values are going to tank. I was trying to sell my condo, thanks a lot, General.'"
"Priorities," Wanda smiled, resting her hand over mine as I held the phone.
"Wait, this one is my favorite," I grinned, tapping on a highly liked post. "User WandaSimp4Lyfe, excellent username, by the way, says: 'The government is useless. They can't even run a test without blowing up their own base. I bet Dr. Aryan Spencer could have caught that missile with his bare hands and gently placed it in the recycling bin.'"
Wanda burst into genuine laughter, the sound bright and ringing in the quiet living room. She tilted her head back, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"They have boundless faith in your medical degree," she teased, poking my ribs.
"Hey, CPR, missile deflection, it's all covered in the same semester at Johns Hopkins," I joked, tossing the phone face down onto the coffee table. "The public recognizes a Renaissance man when they see one."
"You are ridiculous," she murmured, sliding her arms around my waist and hugging me tightly.
"I am widely beloved," I corrected, resting my cheek against the top of her head.
PS: I'm really sorry, guys, for not uploading chapters over the last four days. One of my colleagues was on leave, so we were short on doctors for night duty, and I had to cover his shifts since he covered mine last time, haha.