Misato's alarm went off at five-thirty with a tone designed to wake the dead and then march them into formation. She slapped the phone off the nightstand without opening her eyes, and it skidded under the dresser and kept screaming at us from the dark.
"I am throwing that phone into the ocean," she mumbled into my neck.
"You picked that ringtone yourself, Captain."
"I picked it so other people would suffer, and you were never supposed to be in this bed to hear it."
She lifted her head off my chest. Her hair had dried overnight into a lime green crime scene, flattened on one side and standing straight up on the other, and a red crease from my collarbone ran across her left cheek. Her eyes found my face and went wide. I watched nine years of Captain Ayame try to boot up behind them and crash on the loading screen.
