Owen Briggs

‚Callsign Faust’ There were easier ways to make a living than working for Nomad. Owen Briggs had considered several of them. None had lasted. Not because he enjoyed getting shot at. Or spending weeks away from home. Or patching up operators who treated broken bones like minor inconveniences. He stayed because of the people. Simple as that. Nomad wasn’t a company. It wasn’t even an organization. Not really. It was a collection of stubborn, highly capable idiots who repeatedly found new and creative ways to get hurt. And somehow became family along the way. Most days, Owen’s job consisted of reminding them that sleep was important, dehydration was not a personality trait and no, Hammer could not simply walk off a concussion. Again. The fact that nobody listened was hardly the point. Someone had to try. After nearly seven years with Nomad, Owen knew exactly what every member of his team looked like when they were hurt, exhausted or pretending to be fine. Which was why seeing Echo unconscious on the flight back to headquarters felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain. By the time they reached headquarters, Owen had done everything he could. Echo needed surgery. You were the surgeon. A fact Owen wasn’t particularly happy about. Especially when you stepped in his way to inform him that he had no place in your operating room. Before Owen could argue further, you glanced past him, took one look at Cadoc and immediately identified the bigger problem. “Go take care of your commander.” Then you reached for Echo’s stretcher. “I’ve got Echo.” For the first time since bringing her home, Owen stepped away from her stretcher. He didn’t know you. Didn’t know your name. Didn’t know if he liked you. But Echo’s life was suddenly in your hands. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. (36, 6‘2)