The Opposite of Need

Numb

Around five months pass between the end of Season Two and the beginning of Season Three. Just because we don't see retribution from the Captain for Rachel's death doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Here's my take on things. . .

A sequel of sorts to my previous Tom/Rachel story "The Opposite of Want".

"There was nothing you could do." Mike's voice. The words sounded hollow and inert.

Tom clenched his jaw. His temples ached, his eyes were hot behind his closed lids. He was teetering on the edge of control, and sort of welcoming it - this - the long, slow slide into oblivion. But it was taking too long, and in the meantime, he'd just become a single raw, exposed nerve. Every pertinent point in his body throbbed. His side, still, where the shrapnel stubbornly prodded him from within. His arms, which were too, too empty. Even his hands hurt - curled tightly as they were into fists. If he opened his eyes, he'd still see blood on them.

Her blood.

"Look, Boss. We couldn't have predicted this would happen." This from Tex.

But the words still meant nothing. Not when he'd lost her. Not when he'd lost her without ever having had her. Not when he could have prevented this if he'd been a little more bold. A little less of a gentleman. If he'd gotten over his - what - fears? Inhibitions? Grief? Self-recriminations? Guilt.

And now he just had more guilt to add to his already ample supply. Damn. Damn. Damn it all to hell.

He half-leaned against the wall outside the room where he'd taken her body. Less than an hour earlier, he'd stood outside his hotel-room door, watching her walk her away from him, appreciating the gentle sway of her hips, the way her hair fell over her shoulders like a haphazard veil. With each step she took, he'd considered calling her name. Wanted to make her turn and come back. Thought about grasping her hand, opening his door, leading her inside, and throwing wisdom to the wind.

She would have accepted his invitation. Of that, he had no doubt. Her smile had told him so. Those profound eyes and expressive lips.

If only. . .

He'd heard something - but hadn't immediately identified it as a gunshot. He'd heard others running, but he'd found her first, turning the corner and seeing her there, lying in the hallway as her blood seeped steadily into the carpet beneath her. He'd located the wound and tried to stop the bleeding, pressing his hands against her body, bearing down hard. He'd spoken to her - nonsense words - trying to bring her back to consciousness, but she'd already been too far gone. There had been no fewer than four doctors in the hotel at the time amongst the responding crowd. They'd done their best, but in the end, the bullet had done too much damage, punching a hole in an artery. She'd hadn't stood a chance.

And so he'd gathered her up and carried her into the makeshift morgue. He'd arranged her on the bed, smoothing her hair away from her face, straightening the dress around her still form. He hadn't been able to stop himself from touching her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. He'd held her hand once – a lifetime ago - running from Russian soldiers as they'd escaped the Vyerni. Now, as she lay motionless on the bed, he'd fitted her palm into his own and tried to convince himself that she was actually gone. She'd still been warm.

Too much - too much death. Hers seemed more, somehow. He couldn't describe it any other way.

Shaking himself back to the present, Tom fought through the maelstrom in his head to find something to focus on. A mission, a duty, a task. Something to do so he wouldn't have to feel. "Did anybody see him?" Chandler tilted a look upwards, to where Tex stood a few feet away.

Nolan's beard twitched. "The shooter?"

"Did anybody see him?" Straightening, Tom scanned the rest of the hallway, where his people had gathered around him in a close semi-circle. Slattery, Burk, Green, Garnett, and Granderson were on his left. Tex had stationed himself front and center. His expression was inscrutable, but Tom knew better than to think he wasn't hurting or furious, or both. After all, Nolan had loved her, too. Jeter, Wolf and Miller completed the arc on the other side. Rios had backed himself into a corner, his arms folded tightly across his body, his expression one of absolute disbelief. Far, far down the hall, Kara Foster stood near the entry into that section of the hotel with Bertrise and Kathleen. They all still wore their service dress blues and party clothes. Incongruously celebratory - or appropriately subdued. Chandler couldn't decide which. Not that it made any kind of difference at all. "Do we have a description? Did anyone recognize him?"

Slattery scowled. "The shooter? We were all in the bar. I don't think that anybody saw anything."

Miller half-raised his hand. "I saw a guy running, Sir. We were in the bar still, and we heard a commotion and then this dude comes barreling out of the hallway. Little guy. Five-foot-seven - five-eight tops. He had dark hair and looked squirrelly."

"Squirrelly?" The Aussie accent made the word sound extra weird.

Miller tossed a quick look at Wolf. "Shifty. He was greasy-like. Dirty. Unkempt. You know?"

"What made you look at him?"

Frowning, Miller shrugged. "You mean, besides the fact that he was running? I thought that was odd."

"He was holding a gun." Garnett pursed her lips, shaking her head lightly before continuing. "That's when I knew that something was wrong. I'd heard a 'pop' noise, but I hadn't really thought about it. I figured it was a cork from a champagne bottle or something."

"But then people were running, and one of the staff was screaming." Granderson faltered. "My guard was down, Sir. It was a celebration. I wasn't expecting an attack."

Garnett nodded. "None of us were. But this guy comes running past the bar area, and I notice that he's carrying a gun. Miller was right. He was on the short side - dark hair. Round face. Beady eyes. Greasy. Dirty looking. I'd know him again if I saw him."

Tom closed his eyes again, thinking. "One of the Immunes, maybe? They weren't all that into personal hygiene, were they?"

"No, Sir." Wolf stepped a little closer, reaching out and thwacking Danny on the shoulder with the backs of his fingers. "There was one - when we airdropped the cure from the helo. He was little like that, wasn't he, Green? Remember in Memphis when they let loose all the sick people?"

"I remember shooting a bunch of Immunes." Green's brows lifted. "Honestly, I didn't think we'd let many of them get away. I thought we'd neutralized most of them."

"When we captured McDowell?" Burk frowned, considering. "There were a bunch of Immunes there that day. They were dressed in digis trying to look like us. We took a bunch of them out, but it's sure as hell possible that some of them got away. I remember one being young-looking. He turned tail and ran as soon as the shooting started. I thought he was just a kid, so I didn't go hunting him. But maybe he wasn't just a kid."

"Maybe he was just short." Wolf made a little noise in his throat - something like a growl. "At the time, I reckoned he was a teenager. Like you said, Burk. Just a stupid kid."

"Well, we obviously assumed wrong, now, didn't we?" Mike reached up and tugged at the tie that he still wore. "Those Immune sons of bitches are really chapping my hide."

"It's likely that some of them are still committed to their cause, Sir." Green rocked back on his heels, his arms folded across his chest. "We took out their leadership, but there are probably still a bunch of Immunes running around thinking they're better than the rest of us. Probably still believing Ramsey's bull, wanting to take back power."

"How the hell did he get in here?" Burk ran a hand over his hair, his movements tight with frustration. "Where did he come from?"

"It doesn't matter where he came from." Slattery glared towards the door that hid the doctor's body. "What matters is where he's going and how we're going to find him."

"No." The Captain shook his head. His team stood still, watching him. He trusted these people - loved them, if truth be known. He knew them to their cores, knew their abilities and their frailties. Knew that each of them were wondering what came next - knowing that their Captain wouldn't just let this stand. "That's not what matters."

"Then what does, Sir?" This from Granderson. Tough as nails, but in shock and pain. Her voice trembled just a bit.

Chandler looked at his crew, this family they'd formed. They looked to him for answers, even when he had none. Despite himself he looked down, at where Rachel Scott's blood had only just dried on his shirt and skin, at where it still colored his hands. There had been times over the past several months when he hadn't had any answers to give - no good ones, anyway. And truly, he only had one answer now.

Tex caught the Captain's attention. The man's normally genial expression had grown hard. He'd slipped back into Merc mode, closer to the man he'd been at Gitmo than the one who'd just been dancing with his daughter. "Commodore? What are you getting at?"

"It doesn't matter how he got in here or where he went after. We'll figure that out." Chandler said. The numbness inside had started to morph into something else. Something dark. He looked at his crew again, at each one in turn before allowing his eyes to flicker back to the door. Towards the room where she lay motionless. She - Rachel Scott - the woman who had saved the world.

Rachel Scott, who Tom hadn't been able to save. Exhaling roughly, the Captain pulled himself up to his full height. "What matters most is how he's going to die."