Act II: Remembrance
The Soldier rolled an apple experimentally in his left hand, trying to feel more than just the pressure input the arm provided. The thick leather glove he wore over it didn't help much either. He practiced this motion in an attempt to fill the void inside usually filled by cleaning and disassembling weapons over and over again.
"Coffee, dear?" Joy asked as the tray in her shaky hands tilted dangerously to one side.
His voice barely rose above a whisper. "Thank you." the soldier accepted the hot concoction that pretended to be coffee. He sipped at it gently, letting it burn his tongue as Joy smiled, and let the odd sensation of a cold nose breeze past.
He pulled at the gold chain around his neck until the bullet teetered on the collar of his shirt. While the color and the tricks of the light it liked to play on his eyes could have been seen as mocking, the Soldier found it oddly encouraging. It served as a reminder that he had found something real, something that held scraps of memory up to the light on a trellis of meaning. Someone.
He didn't know her like a mission – where they lived, name, date of birth. He thought of her face and knew that she looked like Zhelaniye.
Longing.
"Should we expect you tonight, dear?" Joy asked, pushing her thick glasses further up her nose. She had circled back around after distributing coffee, checking in with the usuals.
"I don't think so," he replied, standing and hoisting his bag over one shoulder. "I'm staying with… someone else."
Joy surprised him, taking his gloved left hand in her ancient and wrinkly hands. She beamed up at him, easily nearly two feet shorter than him, as she had hunched far over in her old age. "God keep you, dear." She patted his hand and released it, moving on without another word.
The Soldier ducked out into the sunshine, taking a deep breath as his lungs searched for a flowery scent that never appeared. Instead, he got a lungful of exhaust as a bus rolled past. He coughed irritably, but found some satisfaction in the fact that his cracked rib seemed to have finally healed.
He pulled the envelope out of his pocket, more wrinkle than paper now for all the times he'd pulled it out just to stare at it, and flipped it over to re-read the rough directions he'd scribbled there. The shelter had a map of the area with soup kitchens and restaurants that offered free meals helpfully marked out.
He convinced himself, as took off North down the shadowy side of the sidewalk, that surveillance was his ultimate goal. He needed to better understand the woman whose voice matched the one in his head, he reasoned as he cut through a cemetery to route under the Beltway's nearest overpass. The woman could be dangerous, he thought as he stopped at the sign at the end of her long gravel drive; Foxhole Barns.
The Soldier got as close as he dared to the buildings set deep in the open valley. If the woman had intended to create a property that was difficult to survey, she'd done a great job. He found himself wishing for a decent sniper-scope just to get a good look. As it was, he had to rely on a cheap set of binoculars. He settled into the underbrush at the top of the closest hill still covered by trees and waited.
A handful of cars drove in and out every day, some repeats, and some only very occasional visitors. From the stances and the hand gestures, the Soldier could determine that almost all of her visitors were current or former military. No weapons, though; of that he could be completely certain. Every man and woman that walked through the doors at Foxhole Barns did so unarmed.
It took a little longer than expected for the woman to make an appearance outside. She stepped out of the office at the end of a long day, reaching down to pull up on the edge of her boots and shaking her ankle like one of them didn't fit right. She stood straight, flipped a long braid of hair back over her shoulder, and struck out across the driveway towards the large barn.
The Soldier checked his watch. Based on the amount of time he'd seen a farmhand take in the barn the day before, he calculated he had at least an hour to investigate the woman's home before she returned. With the day's light swiftly receding he jogged across the open valley, his attention firmly fixed on the barn doors in case the woman reappeared.
Cricket song filled the air as the last light of day faded and the Soldier slipped into the woman's home through an upstairs window. He didn't need to turn on any lights to see fairly well; the apartment level of the two-story building let the moonlight in through large windows and it reflected off of light cream walls, giving the room an otherworldly lighting.
Kitchen. Living Room. Bedroom and bathroom. Office. The large building couldn't be more than three years old, and remained minimalistic while keeping warm elements like large blankets draped over an overstuffed couch and thick white curtains diffusing the moonlight.
Office. The only distinct room aside from the bedroom and bathroom, it was surprisingly small compared to the other spaces. Shelves on the walls remained mostly bare, with a selection of books occupying only a few shelves that were otherwise empty but clean. She had a small desk with two small drawers pushed close to the window. This is not a frequently used space, he thought. So why have it?
Her desk drawers were locked but proved to be no real barrier. One contained two passports – one American, one Icelandic. The other drawer contained a pistol and a box of bullets missing a handful of rounds. Clean, well-serviced, kept unloaded, he determined as he checked the weapon. Not one to turn down an easy weapon, the Soldier loaded the pistol after he was certain it wasn't a trap of some kind.
A weight pressed against his calf and he started, swinging the pistol down while switching off the safety.
A ginger cat wound around his ankles, meowing for attention.
"That's Julian," a voice informed him as a light switched on from outside the office. The Soldier instantly pointed the pistol towards the door and found the woman standing there, seemingly indifferent to the weapon pointed at her head. "He's the mouser around here. You've never met him."
She slowly withdrew her hand from the light switch to let her hands hang loosely at her sides. "Do you remember me?" she asked.
Zhelaniye.
"I don't know you," he said sharply, defensively. His hand tightened around the grip.
"Can I have my pendant back?" she asked. "If you leave… I just want to still have it." She held out a hand expectantly.
He pulled at the chain around his neck until the copper appeared, glimmering in the light. The bullet swung lightly with the motion of removing it from around his neck, and he slowly extended his arm for her to take it though he did not lower the pistol. She barely glanced at the weapon.
"Who are you?" his stomach churned as he asked the question – asking a question meant reprimand, meant re-stabilization, meant a return to the void. But the woman wasn't Commander. He wasn't on-mission. He was between spaces, reaching for memory blindly.
Zhelaniye slipped the chain over her head and fluffed her hair to let the chain settle against the back of her neck. "You know me as Lieutenant Alice Shaw."
That's just Nurse Shaw, don't mind her. The memory hit followed by a strong scent of weeds and an animal musk. He shook his head, trying to clear the interruption to his senses. The woman's calculating stare felt like scalpels on his skin; uncomfortable things that made him snarl a threat.
She ignored it. "You can put my gun down; I won't hurt you."
Something had changed between the museum and her home. Where she had been anxious and jittery and somewhere between laughing and weeping in the stairwell, now she had come into a calm place that left her on much better tactical standing than he'd been expecting. "You're dangerous."
She raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"
Her calm demeanor disturbed him. Her eyes didn't wander or flit away with nerves. Her even tone betrayed the meticulous calculation she ran on every word before it passed her lips. He knew her kind: deadly; just like him. He should have felt better about being the only one in the room with a weapon. He did not.
He jerked the pistol to the left, indicating she needed to move out of the way; her form blocking the door and his easiest path of exit made him distinctly uncomfortable.
She looked at him dead in the eyes as her expression transformed into something colder than coming out of the void. "I am not a thing you can order around." Zhelaniye stood her ground. "You are in my home as my guest, even though you broke in, and I won't accept such behavior." Such a slight thing, with lips that seemed to naturally turn down at the corners and a neck so thin he imagined he could wrap his hand entirely around it, should not be showing the defiance of a lioness.
Her hands hung loosely at her sides, lacking the nervous fidget of prey looking for a weapon or a way out. Her jaw tilted high, baring her weak spot but openly daring him to reach for it. He'd never known anyone to stare down the barrel of a gun like it threatened them about as much as a feather duster.
Is she dangerous? The memory of a conversation over coffee he could nearly taste on his tongue teased at the edges of his memory.
That depends on your definition of dangerous.
She was important. Her face and her voice and the ire of her tongue inspired more coherent memories than anything else he'd tried since he'd come out of the river.
"What'll it be, soldier?" she asked, her tone clipped. She tossed her head as a thread of hair caught at her cheek and her eyes flashed in the light that slipped in through the open door, setting off a flicker of cinnamon fire. His chest constricted painfully and a faint taste of apple burst in his mouth.
The Soldier desperately needed to know how to connect the memories and sensations that tried to bury him deeper by the hour. This woman seemed to be his best chance.
He lowered the pistol and set it on her desk.
The ice in her eyes melted and she offered a measured smile. "Come on," she beckoned, "I think we need cocoa."
A/N: Alice has the best you-better-do-it Mom face.
The secret to great homemade hot chocolate is to mix the cocoa powder with a little water and heat that while stirring to a syrup before adding milk. No clumps!
I have to thank everyone who sent in all the great music suggestions! It helped me get through my block and ultimately helped me to greatly improve my details for Act 2.
This is a little earlier than my estimate because – I got poisoned! I've got a gluten intolerance and some wackadoodle thought he knew better than doctors. BUT WHATEVER BRAH it forced me to take some time off my feet.
I love my reviewers! TrilbyBard, CarolainBlack, AquaBluey, Bee, SunnySides, bananaraberrybat, TimeLordsRule, Momochan77, Guest, PistolHattersButtercup, Sanguinary Tide, Lucy Jacob (who won the unofficial get-me-inspired-by-music contest and got a sneak peek of this chapter!), TikiKiki, IvoryDarkWolf, xRaspberryx, (another) Guest, (yet another) Guest, Mia, Rainbowlabs, Guest (#4), Guest (#5), Thorny Thestral, TheRealTayler13, nekokairi, Lemontea-addict, Hxnnie, stars that listen, AlexShah, Guest (#6), and Foxy!
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