AN: And we're back! here's a fairly long chapter to make up for the length between update times. Thanks so much to Jaeger Gypsy Danger for Betaing this. You should check her out. She's easily one of my favorite writers on this site, and has a way of kindly showing me how much of a dumbass I can be while also pushing me to let my writing flow more naturally.
I also think that this week's Murphy's Law of Combat may just be Brandon's life motto. XD
As always, feel free to let me know what you think of this chapter. I always apreciate it.
"The most dangerous thing in the world is a Second Lieutenant with a map and a compass."
-excerpt from Murphy's Laws of Combat Operations
Location: UNSC Murphy's law, standoff distance from Forerunner installation X50, 07:16 standard military time, January 7th, 2559
Brandon sat in a chair, examining the wall of the brig of the Murphy's Law as he mentally prepared himself for what was about to come. A few hour ago, Brandon was given a short debrief by Osman and asked in detail what went on aboard the station and how they extracted the device. Brandon gave her as much detail as he could, but honestly, he spent most of his time on the station locked in a very small room. The rest was fuzzy due to the effects of multiple sedatives and the rush of a firefight.
Osman didn't keep him for long, however. After the debrief she asked him to be the one to interrogate Lassiter when he finally woke up in the brig. Brandon told her that he wasn't sure he could do as she asked, mainly because after what he saw done to Alison he might be too brutal of an interrogator. Osman disregarded Brandon's concerns and ordered him to do the job anyway. Brandon wondered if that was what she was counting on. Maybe she wanted him to treat Lassiter brutally. She was Alison's Spartan-sister after all. Maybe she wanted to see this man suffer just as much as he or any other member of the crew.
Brandon tried not to think about his own bloodlust. Throughout his career he fought to keep himself away from the cynicism that developed in soldiers who fought for too long and saw too much. Some of that was unavoidable. He still remembered the rush of adrenaline he got from putting a bullet through the head of an Elite that killed one of his soldiers during his first battle on Skopje, a world that was now glassed. He remembered watching the bullet enter the Alien's skull and exit in a plume of blue blood, and the flood of satisfaction that came a moment later when he was finally able to know for sure that this squid-lipped sonofabitch will never harm another human being ever again.
This feeling didn't stay with him for long.
He distinctly remembered the feeling of guilt that washed over him like cold water when the adrenaline high of the kill died. It sent chills down his spine and snapped him back to the reality that he just took a life. It made him remember that his job wasn't something to be enjoyed. It was necessary, and that was felt awful for a good, long while after that, but he came to love that feeling. As long as he felt that way, no matter how bad it hurt, he knew that deep down under the many layers of armor and unhealthy coping mechanisms his human soul still resided.
When he looked at Lassiter, however, he felt next to nothing by the way of empathy. Brandon's heart raced as he imagined himself walking up to the man, placing a gun to his head, and blowing his brains out all over that table. On any other day he wouldn't allow the gruesome thought in his mind, but today he felt that was far too or are you dignified a death for someone like him. He wanted Lassiter to die slowly. He wanted him to feel every ounce of pain he dealt to Alison and then some. He wanted to leave him to rot in his pain and suffering until his body finally gave out in agony.
Brandon's fists clenched white-knuckle tight as he tried to force these thoughts from his head. If he kept thinking of Lassiter as less than human, that was exactly what he would become. He saw it happen to too many other soldiers. His heart pounded and his breath quickened as he fought to regain control of his own mind. Oh what he wouldn't give for someone to sedate him for the sixth time this OP.
He was nearly ready to storm out of the holding area when an entirely different thought crossed his mind. This time it wasn't of Lassiter, death, or heinous crimes. It was of the woman who was the target of them. Alison.
He thought back to 48 hours ago when the two of them left that hellhole of a URF station. He remembered Alison lying on a stretcher in the back of the pelican, looking over at him with bright, blue eyes dimmed with fatigue and pain and forcing a smile. As though she was right next to him, he heard her begin to hum to him in her even, melodic tone. The sound of it went beyond comforting. He felt every note of it restore a little piece of his humanity.
His breathing began to slow. His fists slowly loosened and fell open. He still couldn't bring himself to feel remorse for Lassiter, but lessening his anger was a start. Slowly but surely he recovered. He rubbed his eyes, ran a finger through his short-cropped hair that had had a rare chance to grow over the last week, and let out a long breath.
You're ok, Brandon promised himself, you're ok.
Brandon wrung his cold hands together as he sat and watched the bank of monitors in the brig that showed what was happening in each of the tiny cells as he waited for Lassiter's sleeping form to wake from his drug-induced slumber finally. The cold became more powerful as he thought about it more, to the point where it became nearly painful. Brandon was beginning to wonder what was happening to his hands until he remembered how warm they felt an hour ago when he was at Alison's bedside, her fingers wrapped around his and her warmth running through him.
He wondered, for a moment, if Alison actually was that warm or if his mind was merely playing tricks on him. Maybe his attraction to her tricked him into remembering more heat than there actually was. He doubted it, however. It wasn't as if it would be an exception to how amazing she was. Her physique could rival anyone alive. Her body was toned and muscular, yet her hips were still curvy and feminine and her legs were long, like some kind of Greek goddess. Even her bulky armor couldn't mask her gracefulness. Her long, dark hair really got him when he had seen it for the first time out of the bun she normally kept it tied up in. Alison was warm, kind, protective, she could be forceful when she needed to be and gentle when she wanted to be. Her bright blue eyes were deep, and her skin was surprisingly soft and comforting for someone who fought for a living. The strength of her hands wrapped around his fingers made him feel safe, and, whoa.
How did his mind gotten on this track again?
Fraternization policy wasn't really what would get between them. As Brandon knew, it was a long war, and nearly everyone in the UNSC breached fraternization policy at one point or another.
In a world where comfort and affection was something a soldier might not be able to find for years at a time, soldiers often gave little thought to what the Army would think of them for being in a relationship with a teammate, or, more likely, just having casual sex. He could count the number of times this ended well on one hand with fingers to spare, but that didn't stop him or anyone else.
No, he knew the real reason was that if he allowed himself to get too close to Alison, anything that could go wrong inevitably would go wrong for her. The war made Brandon a superstitious man, at least concerning that old law. Before he left her Alison began to feel a bit better. She didn't say anything, but she was moving, silently insisting on getting to her feet. Before he left a smile even crossed her face. The image of her huddled and frightened out of her mind over what happened to her just hours before still lodged itself in his mind, along with the thought of how, is was anyone but herself, she would still be in the same position. He cared for her too much to let something like that happen to her again. Like it or not, he was utterly cursed.
This fact proved itself when he looked up at the monitors once again. Lassiter was writhing in his seat, his hands tied behind his back and his head face down on a stainless steel table, etched with the ONI logo.
He's awake, thought Brandon, great.
The image of Alison's blood spattered form lying prone on a cell floor; cold, alone, and left for dead still haunted him. Even if he didn't do it to her personally, he ordered it, or at least condoned it, and all of those notions made Brandon feel equally sick. Brandon felt Brandon felt the rage slowly building, twisting and burning him from the inside. Like an uncontrolled brush fire, destroying everything it touched. He wanted to kill this man. Something cold settled over Brandon's heart. This man had no regard for human life. Brandon would return the favor.
Brandon glanced over to Devereaux, who was leaning against the brig doorframe. Evidently, she saw the man wake as well. Brandon glanced at Devereaux, who was leaning against the bulkhead of the open hatchway. The movement of her hands as she racked the slide of her handgun and the metallic sound of it slamming into battery drew his eyes from her face and to her hands. Brandon swallowed hard at the sound of her weapon.
"I've got your back LT," she said gesturing to the monitors. "Make him pay."
There was a neutral expression on her face that was characteristic of ODSTs who were told to harm someone, but it masked the true empathy for Alison Brandon knew she possessed. She was just as disturbed and angered by Lassiter's treatment of Alison as he was, and she wanted to see justice all the same.
Without a word, Brandon stood and moved to the cell, slamming the button on its exterior to open the door and entering. He removed his pistol from its holster and set it on a table outside the cell. He picked up a shock baton and sparked it, eliciting a satisfying crack of electricity. If he felt any remorse for this man before it was now completely gone. He stepped through the cell's threshold, allowing the door to close behind him.
Oh, I will Devereaux, he thought as he approached Lassiter, who was still face down on the table as the drugs in his system slowly lost their effect. Don't worry.
Wordlessly, Brandon set the baton to its maximum voltage and planted it right between Lassiter's shoulder blades. Lassiter cried out in pain and jerked violently as his muscles convulsed and he tried to escape the pain. He couldn't, however. Only when Brandon's merciful hand pulled the baton away, was he allowed a brief moment of respite from the violent electricity.
Brandon reached down and grabbed Lassiter around his jaw, jerking Lassiter's face up and forcing him to look Brandon straight in the eye. His eyes were bloodshot and dazed. He was given the same drug as Brandon to subdue him, so he was in no better shape than Brandon was when he woke up hours ago.
"You think that sucked?" Brandon asked the confused man, "I'll tell you what really, fucking sucked!"
Brandon reached into his pocket and pulled out an image he took from Devereaux's helmet recording of Alison laying on the floor of her cell, covered in blood with Brandon's forehead pressed to hers and his arms wrapped around her in desperation to revive her. The image still made him sick, but he could bear to look at it of it meant Lassiter knew what he did to a living, breathing human being.
Brandon grabbed Lassiter by his hair and forced him to stare at the image.
"Look at it," he demanded. "See what you did to this person? This person who has a heart, a mind, a soul, and people who love and care about her?"
Lassiter's glassy eyes looked at the image with what could only be described as horror. Even he couldn't fathom what he did to Alison.
Good, you bastard, thought Brandon. I want you to lie awake at night and dream about this image for the rest of your short life.
"I didn't…..No...I didn't," stammered Lassiter as he stared blankly at the image.
"You didn't what?" Interrupted Brandon, his anger building, boiling over, until without thinking he slammed the man's head down to the table, breaking his nose with a sickening crack. Blood ran onto the stainless steel, pooling under his face and staining his cheek. Brandon sparked the baton once again, but he never swung it.
Blood. That was what set Brandon off. More precisely the sight of blood on an interrogation table. The sight of Alison's cowering form flashed before his eyes. Blood was everywhere. Blood all over her, blood all over her cell, blood that was spilled by Lassiter.
His eyes snapped back to the mess in front of him. Blood all over Lassiter. Blood all over the table. Blood that he spilled. As he stared blankly at Lassiter's coughing and writhing form, he slowly began to back away.
He was no better than Lassiter. Brandon hurt him in the same way he hurt Alison. He tortured him and made him bleed while he sat, trapped and helpless to defend himself against Brandon's onslaught.
"I didn't hurt her..." Lassiter pleaded as he tried to peel his head from the table.
His attempt was cut short by a fit of coughing that sprayed blood onto the table and his glassy eyes rolled shut from pain.
"Ramirez. Daniel Ramirez. That's who you're looking for."
Every word he spoke was accompanied by blood leaking onto the table in front of him. It pooled below his mouth and dripped down his chin when he raised his head. He looked even more broken than when Kilo-5 found him. Maybe he wasn't just the asshole who hurt Alison. Brandon knew better than anyone that no one in the military knew everything that was going on, even within their own command.
Maybe he didn't do this at all.
Brandon abruptly spun around without a word and headed for the cell door. He needed to get out of here. He couldn't stand looking Lassiter in the eye and knowing what he did to him, whether he hurt Alison or not. He robotically set down his baton on the way out of the cell and holstered his service pistol. He made a break for the door.
Devereaux had other ideas, however. She was still leaning against the door, right where she was before. Her hand was no longer on her weapon, and a thin smile graced her face.
"Damn Army guy," she said as he tried to pass her. "You broke him too quickly. Maybe it's not all of what he deserved, but he'll get that soon enough."
Brandon wanted to chew her out, but he knew how much of a hypocrite that would have made him. If he was in his old, amygdala-hijacked state right now, he would have agreed with her completely, but different chemicals were coursing through his veins now. In other words, he felt like absolute shit.
Besides, he thought, Devereaux has a right to her cynicism.
This woman was an ODST. She had probably seen the worst this war had to offer ten times over, maybe even more so than him. She probably had a right to how she saw this situation. Brandon, however, was not in the same boat.
He nodded, and made his way around her. He wasn't rude, but he made it clear he wasn't in much of a mood to talk. Devereaux gave him a sideways look, but let him pass.
Brandon marched away from the cell block. He was trying his hardest not to think about what he just did. He used to think only the Covenant were capable of torturing a defenseless human beings, apparently, humanity has it in them just the same as their alien enemies.
He rounded one too many corners too fast as he made his way back to his bunk, and almost ran into someone. He stopped dead before he hit them, and looked up to apologize. To his horror, he found Alison staring right back at him.
It was just his luck it was her. It wasn't like there were many other people on this ship who it could be. Then again, she was supposed to be in bed. From her weary expression to the dark circles under her eyes, Brandon could tell she could use the rest. In typical Spartan fashion, however, she stood with perfect posture and hardened eyes that made her seven foot two frame seem even more intimidating as he looked up at her.
Her stoicism couldn't hide everything, however. She wore an immaculate, Marpat BDU fit to UNSC standards, with the exception of her sleeves being pulled a little further down to hide the fresh scars that adorned her hands, and her collar, which was turned up and velcroed shut to hide the deep gashes on her neck. Alison's restlessness showed as her hands twitched insistently, with her right hand hanging low on her hip where her sidearm was holstered. She looked as unsafe as she felt, ready to draw at a moment's notice if somehow this ship, a place of relative safety, turned into a firefight like every other part of her life.
Her hard eyes were split by cracks of pain and weakness. They looked almost as someone did before crying, but Brandon knew that no tears were coming. This woman lived most of her life on the verge of tears, but allowing herself to find release in that way was something she would never allow herself to do.
"Lieutenant, how are you?" She asked kindly before, in a surprising gesture of nervousness, grabbing the back of her neck.
"Back in the infirmary last night I was only about half conscious," she said apologetically, "I'm truly sorry for behaving like I did. I promise I'm back in fighting shape."
Brandon was suddenly caught in a familiar place of not knowing what to say or how to say it. He wanted, above all, to reassure her. He wanted her to know she didn't do anything wrong. He knew she wasn't just "half conscious," she was terrified and frozen from pure, unadulterated fear at what happened to her. He wanted her to know that feeling that way was human and that she was human just like everyone else. She deserved a moment of weakness every once and awhile.
What he said to her, however, wasn't quite so eloquent
"Alison, how are you awake?" Fell from his lips, his voice etched with concern, "You need to rest. How about I take you back to the infirmary?"
He hoped she would follow his direction and leave to grab some rest, but she didn't. She moved closer to him and smiled down at him.
"I'm fine Brandon. Really," she said dismissively, "Osman's on the bridge right now talking with the Huragok about cracking open that device we brought home. When she's done, she wants a full debrief, and well...I'm not...I was hoping I could spend the mean time with you."
Brandon knew why she stumbled there. Alison was far from ready to debrief after going through something like that. He could still see the pain behind her eyes in spite of her even tone. She was hurt.
He wasn't the one that should be healing her, however. How could he when he was no better than the man who hurt her? He let his emotions get the better of him with Lassiter, twice, and he harmed him badly, one time he even did it in front of Alison. How could she possibly trust someone who did something just as evil as her abuser?
He wanted to smile and brush all this away. He wanted to say, 'this is war and shit happens,' and be done with it, but he couldn't, not by a long shot. The guilt was too powerful.
Brandon took a step backward and dropped his head.
"Alison, I am so sorry," he said. "But I'm not good for you to be around. I'm not a good person, and people who stay around me for too long always get hurt. It'd better if you stayed away from me. I'm sorry."
He turned to walk away. It was better he end it like this. If she stayed away from him nothing could go wrong between the two of them, and therefore nothing would go wrong. It was much better than the alternative. Maybe if there was a single person alive today that knew him for more than a year he would think differently.
He didn't make it very far, however. A crushing hand came down on his shoulder. The raw, unadulterated strength let him know immediately that it was Alison. She spun him around and looked him dead in the eyes. Her gaze wasn't as angry as her grip, however. Honestly, Brandon wouldn't be surprised if she simply didn't know her own strength.
"Lieutenant, I can take care of myself," she said insistently.
She tried to say something after that, but it caught in her throat. Maybe it was something angry, or reassuring, he didn't know. He struggled to get out of her grip, but she wasn't letting him go. It wasn't long before he resigned and dropped his head. He screwed up, but he supposed he couldn't run from it.
He wanted to open up and say something about how she didn't need to take care of herself, about how they were all in this together, and about he was there to help her, but that just felt wrong at a time like this. He didn't want to throw out more empty reassurance after he just brought up how many people were killed on his watch.
When he looked back up at her she gave him a soft, searching gaze and jerked her head, indicating for him to follow her. They ducked into a nearby room, which turned out to be the ship's magazine. A vessel of this size didn't carry many weapons, so the space was relatively small. Still roomy compared to other rooms on the ship so that an explosion in this section wouldn't cause too much pressure build up and blow the hull apart.
Alison leaned up against one of the bulkheads before letting out a long breath and closing her eyes. She looked like she had been to hell and back. It didn't take Brandon long to remember that she had.
He sighed as he looked over at her.
"You know they can still hear everything we're saying right?" Said Brandon, "this is an ONI ship. I'd be surprised if that Black Box AI isn't in here with us right now."
Brandon almost expected BB to pop onto a holoprojector just to prove that point, but miraculously nothing happened.
Alison opened her eyes, looked up, and nodded.
"I know," she said exasperatedly, "I guess I just need the illusion of privacy."
Her eyes slowly hardened before her next question, as if she were preparing to conduct an interrogation or absorb a lot of heartache. Brandon couldn't tell which.
"So what's wrong Brandon? You wouldn't have tried to storm off on me like that for no reason."
Brandon braced himself. This was what? The third time he apologized to Alison for screwing up like this? Would she even believe he was genuinely sorry?
Frown lines etched Brandon's face as he recounted the whole story, sparing no gory details. He told her exactly how much he wanted to hurt Lassiter, and how it felt so good to strike him with a shock baton and watch him beg for him to stop. He wanted to sound like as bad a person as he could. He didn't want Alison's forgiveness. He wanted her to know why she should hate him.
When he finished his recount he dropped his head to examine the ground. He wasn't sure what Alison was going to do given what he just told her. The expression on her face was dead neutral, and her eyes bored through his head like twin lasers. He wanted her to just get it over with and slap him to the floor, call him an asshole, and storm out. Alive.
He waited for what seemed like hours for her response. When he finally heard her approach him he remained dead silent until she was right next to him.
"I would have done the same thing," she said flatly.
Brandon almost didn't register the comment for a moment. How could she not hate him for this?
He looked up into her eyes and found that they stared right back at him, her expression no longer strong and pensive but kind and reassuring.
"If someone hurt you I would kill them," she continued when he said nothing. "Besides, this is no different from what I went through on X50 after finding that helmet."
Brandon almost couldn't meet her gaze. Why was she still so protective of him? She shouldn't be forgiving him for this. He was no better than the man who hurt her. Which probably wasn't Lassiter at all.
"He didn't hurt you though? Did he?" Brandon asked with remorse. "It was someone else? Wasn't it."
Alison nodded, and looked away. She was clearly trying to forget something. Probably the man's name, or face. He wasn't inclined to ask her about it, however.
"You couldn't have known that," breathed Alison, "from your perspective, I was captured by him, dragged to a cell by him, and when you opened the cell I was…" An audible pause accompanied a nervous twitch of her hands. "...that. You had no reason to believe he hadn't done that to me."
Brandon clenched his fists in frustration. He was still unwilling to forgive himself, but getting torn up wouldn't help him succeed in this op. He needed to stay focus.
"I know," he conceded. "But it's still not an excuse. I'm sorry Alison. I just wanted to protect you."
Brandon noticed the endearing half smile that lifted her lips, only to watch her frown a moment later.
"You can't protect me Brandon," she reiterated. "If I can't protect myself with all of the augmentations and modifications I have I hardly see how you getting involved would end in anything but you being injured or killed."
Brandon wanted to protest, but knew it was a lost cause. She was right, he couldn't protect her, and that made him feel hollow. He was her superior officer. It was his job to get her home safe. How could he possibly so helpless to do his own job? How had he failed so miserably at it so many times.
The flashes of his role in operation UPPERCUT flashed through his mind like white hot fire. He still didn't even know who the operation was meant to protect, or what the purpose of Operation UPPERCUT had been. All he knew was that his men had died so that some Spartans could get off world and take the fight to the Covenant. Short of telling his men to break ranks and run for their lives, there had been no way to save them. They held that line. There fate was decided by forces completely beyond his control.
"I know, I just," stumbled Brandon as he tried to get his point across, "I care about you Alison...a lot. I just don't want to see that happen to you again."
He let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. admitting that he cared about her on such a deep level held a lot of weight to him. He hardly admitted everything really. He hadn't told her just how truly amazing he thoughts he was; how strong, beautiful, kind, and….well he shouldn't be getting ahead of himself.
Alison's eyes flickered in surprise as she tried and failed to hold back how much those few words meant to her. She knew he cared about her, but it was nice to hear it directly. It was nice not to be alone…. She hadn't felt a connection like this with someone since her early days in the Spartan program.
"Thank you," she finally responded. "But I'll be alright. So don't worry about me. What we should be worried about is the debriefing coming up. We might be joining a select group of people that actually survive being interrogated by my sister. If we're lucky."
Brandon grimaced at the thought of being debriefed by Osman. If he didn't end up with a knife in his back and hot coals down his throat by the end of it he would be happy (count himself lucky?). His frown turned to a smirk when he glanced in Alison's direction, however.
"I hope I can count on you to protect me," he said with an air of humor.
A genuine smile crossed Alison's face, if only for a brief second after the comment.
"Serin is good at beating the hell out of people," she said dryly, "but I'm better."
Brandon smirked, but his mind immediately seemed to take a turn toward more depressing thoughts.
"Alison," he said firmly, "how are you feeling? Really. Is there anything you want to talk about, or say?"
Alison shook her head. She set her expression into a thin line as she looked at him.
"Frankly, I'm not feeling well at all," she said reluctantly, "but I'm going to have to explain everything that happened To Serin in a few hours and I'd rather not think about it until then."
Brandon nodded, unwilling to press her further on such a subject.
The two of them decided that putting morbid thoughts aside for the next hour or so was probably the safest way to persevere their sanity. They exited the magazine and headed toward the hangar to bide their time until their debriefing. As Brandon exited the room, however, he felt Alison's hand brush his as lightly as a whisper.
He smiled. He knew the action was intentional. Alison never did anything by accident. He took a long breath in and breathed out sharply. He wanted to believe that everything was going well and that they were just a few steps away from being done with this bullshit op, but that ancient law kept nagging him in the back of his mind.
He knew it was just a matter of time before something went wrong with this mission once again. They made it out with their lives last time, but Brandon was coming to doubt his luck would continue to hold.