"It's easier to expend material in combat than to fill out the forms for Graves Registration."
-expert from Murphy's laws of combat operations
Location: UNSC Murphy's law, standoff distance from Forerunner installation X50, 02:05 standard military time, January 6th, 2559
Brandon's head had never hurt so bad in his life, and that was no small feat to accomplish. He had a lot of explosions, gunshots, air strikes, and ship crashes to compare this feeling to, as well as the hangovers he had had while trying to forget all of those things had ever happened, but this was by far the worst.
It was so intense that he could hardly remember where he was, or how he had ended up in so much pain. Had he stupidly gotten drunk while on an assignment from ONI? No, he wasn't dumb enough to be an alcoholic like his dad and he would like to think he had a few more brain cells than the average ODST.
Maybe the URF had caught him and hit him too hard or in the wrong spot. No, that was even more absurd. After all, Alison was with him. He might not have known Alison for very long, but he knew she would have protected him. When he had first seen her he wouldn't have taken her for the caring type, but talking to her revealed something very different. Her exterior was cold, but her tone, her words, and especially her actions radiated safety. Even without her armor, her confidence made it seem like no one and nothing could touch her, and the same went for anyone lucky enough to fall under her protection.
He didn't want to open his eyes. He knew the light would just aggravate his pain, so he decided to slowly slide his hand around to find out where he was.
His hands ran over the sheets of the bed beneath him, causing him to sigh and smile. They were soft, and warm, much more so than he remembered his bed in the old, ratty URF hotel being. Maybe that was just because, compared to his headache, anything else felt like heaven. His hands wandered over past his bed to his nightstand, and he found it was not the same at all as the one in his hotel room. It was smooth, cold, and metallic. His handgun wasn't where he had left it, and the only things he found on the table were very dull scissors, a tiny knife, and metal tray.
Wait, no. Those were forceps, a scalpel, and a surgical tray. Was he in the hospital or something?
Now his head really hurt, and he really, desperately needed to remember what had happened. He didn't want to do it, but after a minute of procrastinating he sucked it up and pealed open his eyes.
Blinding white light flooded his vision and sent a lance of pain straight through his brain. He groaned, and rolled over on to his side, suddenly beginning to feel disoriented. The bed was a whole lot narrower than he expected, and in his haste he sloppily rolled over on to the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on its smooth metal surface.
"Lieutenant," he heard a voice call out to him.
It was distorted, but definitely British, and sounded just a little bit synthesized. He tried to reply but the words simply didn't come.
"Lieutenant," it repeated again, "are you alright?"
"I...I'm ffffiiinnne," he managed to stutter out in response to the voice's incessant questioning. Never in his life had he simply wanted someone to be quiet. Every sound and every bit of light hurt.
He stumbled and tried to stand, but ended up hitting his head on the nightstand. The pain he felt from the impact was intense, but it's jarred him out of his blindness and cleared up his distorted hearing slightly. Why was it that a good old fashioned slap on the head never failed to fix all his problems.
He let himself relax back on to the floor, and stopped fighting. The British voice sighed loudly at his predicament, and then went quiet.
"Mal, Vaz, and Devereaux to the infirmary," it called.
Wait, thought Brandon, how did Mal, Vaz, and Devereaux get here?"
Brandon was still trying to sort through his confusing situation when he finally let himself settle on to his back and look up at the ceiling. His eyes focused, and slowly, a logo came in to view. It was the emblem of the UNSC Murphy's law, which bore ONI's all seeing eye in the center, and the message: UNSC Murphy's Law, PWR 072, "For when everything goes wrong," around the outside. He surveyed the room for any sign of where on the ship he was, and found himself staring at the four white walls of an infirmary room. It was small, maybe ten by seven feet, and medical equipment was littered everywhere. He looked over himself to see what he had been brought here to address, and felt a scar near his lower ribs from surgery.
Instantly, his memory came flooding back to him. It started when the rubber shotgun slug hit him during the URF kidnapping, then the station, finding Alison's tortured form, wailing on Lassiter, and finally being drugged by the ODSTs. Had he simply wanted to forget all that? Maybe he had forced it into his subconscious so he wouldn't have to remember the unspeakable horrors he had witnessed being committed against an innocent woman.
Regardless, he couldn't forget them now. He was certain those memories would stay with him for the rest of his life, along with so many others he had collected over the course of the war.
When his mind once again became semi-settled, the first thing he did was push himself shakily to his feet.
Alison, he thought, where is Alison?
That was all he could concern himself with right now. He needed to know she was alive and ok. He needed to make sure she knew that she didn't haven to suffer like that any more. He needed to make sure she felt safe.
He tired to stumble towards the door, but bumped in to the small medical table he had been talking on before, and face planted on to the mattress. He sighed. In this state he could hardly help himself, how was he supposed to help her?
He lay there for a brief moment, waiting for help, until the ODSTs came through the door a moment later.
Without preamble, Devereaux grabbed him by the shoulder and flipped him over so his back was laying on the bed, while Mal and Vaz held him down. Brandon half heartedly struggled against their restraints, but didn't manage to get free before Devereaux swiped the inside of his arm with a cotton swab and administered another shot. When she pulled the needle free the other ODSTs settled him back on to the bed and then let him go.
As the fluid from the shot began to course through his body he briefly drifted in to blackness, and then a moment later, his eye snapped open. His head finally felt clear, and when he flexed his fingers he found his fine motor skills had returned to him.
Devereaux slapped him, just enough to hurt, on the cheek to wake him up. She smiled, and laughed as he fidgeted and turned to face her.
"Hey Army guy. Welcome back to the land of the living," she said excitedly, "That shot should have flushed your veins of any of the shit Mal and Vaz put into you. You feeling alright?"
Before Brandon could even find a way to articulate how much he hated the three special forces troopers that currently surrounded him, he was once again punched in the shoulder by them. This time, it was Vaz's doing.
"Of course he's alright," said Vaz with a cocky smile, "he found himself a girlfriend in that backwater shit hole."
Brandon looked at the man with confusion. Which girl was he referring to?
Mal decided to answer the unspoken question for him.
"And of all the girls in the galaxy he picked a Spartan," said Mal with a laugh, "and I thought only you were in to tall, dark, brooding, and deadly."
The comment was clearly directed at Vaz, which confused the hell out of Brandon. He didn't receive an explanation however, just a glare, that was more friendly than anything, traded between the two ODSTs before their attention jumped back to him.
Brandon glared right back at them. How in the hell did they get the impression he and Alison had gotten together? How did they knew he even liked her? Was it just ODSTs bullshit, or had they taken their exchange in the back of the pelican as romantic?
For a moment, Brandon found himself wishing it had been romantic. What if she truly did feel the same way he felt? What if she had fallen for him as he had fallen for her?
A moment later he reminded himself how stupid it was to even think about this. Alison was traumatized, not to mention the fact that she probably still hated him. The last thing he should be thinking about is romantic gestures. Right now he just need to help her heal.
"Where's Alison," said Brandon, "I need to see her."
At the mention of her name, the ODSTs became a bit more solemn and serious. They exchanged glances, before Devereaux, the only one of the group who could remotely be described as gentle, spoke up.
"Lieutenant," she said kindly, "you do remember what happened to her. Right?"
Brandon nodded, and pushed himself into a sitting position. He remembered far too well. In fact, he was fairly certain he would never forget seeing Alison in the state she had been in.
"Then you might want to give yourself a minute to recover before seeing her," she continued, "Alison is still in awful bad shape. I think you just need to rest..."
But Brandon was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed before she even finished.
"Please, just tell me here she is," he said pointedly.
There wasn't any anger or insistence in his voice, just the words of a hurt man who needed to atone for what he had done to someone else. Devereaux looked him in the eye, and sighed. She knew there wasn't a way to stop him. She had no doubt seen, or been in, this situation before. Just about everyone in the UNSC had at some point.
"She's in the surgical wing sir. Osman didn't want to move her after the autosurgeon finished working on her," she said formally.
Then, to Brandon's surprise, she raised her hand and offered him a crisp salute. Moments later the other ODSTs followed.
Brandon knew this was a true gesture of respect from them. Tensions had run high between the Army and the Navy for a long time, and particularly during the war, and as always, ODSTs always took small conflicts way too far. Many ODST units were known to never salute Army officers, and frequently refused to show them respect in any form. Many an officer had tried to correct their problem, and many had failed. No amount of punishment could make an ODST give up their pride.
This truly was a gesture of respect from these three.
Brandon slowly raised his hand to return the salute.
"Carry on Sergeant," he said simply, then dropped his hand.
Without another word the three ODSTs filed out, leaving him alone in the infirmary room. Brandon looked around the room until he found a set of ACUs that had been perfectly folded and laid out for him. He changed out of his hospital gown and slid into them.
Once he had them on, he actually sighed. It felt good to not be wearing a disguise any longer. He was himself again. He didn't have to worry about blowing his cover or saying something stupid. In a way, it was like coming home.
He took a moment to look himself over in the mirror. His beard had grown out over the last few days, from the short stubble he normally had to something a little more noticeable. It now completely covered the scar on his jaw. Two scars on both his cheeks had replaced it, however. Both had been given to him by Lassiter during his brief interrogation.
He shook his head and rubbed his tired, darkened, hazel eyes. He shouldn't be complaining about scratches. Alison, his teammate, had left this mission with real scars.
He exited the small cubicle and came in to the larger medbay. It consisted of three more doors, leading to cubicles like his arranged in an half-octagonal pattern, with the other half being dominated by a large, glassed off surgical wing. Or, at least, large for a navy ship that was. The 15 by 15 foot room would no doubt be considered small in most hospitals.
Inside, Alison lay on the bed, her knees tucked to her chest and her eyes staring blankly forward while Osman sat at her bedside. She was ragged looking, with old and new scars covering her body. He noticed that some of them had faded or been erased, which was no doubt the autosurgeon's work. Sometimes the UNSC offered cosmetic reconstructive surgery to curb the psychological effects of major trauma on the human mind. Thankfully, it looked as though Osman had been kind enough to provide some to Alison.
It hadn't, however, fixed everything. The gridlock of scars that crisscrossed her body was simply something that would be too exhausting and difficult to repair, even for a machine.
Brandon watched from the doorway as Osman tried to comfort Alison from her bedside.
Osman bore a hurt look on her face, revealing a tender side of her that Brandon would not have believed existed had he not seen it for himself. Her eyes gazed wearily upon Alison's silent, stunned form, seeming to search for any way to help the deeply hurt Spartan recover.
She gently reached out her hand and brushed it against Alison's tenderly, hoping to comfort her. Alison hardly moved at the touch, and had Brandon not have had time to observe her before, he wouldn't have noticed how she tensed, and how her eyes snapped forward, letting pain flow through them as bloody memories moved to the forefront of her mind.
Brandon knew that her skin and clothes may be clean now, but deep down, bean wth the skin, the blood still stained her.
"I know sister," whispered Osman when Alison tensed, "I know."
Sister? Thought Brandon, how could Alison be her sister?
Brandon thought for a minute, and then made the connection. Osman must have been a Spartan. It would explain how she had risen so far through the ranks, and her tough demeanor. In a lot of ways, she was like Alison. She was tough, she was to the point, and she was loyal to a fault. However, she wasn't nearly as compassionate, or kind, or empathetic as Alison. Osman was a good sailor, Alison was a whole person.
He watched as the Admiral stood from her place at Alison's bedside and leaned in to Alison, as though she was going to give her a sisterly kiss on the forehead, but stopped short when Alison tensed once again.
Osman sighed, and then backed away.
"I'm sorry," she apologized, "take care sister."
When Osman turned around to find Brandon standing there, somewhere between shock, horror, and wonder. She didn't seem surprised, however. She walked quickly to the door and immediately put her professional walls up, blocking out the kind side of her he had just seen for the first time.
"Lieutenant, I didn't know what happened between you on Taurus 6," she said pointedly as she exited the door, "but you've made one hell of an impression on Alison."
Brandon didn't know how to respond to that. He hoped it had a positive meaning. He hoped that in some small way he had made Alison feel less like a machine than she thought she was, but he couldn't claim to have succeeded.
"The only word she's said since she woke up was your name," continued Osman, and then she stopped, tender hurt returning to her eyes.
"She's in pain Brandon. I don't know how much you can do for her, but if seeing you would make her feel better, then by all means, sit with her. I'll debrief you later."
Brandon looked her in the eye, and then saluted. He knew Osman didn't need to show him this side of her, but clearly her respect for him had shot through the roof over his treatment of Alison.
"Yes ma'am."
Osman saluted in return, and then walked off silently
He entered the room without a sound and sat next to her quietly, smiling brightly at her. He tried his best to relax his posture, his face, any part of him that could contain tension. God knows she had had enough tension already.
"Hey Alison," he said kindly, "How are you feeling?"
Another long, blank stare followed his question. She didn't tense, she didn't make a sound. Really she didn't move at all. Was this what it has come to? What did the URF really do to her back there? Clearly it went beyond just physical torture. She could have resisted that easily. This was something else. Something deeply, mentally painful had been done to her.
His mind immediately jumped to the worst. Had they raped her? What else could make someone this distraught. God if he ever found out which ones of them had touched her he would personally kill them slowly and painfully.
He felt tension coming over himself once again, and noticed Alison was now looking at him out of the corner of her eye. No part of her had moved other than her eyes. Concerned was etched in them, however.
Brandon tried to remember to relax and not to show her he was tense over this. There would be time to make the URF pay later. Right now Alison just needed a friend.
"Alison, if you want to talk about what happened to you with anyone, I'm here, you know that?" He said gently.
When she didn't move or say anything, he decided to add, "or not. I'm not going to force you to say anything you don't want to. And I can leave if that would make you more comfortable."
For a moment it didn't look like Alison was going to react to either of those statements, but as Brandon relaxed back in to his chair he felt her hand slowly move over to touch his. Without a word, she wrapped her fingers around his, intertwining them so they were locked together and then pressing down with a firm grip. It wasn't as firm as it would be if she was at her full strength, but it was still much stronger than any average person.
Brandon didn't get the feeling she was going to let go any time soon.
Brandon let a broad smile cross his face as he felt the warmth and security of her hand wrapped around his. There was something about her strength that made anyone feel safe around her, and a grip like this did feel quiet secure and safe. He put his other hand over the top of Alison's, taking in her warmth. He felt guilty for enjoying the crazy amount of heat put out by her augmented metabolism, but Alison didn't seem to mind the gesture either, so he kept it there.
"Everything is going to be alright," he said to her, before the two of them drifted into a simple, companionable silence.