Crossroads.

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Carlton Burk approached Danny in the p-way, the Special Operations Lieutenant standing with arms folded against his chest and one foot resting on the wall along with his weight. Carlton looked around, before he leaned forward, addressing Danny with a conspiratorial tone. "Anything yet?"

Danny shook his head. "No—Captain just went in."

"You really think he was with them?"

Danny's brows rose, and he tipped his head left, communicating his reservations. "Based on how he was acting? Yeah, I do."

Carlton peered toward the door, only able to hear the hints of baritone speech from the other side. Not enough to make out what was being said.

"What about the woman—" Danny paused while retrieving the name from his memory. "Sasha? You think she knows what's going on?"

Carlton pulled an expression that communicated his lack of knowledge on that subject, returning his gaze to meet Danny's. "We just ran into her at the hotel. Looked like she was there trying to figure it out like us… Pretty sure her and the Cap'n go back."

"Like from a different ship?"

"Maybe?" Carlton shook his head. "She's got ground skills though—maybe joint ops?"

Danny's brow knotted in the center of his forehead while he pondered it. Either way deciding it wouldn't be a bad thing to have an extra pair of hands. Though he'd never complain out loud, they were more than stretched thin. Spinning up on every mission was taking its toll.

In the communications room, Sasha listened using Tom's vacated headset. One arm folded across her chest, and the other perched ninety degrees at the elbow, fingers absently worrying at her mouth. Mike observed. His interest split between the Captain's exchange with the President and monitoring her reactions. Understood why Tom would take her face value, but after seeing the depth of Ramsey's recruitment video, he was under no such illusion.

Michener pushed himself forward in his chair, leaning an elbow against the wardroom table, vehemently defending his stance. "The national interest is saving what's left of this country." Tom picked up his mug slowly, listening while the President ranted. "Sean Ramsey and our movement give the country the best chance at that."

He drew the mug to his lips, letting it hover there before responding with his own challenge. "Convince me."

Sasha couldn't stop her lip from quirking into a soft smirk—something in his tone and stance reminding her of the prevalent stubborn streak of old. The one that issued quiet demands to whomever he saw fit and helped him get his way most of the time. In a way, it was comforting, as much as familiar. A response Mike scrutinized from the peripheral of his gaze.

'We were in one of the safe zones I created. Doak Stadium, where the Seminoles used to play?'

Tom gave a small nod. 'Sure'

'Well, you look around and you see twenty-thousand people dead and only a handful alive, you start to get the feeling that maybe you're special—except not in any way you'd want to be—not when your children are bleeding out of their eyeballs.'

Sasha tucked her chin and looked away, drawing the hand away from her mouth to pass down the opposite arm and clutch there. A movement the XO watched with a great deal of intrigue. After a few moments, she recovered, raising her chin again to continue watching the monitor. Colder though, Mike noted, something icy set in her features that made the angular lines of her jaw harsh and pronounced.

'How many of you are even left on this planet? How spread out are you? We have to protect ourselves—the people strong enough to survive. That's Darwin. That's the law of the jungle. That's Biblical!'

Mike turned his head and rolled his eyes at Lt. Granderson, already tired of hearing this shit. All he wanted to know was where the hell that Submarine was, and whether they were incapacitated.

'I saw the virus mutate, five, maybe six times—'

'That was August, it's stable now.'

'Says who?'

'Says our scientist.'

'Dr. Scott?' Michener raised his eyebrows, incredulous. 'Most people think she's a quack.'

'She is not a quack.'

Sasha squinted almost imperceptibly over that.

"This is going off the rails," Mike muttered, pushing away from the chair-back upon which he leaned to step closer to the Master Chief.

"I don't know, Sir," Jeter cautioned.

Sasha glanced over her right shoulder but said nothing, choosing to trust instead that Tom had a plan.

'And if I were to let you go back to Ramsey's, what would your game plan be then?' Tom asked, pointing vaguely toward the bearing of Ramsey's sub.

'You already heard; we're going to New Orleans.'

Mike rounded the chair again, pushing it aside to move closer to the screen, finally they were getting somewhere.

'Well then, maybe you can tell me why our Sonar operators are picking up Ramsey's sub heading west—to New Orleans, as we speak—'

'That's not—'

'When Sean knows we're hiding behind this island—'

'That's impossible!'

"Great Bluff," Mike muttered, eyes keen and every bit of his expression alive with the hunt.

'I'm sure even prisoners on this ship have a right to their own quarters.'

'You're not a prisoner.'

Michener turned, extending his hands in mock display, presenting his checkmate to the Captain. 'Well, then I can go now?'

Sasha watched as Tom regarded the President, reticent with his back at an angle to the camera. She could only imagine the look on his face.

After a moment of stalemate, Tom inhaled, pursing his lips a little and bobbing his head. Conceding this round now that he'd garnered the intel they sought on Ramsey's sub, but feeling as though he may have lost the man in the process. "I'll have a corpsman make up a room."

Michener put his hands in his pockets and straightened, scrutinizing the Captain, who strode back to the table to retrieve his coffee mug. He watched while the Captain refilled it, adding some sugar this time, his small eyes—almost beady—trained intently on every move Tom made.

On his way to the wardroom door, Tom paused. Raising his head and turning back to face Michener. "We're on the same side, Mr. President." He stepped out.

Sasha dropped her arms and inhaled, removing the headset and placing it on the table before her while the XO and Master Chief mirrored her movements.

Mike was focused on her now, his stance unreadable and features guarded. "So you were in the Stadium?"

She'd already said as much, and she doubted he'd forgotten, which meant that wasn't the question he wanted to ask—she indulged it, nonetheless. Shifting a little to better address him head-on, she raised her chin before answering softly. "I was."

"During the outbreak," he pressed.

Master Chief Jeter let his eyes trail sideways to gauge her reaction, already sensing the tension from the XO in contrast to her reserved and cold exterior.

She tilted her head left with a subtle movement. Blinked once before answering the second obvious question. "Yes."

Mike bobbed his head, digesting the confirmation which led him to his next and more pressing point. "So you're immune." That wasn't a question, and Tom chose that precise moment to re-enter the room, lingering in the threshold while his eyes shifted between Sasha and his XO, registering the obvious friction there.

Mike amended his stance a little, relaxing his shoulders and drawing his arms away from his chest to hang loose at his sides. Sasha, on the other hand, made no such move. Head still tilted at an angle with an unreadable expression. Her icy blue stare seemed to cut down to his bones, Mike noted. It was unnerving.

Tom stepped forward, languid with assured strides, and only when he held out the mug to Sasha did she shift focus, accepting it with a barely audible thanks.

"Am I missing something?" Tom's tone was droll, and Granderson widened her eyes though she saw fit not to turn around.

Mike answered first. "Just tryna understand the full picture here."

Sasha blinked and brought the mug to her lips. "We haven't been formally introduced. Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence—and yes, I appear to be immune," she deadpanned before taking a sip.

A hint of amusement seemed to lighten the Master Chief's expression. "Master Chief Russel Jeter." He nodded politely at her.

Mike rolled his jaw a little before lifting his chin and following suit—albeit begrudgingly. "Mike Slattery, ship's Executive Officer."

Sasha flashed a grin that failed to reach her eyes, skewing more sarcastic than not. "Perfect—now we've covered the basics." Committed to pondering later why something pulled in her gut upon learning his first name.

Tom opted to let their marginally hostile exchange go—for one, he'd expected nothing less from Mike, and two, Sasha could more than handle herself. Didn't need him swooping in to speak on her behalf. In fact, she'd never really needed him at all, he supposed.

Mike flashed his own tight grin. "Great."

Sasha merely quirked a brow and took another sip of coffee—terrible by normal standards, but after months of hell, it was the most glorious brew she'd tasted, and it did wonders against the chill of the AC. Another luxury they'd been without in the muggy Floridian climate.

"What are you gonna do with him?" She asked.

Tom sighed and scrubbed a hand across his jaw, moving further into the room to perch upon the edge of a table. "Give him some time to cool off. Let everything we just told him sink in."

"I'm not convinced that man can be rehabilitated," Mike warned.

Though he wouldn't admit it, not yet, and not without exhausting every tactic available to him—Tom was less assured than he'd been mere minutes ago in the wake of their intense exchange. "There's gotta be something we're missing—"

"Like what?" She prompted.

Tom tipped his head in pondering. "I don't know yet."

Sasha narrowed her eyes while she considered it, her brow furrowing. "Twenty-thousand people dying on your watch isn't a good enough reason to join a cult?"

Jeter inclined an eyebrow at the Captain, silently communicating he was apt to agree, and Tom couldn't deny when she put it like that; it was case closed… but there was something else. He was sure of it. The ferocity with which Michener had clung to his denial, the edge in his tone, the unhinged look in the depths of his eyes.

"Somethin' else," he said. More to himself than the occupants of the room.

"How was the safe zone even compromised?" Mike asked, directing his question to Sasha.

She shook her head. "I have no idea—from what I saw, they followed the protocols. Same ones they used across the country. Less than two weeks in, people started showing symptoms. Two weeks after that—hundreds were dying every day… there were riots, chaos." She paused and inhaled. "Some ended it quickly. Jumped. Shot themselves until the bullets ran out. Overdosed while there still was medication left… whatever they could find, really. And then the rest of them..."

She trailed off, and a different type of silence fell over the room, Michener's words echoing in Tom's head.

'I can't begin to imagine.'

'No. You can't.'

Tom caught the XO's eyes, noting his troubled expression while Sasha stared into the mug. Looking, but not seeing. Suddenly, Baltimore didn't seem so bad, and that alone was heavy enough that Tom needed air—space to plan their next set of moves and time to get his damn knuckle re-set. He pushed himself up from the table, his movement effectively bringing Sasha back from wherever she'd been.

"Let's take a break—" Tom inclined his head at Slattery. "Ship's yours. Master Chief—monitor the crew, get a pulse on what they're saying. We need to stay ahead of this."

"Aye, Sir," Jeter nodded.

Both officers left the room, leaving the Captain, Lt. Granderson, and Sasha behind. "Lieutenant, I'll have someone relieve you once the President's secure in his quarters."

"Yes, Sir."

He was close to the door now, wordlessly pushed it open, and gestured with his free hand for Sasha to step through ahead of him. It was barely closed before he deadpanned.

"I see you're already making friends."

She fought not to roll her eyes but didn't quite succeed. Choosing to drink more coffee to keep her mouth occupied as they spanned the short distance to his cabin through the p-way. "Fairly sure your XO thinks I'm subscribed to the Ramsey's."

They reached his quarters, Tom opening it much in the same manner as moments before, peering down at her as she slipped past him and into the room. He caught another whiff of her hair when she floated past, too graceful by normal standards. She heard him give a small exhale, and he had the decency to seem apologetic for that. "Once you finish reading the logs, you'll understand. We've had our share of compromises." He closed the door behind him.

Her lips formed interest, taking it at face value and choosing to be blunt with her next thought. "You really think I'd double-cross you?" And while her tone was plain, the honest question in her eyes was anything but.

Tom drew his own up slowly, maintaining the contact in silence for a few seconds. "No." It was softer, perhaps, than it should have been, and he hesitated before continuing. Contemplating whether it was wise to be so frank for fear of opening doors that were best left closed. "I know there're things you don't feel like disclosing right now—but I trust you have your reasons—and you'll share if it's necessary."

She lifted her chin and tilted her head, studying him in more detail than she'd previously allowed. Trying to ignore the perplexing effect his simple statement seemed to have and why it felt so important that he'd still trust she was on his side. Hadn't appreciated she'd been afraid of his response. Sasha looked back to the coffee mug, almost finished now, and palmed the side of it, the act of maintaining eye contact feeling suddenly too intimate.

Tom exhaled, his own gaze continuing to linger before moving back to his desktop, keying in the password and pulling open the same reports. "I'll be in CIC if you need me—there's food in the mess, Doc Rios is busy but Dr. Scott or Milowsky should be free if you need medical attention."

Sasha drew her lips into a small tug of acknowledgment and set the mug down next to his mouse. He was almost gone before she called out to him quietly. "Tom?" He looked back over his shoulder, just as she did over hers. "Thank you." She felt rather than saw him sweep his eyes across her form before he gave a small nod, a hint of warmth touching his features, and left the room.

Sometime later, Tom leaned against the railing of the bridge wing, peering out onto the relatively still waters accompanied by his XO and Master Chief, mulling their options in his mind. The crew had caught wind, his lie that the President was being briefed flimsy like a crumbling leaf. And he was only half tuned in to the conversation surrounding him, picking up on various words now and then while he pondered how to appeal to the man. How to steer him away from the dogma to which he clung. Attempting to place himself in his shoes as it were, and he found the uncomfortable, obvious parallel was to that of his own family. Losing Darien. Things he didn't like to think about for the raw pit it opened within.

Tom straightened at the waist but didn't fully turn to face his two officers. "I'll have Cooper do some digging—"

Mike couldn't suppress his skepticism. "You really think that's wise?"

Tom stilled, turning his head left in a slow, foreboding manner. "Why wouldn't I? She was briefed on our mission before we even set sail. She knew about the labs, the primordial, Doctor's Scott and Tophet."

Mike amended his tone, knowing well enough he was on the losing end of this battle but felt it prudent to voice his concerns. "That was months ago—and you saw how Michener reacted. We showed him everything, and he went straight back to Ramsey. They were in the same safe zone, then conveniently end up at that hotel together? You really think that's a coincidence? What makes you so sure they haven't turned her too?"

Tom sucked on his cheeks and clenched his jaw, biting down on the defensive knee-jerk response, acutely aware of the Master Chief peering at him, waiting with barely concealed intrigue for a rebuttal. A response that needed not to include their personal history. "She's given no indication that we can't trust her—"

"She's a spook." Mike countered easily, cracking a smirk that held no actual amusement. "A professional liar—her entire file's redacted."

Tom bristled, shifting on his feet to stand firm at his full height. Still inches shorter than Mike, but the ferocity of his gaze did the rest. "Give us the deck," he murmured, never taking his eyes from his XO.

Master Chief Jeter retreated into the Pilot House in silence as instructed, and within seconds, Tom dropped the pretense. "Why are you challenging me on this?"

Mike's features twisted, his displeasure over Tom's tone clear. "I'm not challenging you, I'm pointing out the obvious."

"You're making assumptions without merit," he fired back.

"All due respect," he tilted his head to emphasize his point, "I think your judgment on her is clouded." There it was, the nerve Mike had meant to hit. Could tell he'd hammered it by the smoldering look on the Captain's face.

Tom clenched his jaw and fisted his hands behind his back. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but you're wrong."

Mike bobbed his head, drawing his lips into an unconvinced line. "Really? So if she was anyone else, you'd be comfortable giving them access to our entire network—unattended. You have no idea what she's been doing for the past three months, who she's been in contact with, why she got pulled from that mission, other than what she's told you—"

"You're toeing the line, XO," Tom all but barked.

Mike rectified his posture and suppressed his response.

"Like I said," Tom began slowly in a way that left no further room for discussion. "I appreciate your concern, and it has been noted—but until I have reason to suspect otherwise, she's an asset and I'll grant her access to whatever I deem necessary at my discretion." He paused for a beat. "Understood?"

Mike tightened his features but remained mute, effectively barred from continuing. Tom didn't wait for a response, choosing to stalk into the Pilot House instead, leaving Mike simmering in his wake and burning a path of his own through the Bridge.

Saturday, April 15th, 2001—Bayview Hills, San Diego, CA

"Hey, it's me—obviously." His stomach lurched, insides feeling like they'd plunged several stories. There was a long pause, a heavy exhale where he could tell she was nervous. "I'm sorry I didn't catch you—I know it's been a minute since we talked…" she trailed off again. "I didn't wanna do this over voicemail, but I'll be gone for a while... radio silent where I'm going—probably through November so I guess this is my only choice… and I'm rambling, so."

He heard another heavy inhale.

"I love you." His breath hitched. Heart rolling inexplicably behind his ribs. "But you already know that, and I should have said it more." She scoffed at herself a little. "I wish I could tell you where I am right now. Just know, I've had a lot of time to think—about everything."

His pulse was gushing in his ears, light-headed when he rested a palm on the counter to ground himself.

"I miss you… and you were right. We were both right, but I'm still in love with you. A lot. So, my doors open too, and maybe we can grab a coffee when I get back." There was noise in the background, sounded like she was outside, and he heard a distant yell. 'Kunić, wrap it up!'. "I have to go, but… I hope you're okay, and I'm sorry it took me this long to work up the courage to call you." She gave another heavy sigh, different. Relieved. Hopeful. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole. "Okay. I love you, Tom. Take care of yourself."

He didn't know how long he stood there in the dark with the phone still held to his ear, taking shallow breaths. The carefully crafted mantra he'd all but forced himself to accept crashing down and so with it every well-meaning lie. His entire body throbbed, temples ached, eyes hot behind closed lids, and he was teetering on the edge. Minutes. He'd missed her by mere minutes, and that was perhaps a blessing, as much as a curse.

The light in the hallway flickered on, and he tensed, pulling it away from his ear. Even his hands, which suddenly felt too empty, hurt.

"Tom?" She was squinting, traces of sleep still weighting her eyes, though they quickly became more alert upon finding him in the kitchen. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Damn. It was written all over his face then; he tried to rectify that—swallowed the barrel in his throat. Scrambled to find a lie that could suffice—another one.

"No." She was at his side now, small hand on his forearm, and he hated himself for noticing it felt different. "No, I'm fine. Did I wake you?"

She was unconvinced. The way her eyes swept him was evidence enough, and he instantly regretted not putting down the phone when she lingered on it, still clutched tight in his grip. Pulling away, she sighed. "No—acid reflux, apparently our baby isn't happy with an empty stomach either."

The experience was almost out of body while Tom watched himself robotically pour a glass of water from the fridge dispenser. Handing it to Darien as she popped an acid pill, along with some Zofran, for nausea, into her mouth.

He tasted chalk in his own. 'I'm still in love with you.' Tom blinked as if it could shut his brain down.

Darien drew the glass between her hands, mirroring his position propped against the counter at the hips. "Are you sure you're okay? You don't look like yourself…."

That damn lump in his throat was back, the razor-sharp heat. "I'm fine—why don't you go back to bed. I'll bring you some of that tea."

Darien pushed away from the counter, accepting defeat. After putting the glass in the sink, she rested a palm against his chest before tiptoeing and placing a kiss on his cheek. His skin felt hot to the touch.

"Okay. Don't be too long."