an. This one really wouldn't let me go so I had to write it. What if Sasha hadn't been deployed to Asia when the Red-Flu broke out? AU scenario set in the heart of Season 2. Completely standalone from my other stories and might develop into something more once I am done with my other works.
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December 10th, 2013—Palm Coast, Florida
The air was stale, permeating with the damp stink of a hundred bodies sweltering in unbearable humidity. Tom crowded himself near the back of the room, trying to remain inconspicuous; a task made more difficult thanks to his stature. Those from the ship didn't have the bedraggled look of the crowd, they were too clean and well kept. Stuck out like sore thumbs despite changing into civilian clothes. They lacked the haunted, rabid expressions—the particular air of brokenness that these other survivors harbored. Didn't possess the longing and adoration toward the authority, posing self-appointed as America's hope in the dark amidst the loss and destruction.
Tom clenched his jaw, arms folded as he felt another bead of sweat roll its way down the column of his neck and under the dress shirt that didn't belong to him. It worked its way down the planes of his chest until it caught, adding to the dampness steadily drenching the fabric. His gaze met with Lieutenant Burk, who glanced casually while canvassing the room, assessing the number of guards, chokepoints, potential exits.
Tom moved on, scanning more faces, looking for those mercs from the Solace until he passed over a woman standing with most of her back turned. She was skirting the edge of the room just like him, over by the water station. A new addition who hadn't been present when his team arrived.
Something washed over him, an echo. A feeling of déjà vu calling to him, demanding his focus to zero.
It did.
Tom felt a knock behind his sternum. The mass of dark loose curls thrown into a messy bun upon the woman's head exposed a long and elegant neck. Her simple black tank was tight against the lithe lines of her form. Tall. Stealthy. Pale skin sun-kissed, which mean she'd been local at least a few days... mannerisms, so uncanny. Jarring but graceful. Delicate as she downed a cup of water before discarding the plastic all too precisely.
His mind was playing tricks on him, surely. It couldn't be. Just someone that bore an eerily striking resemblance to a body he'd once loved and cherished as his own. Still, Tom's focus lingered, an unbearable surge of hope forming almost guaranteed to end in crushing disappointment. Seconds stretched—unable to move on until he was sure—and attempting a form of telepathy to get this woman to turn so he could see her face. Put this insane notion to rest so he could re-focus on the mission.
God, those hands, the way she now buried them into the front pockets of dark-wash jeans… that stance… they had to be hers… Her profile became visible. The air was sucked from his lungs—he'd know those contours anywhere.
It was.
Of all the people, in all the places, against all the odds—it was her.
Tom saw the moment she became aware. Cautious blue searching until she located the source and locked eyes with him across the room. His heart rate elevated—mind assaulted.
Alive.
Beautiful. Stunning. Staring at him with equal astonishment.
A cacophony of clapping broke the spell, tearing Tom back to the mission at hand. Shaken, he snapped his attention back to the stage, questions assaulting rapid fire.
How? When? Was she one of them?
Eight years.
It had been eight years since he'd seen her last, and still, he could all but feel her position in the room. Stole glances as she casually worked through the crowd. Moving unnoticed and unassuming, she paused every few moments as not to be conspicuous. Benign, as if she were seeking a better view until she arrived at his side. The sight of her close, even in peripheral, caused his insides to clench.
Without eye contact, and in complete stoicism, they both continued to look toward their 'savior' who stood behind a podium on the stage.
"Friends, fellow immunes, my heart fills with joy to see you all here. What a crowd!"
Tom unclasped his hands, freeing them of their tight grasp on each of his biceps to rest at his sides. He needed to know. Let the knuckles of his left brush against the back of her palm. They were soft and unexplainably cool despite the heat. It was maddening. Familiar. Her fingers twitched and then laced through his in an urgent and tight grip. Relief surging. Soaring. One of those burning questions answered—she was still with him. Whatever matter of circumstance or fate led her here—now—at the same time as him, it wasn't to buy the shit they were selling. Tom squeezed in response and heard her exhale before realizing they were the only ones not clapping. Didn't have time to analyze the sudden loss when her hand left his to applaud, merely mirrored the action and pursued the room with unease as the crowd revered.
Alive. She was alive.
He wanted to look, god did he want to tear his eyes away from the stage, but there would be time—he'd make sure there was time.
More propaganda spewed and he continued searching, until finally—finally—another face he recognized. One from the Solace. Excitement and then reality; that man could recognize him too and blow the whole operation. Set a dozen guards loose that would likely end with one of them dead, or all. Adrenaline coursed, the drug in Tom's veins. His lifeblood. Adrenaline, aggression, love—three things that made Tom Chandler tick.
Alive.
Like a train fighting to stay on one track, his mind teetered. Torn, until a TV screen lit up and revealed the identity of the man to 'Sean's' left, a man who had appeared somewhat familiar to the Captain, yet in the face of his other discovery, had floundered in the wake.
Alive.
Flags. They were handing out flags now. Small, and glued to little wooden sticks—party favors—like this was some goddamn 4th of July.
"According to the U.S. Constitution, as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Jeffrey Michener is number 12 in the order of presidential succession. With the other's all gone, well, Jeffrey Michener is your President." Murmurs. Excitement and Cheers. "America has a new President, and he is one of us!"
God help us.
And finally, Tom did look. First to his Lieutenant who turned with the same manner of shock, and then to her; Sasha.
Her gaze was sharp, focused, intense. Trepidation, foreboding, and fire, 'Hello' and 'I've missed you,' and 'How are you here?' all rolled into one within brilliant shining blue—and Tom could hear it in his mind, though her lips never moved when she asked, 'What the hell is going on?'.