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.
Consider reading the two standalone pieces, 1997 & 1998. They are referenced in later chapters.
Meet Me in St. Augustine
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December 10th, 2013—Palm Coast, Florida
Stale air permeated 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 despite changing into civilian clothes. They lacked the haunted, rabid expressions—the particular air of brokenness that these other survivors harbored, and certainly didn't hold adoration for the authority, posing self-appointed as America's hope in the dark.
Arms folded, Tom felt another bead of sweat roll its way down the column of his neck and under the dress shirt which 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, and potential exits.
Moving on, Tom scanned more faces, searching for those mercenaries from the Solace until he passed over a woman with most of her back turned. She was skirting the edge of the room like him, over by the water station; a new addition who hadn't been present when they'd arrived.
Something washed over him, an echo. A feeling of déjà vu calling and 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, elegant neck. A black tank-top tight against a tall and stealthy form. Pale skin sun-kissed, indicating she'd been local for at least a few days. Mannerisms so uncanny. Jarring but graceful. Delicate when she downed a cup of water before discarding the plastic all too precisely...
This was his mind playing cruel tricks. It couldn't be. Just someone who bore an eerily striking resemblance to a woman he'd once loved and cherished as his own. Still, Tom's focus lingered, an unbearable surge of hope almost guaranteed to end in crushing disappointment surging beneath his ribs. Seconds stretched—unable to move on until he was sure—attempting a form of telepathy to get this woman to pivot so he could see her face. Put this insane notion to rest and re-focus on the mission.
God, those hands. The way she now buried them in 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. Cautiously searching for her source of unease until she'd locked focus 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 attention to the stage, questions assaulting rapid fire.
How? When? Was she one of them?
Eight years.
It had been eight years since last they'd met, 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, like she was seeking a better view until she'd arrived at his side. The sight of her close, even in peripheral, made his insides clench. Without eye contact, and in complete stoicism, they both continued to look toward their 'savior' who stood behind a podium upon the stage.
"Friends, fellow immunes, my heart fills with joy to see you all here. What a crowd!"
Tom freed his hands of their tight grip around each bicep. They dangled at his sides. He needed to know. Slowly, his knuckles brushed 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, and the relief soared. At least one of those burning questions was answered: she was still with him. Whatever matter of circumstance or fate led her here—now—it wasn't to buy the shit these people were selling. Tom squeezed in response and heard her exhale before realizing they were the only ones not clapping. And he didn't have bandwidth to analyze the sudden loss when her hand left him to applaud. Mirroring the action, he pursued the room with unease while 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 Tom 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 this whole operation. Set a dozen guards loose that would likely end in death. Adrenaline coursed, the drug in Tom's veins. Adrenaline, aggression, and love—his lifeblood.
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 sitting on 'Sean's' left. The man had appeared somewhat familiar to the Captain, yet in the face of his other discovery, identifying why had floundered.
Flags.
They were handing out flags now. Small, and glued to little wooden sticks—party favors—like this was some goddamn fourth of July.
"According to the U.S. Constitution, as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Jeffrey Michener is number twelve 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'd turned with the same manner of shock, and then to her. Sasha.
Her gaze was sharp. Trepidation, foreboding, and fire, 'Hello' and 'I've missed you,' and 'How are you here?' all shining within brilliant captivating blue, and Tom could hear it in his mind, though her lips never moved when she asked, 'What the hell is going on?'.