an. Review responses below:

Guest 1 I'm so glad you liked Val's involvement (and Pablo's) we're living in true AU land now, but Pablo and Jesse were some characters I very much enjoyed and thought were underused and I love writing him in El Norte so he gets to come here now too! Also, you have great attention to detail. Whether Ramsey was definitely on one of the boats has only been confirmed by the civilian's statements. It could mean he's still alive, or it might not. I can say the civilians that separated are definitely not immunes though, they really were just misled and organized into following the James up the Mississippi. Re: Sasha's question, honestly, I think she means all of it. Without spoiling, Sasha has a lot more to work through with their past that being near him is forcing her to confront. Now that the shiny/giddy 'omg you're alive' is becoming balanced by actual reality, there's a lot that she's realizing pains her about what happened. Tom took her question as does he regret not kissing her before he left and his answer is yes. They will still be going to St. Louis, but the ship will be able to get back to Norfolk much faster and that is important.

Guest 2 First, I'm sorry you have COVID! I really hope it's not too severe and you're feeling better by now. Don't feel bad for the review, I appreciate you leaving one at all :) Laughed a little on the agony front. I'm glad you are hoping for more because there definitely will be before things get figured out.

Are You Sure This Isn't Over Yet?

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December 20th, 2019—USS Nathan James—Approaching Memphis, Tennessee—0800 Hours

The restriction of shuffling between the wardroom to pick at approved foods and the few hundred feet from officer country to medical for a daily incision check had become old fast. It was now unbearable. Sasha was also over aware that she only had this much freedom because sick-bay and the senior officers' cabins occupied the same level. Never had she been happier to exploit the 'soft spot', nor felt less professional guilt for accepting a stateroom over the bunks and Tom's subsequent vacating CO's quarters for the at-sea. Exhaustion made the first days tolerable; leveled her sixteen out of every twenty-four, but that was tapering. The hours between requiring rest elongating, leaving torturous stretches with nothing but four walls and some books to keep sane.

Tom had offered to leave his laptop. Something Sasha declined because it felt too intimate, dangerous even, and if it were anyone else's, she'd have accepted; but Sasha didn't want to read books. Didn't want to watch movies. She needed to know what was going on and Tom was maintaining distance. While she respected his reasoning—as much as agreed with it—there were questions only he could answer, and he wouldn't. Not until she was cleared for restricted light-duty, and Rios said she was still at minimum ten days from that prospect.

Sasha was convinced she wouldn't make it that long. Not without losing what little was left.

By far the worst, however, was 'the talk'. A medically necessary conversation where she'd had no choice but to provide every detail, and upon returning, found herself glad that Tom wasn't hovering. For what felt like hours, she'd sobbed into his pillow, made exponentially more awful by her recent dissection. Disassociation and compartmentalization hadn't worked, and Rios was on to that trick too. Raised concerns about it. Perhaps the one silver lining here was convincing the Doc to agree—after a drawn-out assessment—that 'nothing' was worse.

There was a rasp against the door, a curt announcement of impending entry before it opened.

Experiencing the internal equivalent of free fall was a common reaction when confronted with Tom, but the intoxication of late had increased. This had always been the issue; too much time in each other's presence and reality began unraveling. Stupid ideas became good ones. Lines became blurred by abstract justifications, then later, became mess, and then ultimately regret. A pattern established long before the formidable alchemy of an apocalypse.

Tom was holding a Manila and approached in silence. She didn't miss how his gaze passed over the medications that now littered his nightstand. In particular, the newest bottle, one that wasn't present on the night where he objectively shouldn't have stayed. A choice she was sure Tom was crucifying himself for. The opioids were still untouched; didn't deem it wise to add the potential for substance abuse, so she'd stuck to NSAIDs… and she hadn't stopped staring at the various photographs of his late wife for three days.

Picking at scars that didn't need festering.

Unable to bear his evident hesitation, Sasha took the lead. "You spoke with Rios?"

He pulled his gaze back and then lowered his chin in a gentle acknowledgment. "I did."

Needing a distraction, Sasha averted hers to study his hands. They were clasped palm over palm at his waist, file in his right, and watch peeking out beneath the cuff of his left sleeve.

"Can't find Jesse if my head's not on straight." She'd aimed for lighthearted, but there was only so much to muster when Rios had prescribed anti-depressants. If Tom had an opinion, he was holding it back. Trying to rebalance the line between what was 'safe' and 'unsafe', she assumed.

"I'm not disagreeing. With that—or his recommendations."

In a wash, the tension ebbed from her body. A tentative equilibrium restored by his choice to reciprocate her attempt at 'lighthearted' despite the raw subject.

Tom handed the report over. "That will bring you up to speed. We're about to make port in Memphis. Vulture went ahead on the RHIB, they're posing as survivors and scouting the area. I don't want any last-minute surprises from anyone still loyal to Sean Ramsey."

Sasha bobbed her head, running her thumb along its edge. "How did you know? That you could fire on those boats?"

Tom squinted; his immediate counter-question clear though unspoken. Where did she get that information?

"Ravit, courtesy of Burk," Sasha elaborated. Her smile was small but natural when Tom rolled his eyes. The action at least confirmed her belief that he was aware. Though she supposed it was impossible not to know after Burk spent hours by Ravit's bedside… something Tom had allowed, she'd noted.

He leaned against the doorframe of the bed cabin. "I didn't. Not until the rest of the fleet separated and fired on them. I just made the gamble and figured if those boats had anyone but immunes on them, they wouldn't."

For a moment, Sasha pondered it, before softly arching a brow. "Tough call." She stopped briefly to consider her words. "Can't say I know how you do it… all those decisions? Everyone's lives in your hands?"

While inhaling, Tom folded his arms. "It's the job." Quiet in his deflection.

His response was so reminiscent of his dismissal over Bosnia, it gave her pause. Chased some of the apathy blanketed insidiously around her being. "Well, you do it with grace." The softer quality of tone was unintended, and it rested between them.

A small ripple of something crossed Tom's face before he straightened. "If you're feeling up to it, we're briefing at o-four-hundred on the plan once we reach St. Louis. Gator reviewed some satellite imagery; there's a couple hotels right across from the Old Courthouse. So far, that seems like our best option for establishing a base and temporary barracks, but we still need an inventory of everything in the immediate area."

"I can work on that. Just bring me a laptop."

Tom made a facial gesture of acknowledgment and unfolded his arms, the corner of his lip lifting a fraction. "Sounds like a plan."

Her soft blink echoed agreement without words, and for what felt like a fractional second, his gaze lingered, so imperceptibly she pondered whether it occured. Opening the file, she began reading, attempting not to dwell on the thought that a two-minute interaction could pierce light through her cloud. However benign.

Tom noted that Sasha was wearing Gibson's jeans and he couldn't figure that out. She'd also chosen to stand, albeit while leaning against the refreshment counter. He'd arrived a few minutes early, they were alone, and she was looking at him, features non-communicative, and where before he'd engage in small talk to fill the burgeoning silence, now he deemed it unwise. She was here because Rios' professional assessment suggested structure and simple tasks would help, and while not a qualified psychologist, Tom trusted his recommendation. Inclined to agree that, were the roles reversed, isolation in addition to compromised autonomy would be detrimental, just as it had been for Alisha Granderson. They're all struggling, Tom reminded himself. This was hard for everybody, and it would only become harder upon making port.

Harboring particular sensitivity over Sasha's plight wasn't fair, exactly why he'd become highly intentional in his efforts against it. Perhaps aided when President Michener reprimanded his reaction to Jeter's confession regarding that radio transmission. Family had always been his impairment. Eventually, Tom decided the jeans couldn't be fastened; the flannel button shirt she'd acquired was plenty long enough. It was the only explanation that made sense, and as Slattery filed in, along with the Master Chief, he became highly aware of how irrelevant it was. Contradictory.

Relevant didn't occur until Green, Tex, and Shemanski arrived.

The last time Tom had seen Sasha this stunned was when she'd registered him staring across a room full of immunes. An old but ugly feeling burgeoned beneath his sternum, despite every attempt to banish it.

After blinking several times and pushing away from the counter, Sasha found words. "What the hell?!"

Shemanski was already striding in her direction, and while Tom registered Tex peering intently at him, he couldn't tear his focus away. Shemanski had, at first, enveloped Sasha in a ferocious embrace, before loosening his hold when she reacted. Were Tom's brain functioning, he may have warned Shemanski against doing that…

"What happened? You hurt?" Shemanski drew back but still clutched Sasha's upper arms, a gesture she mirrored, Tom noted.

Still reeling, and opened mouthed, it took her a few seconds to respond. "Later; how the hell are you here?!"

"I got your message. I made it back stateside right before they shut the borders."

Green was grinning. "He saved our asses back in Vicksburg."

Sasha darted her focus to Green and then back to Shemanski. "That was you?"

Finally dropping their arms, Shemanski shrugged. "Been tracking the immunes for a while now. There aren't many of us, but there's still plenty of patriots spread out. Once we started picking up those broadcasts, I tried to organize some groups; figured the immunes would target you guys. Was just in the right place at the right time."

Tom bunched his lips together and tucked his chin, studying the blue leather mat adorning the table intensely.

Sasha gently scoffed. "Just like Columbia."

Shemanski was smiling now, widely.

"You worked together?" Green asked.

Without lifting his head, Tom drew his focus up, peering between his lieutenant, Shemanski, and Sasha, who was radiating happiness that made him feel more than ashamed. Beyond petty.

"I switched to D.I.A for five years before I got recruited back. He's good at saving ass," Sasha answered.

"Thought you'd be in Asia, though?" Shemanski redirected.

"It fell through." Sasha's deflection this time rolled smooth like butter. "What about the rest of your team? Did they get out?"

Tom recognized that look all too well. It was a feeling he lived with every day. Regret. The weight and burden of failures.

Shemanski's soft scoff was bitter. "Aaron wasn't buying it. Bobby too at first, then I showed em' that video you sent? He came with me, Aaron stayed, but Bobby ended up in some quarantine bullshit because Lorna didn't think isolating was a good idea with the kids. We split in San Antonio. It was one of the first zones that failed."

Sasha's jaw tightened and her expression became sad. Any further conversation was vetoed, however, when President Michener entered. After he'd taken a seat at the head of the table, most of the room followed, though Tom, along with Sasha, Shemanski, and Slattery, remained standing. The dialogue rolled, a round table discussing multiple items on the agenda. After a more comprehensive assessment of the surrounding area, the hotels remained their best choice for establishing operations. A stroke of luck that there were two located directly on either side of the park and immediately southwest and east of the courthouse, respectively.

Currently, Green was outlining the grid and sectors their teams needed to secure, aided by a printout. Mostly restaurants, coffee shops, and high-rise office buildings. What kind of shape the area was in remained to be seen, and therein lay several questions.

One of which Sasha voiced. "What about bodies? How are you going to sanitize when nearly every single cleaning supply is spread out and stockpiled in homes across the country?"

Tom always listened when anyone gave input, but now he was doing it profoundly. Couldn't decipher if the root cause was the subject, the resulting uncomfortable energy descended upon this meeting or the realization of all he'd yet to consider. Because they weren't there. Removing the corpse was in respect the simple part. It was everything required after; the disposal and sanitation of areas contaminated by biohazardous material which needed to be accomplished on an unprecedented scale.

"Cities were the worst hit… and America sold out of bleach in less than a week once the data from Europe started coming in. Supply chains were already under pressure with Asia peaking—total collapse a month later. Everything left was hoarded. Medication, food, cleaning products, gloves, masks, generators, fuel, refrigerators… you won't just find what you need sitting in some warehouse or an abandoned Costco. You need to go building to building and create inventory from there. I'd assume most of it will be in the residential areas and failed safe zones."

Sasha paused in reflection, and Tom switched his focus to Michener, who appeared to be recalling his own less than pleasant experiences before giving input.

"We'll create a system. Labour and expertise in exchange for priority rationing. We'll need to devise regions, determine which areas are essential for re-establishment, and encourage the population to centralize there." Michener focused upon Chandler. "Anyone your comms specialists encounter with medical training, engineering, communications, transport, or infrastructure experience, I'd like to have shortlisted, in addition to military or government assets."

Tom nodded in response.

Pushing a particular dossier toward the President, Slattery added, "Latest report shows there's some kind of power still in place. They're picking up a lot of positive chatter in and around St. Louis. There's a good chance the safe zone at Busch Stadium's still holding."

Michener retrieved it and began scanning the page.

"What about fuel?" Tom asked, rolling his wrist before re-tucking it against his bicep. "Did we establish contact with any of the bases?"

Mike shook his head. "Not yet, but Garnett identified a marine center a couple miles downriver from the courthouse. Could be some reserves. We'll pass it on the way."

"And what about the immunes?" Michener interjected, peering now between both the Captain and XO. "How can we be sure they won't try to infiltrate? That was one of Ramsey's key objectives."

It was a problem Tom had been pondering almost exclusively since the attack in New Orleans, and he couldn't say there was a simple answer. "For now, the focus is securing the immediate area and gathering intel however we can, but we know they're out there."

He shifted his body in Tex's direction, a silent request for his input.

"I heard some grumblings on the ground; pulled up at a gas station before I hit Memphis. Met a guy who said he'd seen Navy folk in the area, a few dozen of em' in trucks. Not you guys."

"Well they didn't show in Memphis. One can only assume that they're destined toward St. Louis. Yet we're no closer to figuring out what their plan is," Michener said, his frustration clear.

Tom dragged his gaze to Sasha, made a mental point to follow up after on developing a more robust objective as far as intel was concerned.

Michener toggled the button on his ball-pen. "What if Dr. Scott could devise some kind of rapid test? A way to screen individuals for immunity?"

"Wow." Sasha's interjection dripped with sarcasm. "Less than forty-five minutes, and we're already rebuilding discrimination."

Tom couldn't help but notice Shemanski's smirk, nor how he locked focus with Sasha before she returned to staring down their Commander-in-Chief. For a moment, her comment percolated around the table, before Slattery shifted his gaze first to Michener, and then him.

"She has a point," Slattery said, however begrudged. "That's a slippery slope."

"Well, how else do you suggest we identify them? MacDowell has made clear that he has no intention of dissolving his chapter, and he's not the only one. I understand that this is a delicate subject, but we're talking about domestic terrorists who are wandering the country in uniform. I shouldn't need to explain to any of you the practices we already had in place. However unpopular or morally ambiguous, they were born of necessity, and the immune movement at present poses the greatest threat to our national security," Michener said tersely.

"And what kind of test are you gonna create for the non-immunes who never wanted a government in the first place? I can guarantee you, there are still many people on this planet who have no interest in letting things go back to status quo," Sasha fired back.

Inhaling, Tom unfolded his arms, shifting closer to the table. Yet another angle he'd failed to consider, and Michener was now squinting as he examined her statement.

Once more The President toggled his ball-point, the sound oddly amplified in the silence before he set it down. Leaning back in the leather chair, he rested his palm on the table's surface instead. "I'll concede that you've made a compelling point—but we don't have the personnel, nor the infrastructure, to enact any kind of widespread surveillance or intelligence program."

Sasha's gaze flittered over to Shemanski again. "So take the unconventional approach. Tap into that good ol' American patriotism," she drawled. "Ramsey already gave you the model, Val has the network, and Pablo just gave you the means."

Green's brow furrowed and were Tom not over aware of Slattery's watch on him, he'd have done the same.

"Don't think Pablo has the same street cred on home soil," Shemanski chimed.

"Well, you need to think of something better than Shemanski. No one can even pronounce, let alone spell that."

Tex grinned, Danny shifted, and Mike was no longer attempting to hide his complete bewilderment.

"You mean to say I should pit warring groups of civilians against each other?" Michener raised one brow, killing the light banter within the second.

"No. It's actually textbook, Mr. President. When you need to re-stabilize a central government, you partner with the local militias. Convince them of your cause. They'll give you all the intel you could ever need, plus the benefit of boots on the ground, and in return, you supply them. In this case, cure, food, and weapons."

Tom drew his gaze away from Sasha to study the President's reaction; Michener's features pinched while he scrutinized, and sensing she'd yet to convince him, Sasha continued.

"You said it yourself, it's the law of the jungle—people will cooperate when they have no choice, but after that? When everyone collectively figures out that this is never going back to how it was? Having ears on the ground will be imperative, and without solid infrastructure, you do it the old-fashioned way." She paused and then quirked her neck, lips drawing down with dismissive intrigue. "Though I am curious about how much is left of the NSA and FBI."

That offhand comment seemed to spark a thought in Michener. Redirecting his attention, he switched focus toward the Captain.

"We need to devise a mission to retrieve and secure all sensitive data and items of national interest from our agencies back east, and I'd like to make contact with Fort Knox. The Constitution, along with our other founding documents, were secured in the vault once it became evident that the outbreak was imminent."

Tom gave a curt nod.

USS Nathan James—On Course to St. Louis, Missouri—2307 Hours

This had been a long day. Most clocked at minimum fifteen hours, as did everyone's, but the concept of what truly awaited them upon reaching St. Louis weighed heavy. Goalposts once again were shifting, and somehow Tom wondered how he'd deluded himself into such naivety as to think he'd go back to Norfolk and his kids. Unbidden, his father's words pierced his thoughts.

'For years.'

Home didn't exist anymore, not in Norfolk; he was adrift, and that was something he'd need to accept. Perhaps forever. Funny how the words 'cut the shit, there's no time for it' seemed more pertinent than ever. The knock at his door was unwelcomed. Briefly, after closing his eyes and inhaling, Tom opened them again and then pivoted in his fixed chair toward the entrance. He was no longer on duty, leaving but a few logical assumptions as to the owner of said knock.

"Come in."

He was right, and Rachel was not what he wanted to deal with at present. Blinking once languidly, he waited for her to elaborate, her body language screaming with grievance.

"Is there a reason that I'm to continue being watched upon making port?"

He leaned more fully into the back, biting down on his irritation and maintaining a stoic calm. "It's a security detail. For your safety."

Rachel scoffed. "You cannot expect me to continue living with a guard following my every move—"

He cut her off, "Until we understand what MacDowell is planning, and given they were killing scientists, it's something you'll have to deal with."

Undeterred, with her arms now folded and chin jutted proudly, she countered. "I was under the impression that you don't have the authority to direct orders toward me when not at sea."

"I don't." The 't' sound was extenuated. "But the President does, and this is his directive." For a moment, he paused. "And he's also intending to pardon you."

Her jaw twitched, and she did something with her brows. "A decision you disagree with, I'm sure."

"He's the Commander-In-Chief. I respect the chain of command—but I stand by mine." Remaining flat and refusing to be drawn into the argument she so clearly wished to have. To that effect, her next words were biting, like a whip that cracked through the stilted room.

"I'd expect nothing less. Though you seem to have forgotten it was you who insisted I work with him in the first place."

Mmmm. This time he blinked, forced himself to wait a few seconds to rein in a quite explosive fury upon which he'd been ruminating quietly for days. "There was no one else qualified to determine if what Neils was stating was true. What should I have done? Ignore it?"

She pursed her lips, shifted on her feet. Indignant, but without answer.

"Let's not forget how you love to remind me that every second we waste matters when it best serves you." His head tilted. "And you're the one who told me analyzing his blood could take months." The eye contact that had first been defiant faltered. Just as he assumed it would. "Every member of this crew has been asked to do something that they don't want—and I'm sorry if that upsets you, but that doesn't change the decisions that I'm responsible for making."

He hated that haughty expression, his statements evidently only serving to impassion her disagreement further. "And in your decision making, did you even think to consider the toll your forcing me to work with a monster would take?" she spat.

His hand tightened around Ashley's bracelet. "I've always considered it. And if there were anyone else with the knowledge, I wouldn't have asked. I made sure that Miller and O'Connor would be present at all times. If Neils said or did something outside the realm of discussing the cure, then you should have told me, or Miller, or O'Connor, or Slattery, or Tex, or anyone on this ship, and it would have been addressed." He paused and then narrowed his eyes, seething. "And I think you know that."

She could no longer maintain contact. Rather peered beyond his head dismissively.

"Am I right or am I wrong?" Tom pressed his words terse and biting.

The expression she wore was more than unpleasant. "Actually, I quite doubt that you would have listened."

"Why? At what point have I not listened and acted on what you have said, Rachel? How am I supposed to know what I'm not told!?" Apparently, she didn't have an answer for that either, remained silent for several moments, and now he was so pissed he couldn't sit on it anymore. "Did I even need to get those muscles? Or did you just want me off the ship so you could do it?"

She stopped pacing and bent forward at the waist a fraction. "Excuse me!?"

"I saw you a half hour before we left, and all you said was that you'd made a breakthrough! You didn't even mention that the cure could be contagious until after you'd injected yourself with it! The first thing I asked when I returned was if you were alright, and you couldn't look at me." Her nostrils flared. "Which means you were already planning to kill Neils, well before I ordered seven people to go on that mission."

Her reaction could only be described as aghast. "I had no way of knowing whether binding Neils' stability sequence to the vaccine would work. If it didn't, the aerosolized cure was still our most viable option. The muscles were essential to that!" She broke off, blinking several times and scrunching her features. "You can't honestly believe that I would send you to do something that was unnecessary?!"

"I no longer know what to think, Rachel—that's the point!" he bellowed.

"I'm not lying to you!"

"Except you did." He was no longer shouting, the words quietly punctuated instead. "After you asked me to trust you."

Exasperated, she unfolded her arms, a distinct sheen in her eyes. "And I have told you that I am sorry." The statement vehement.

Tom blinked; trying to understand the purpose of this conversation. What it was that Rachel seemed to expect him to do, before finally deciding to be bluntly direct.

"What is it that you want from me?"

That hung between them, going again without answer. He set Ashley's bracelet on the desk; its footprint far less generous in the at-sea than his main cabin.

"If it's forgiveness, it's gonna take more than six days," came his flat retort. "I can even agree to disagree on Neils. You say it's not murder, I say it is," he tipped his chin, "we'll call it a wash."

Rachel squinted, though remained silent, so he guessed it wasn't that either.

"You say it's my fault? Fine. I'll take responsibility. But you didn't have to kill him to get what you needed, Rachel. You told me that." She was wearing a rather woeful expression. "Which means somewhere you made a choice knowing you had to lie not just to me, but my crew, and if you're saying Neils pushed you to do it, then I am sorry that you felt you couldn't come to me." He'd reined his tone in, settled it into a soft baritone, his statement sincere. "I would have addressed it. Immediately." He swallowed. "But none of us can change the past." A truth that flared pain so potently he feared it shone from his eyes. "And the only way I can keep making choices that cost lives is if I can trust and communicate with the people who inform them."

For several seconds, Rachel considered him, her cheeks somewhat hollowed, the set of her brow tinged with hardened regret. She cast her gaze toward the wall instead.

The crest of anger had now slipped, replaced by fatigue that weighed his feet and suffocated his limbs.

Exhaling, Tom stood, hands lose at his sides. "If we're done here, I'd really like to get some sleep now."

For a brief second, she made eye contact again, lips pursed, before she turned and left the room.