an. Guest review responses below:

References: Conversation about Michener, Chapter 10: 'I think I'm sorry, I left you crawling'. Conversation between Mike and Sasha, Chapter 30: 'There is no take two.' discovered by Tom in Chapter 32: 'Will we be soldiers left on the floor?'

Guest 1 I will not give up on this one, promise. I don't know why but this show seems to have perfect forever fandom qualities. I agree, if Sasha felt like Tom did in fact, cheat, I wouldn't want her to go back to him. I don't think she'd do that. I was annoyed that Season 4 didn't include any conversation around why Tom thought it was good to ghost them and not check in at all in 16 months. Or an apology to Mike for abandoning the 'look for my family' promise. I'm laughing at your popcorn comment. Why is angst so weirdly satisfying even if we're all here for the happy ever after? Lol. I think Sasha said exactly what she needed to say to someone, and it's really key for her to let it go and focus on what the future should look like.

Guest 2 I will try not to kill you; there is significant progress on the horizon lol. Yes! It was a total hint to AU. So glad you caught it! I am definitely still planning that, I have about 75% of it plotted out, I just need to actually write it. They really are their own worst enemies. I think they're in that bad spot where you're so in love with someone that you know if you get too close, one of you is going to cave and end up sleeping together, and that would be a huge mess for a million reasons. But I think there's also a degree of (definitely on Sasha's part at least) questioning if these feelings are so intense because of the situation more than them. Tom's sure, but he's always been sure, and he never got over it. Sasha truly fell in love with Andrew in the classic sense. I loved writing that scene with Jeter, and yes! No, Rachel dead means Tex doesn't run away, and I agree all these things going better will make a difference to Tom's state long term once the loss of Darien isn't as fresh and the kids are doing better.

Let Us Not Talk Falsely Now, the Hour Is Getting Late

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January 31st, 2014

Sasha blew out a breath, muscles quivering with fatigue, and lowered her back to the ground. Pain wasn't the right descriptor—strange, binding tightness followed by numbness that somehow ached fit better. A fine sheen of sweat limned her skin despite performing very few repetitions of the core stabilization exercises recommended by Fort Leonard's medic; no qualified physical therapist—but Pablo had tried.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, dismounting a treadmill.

Feet still elevated by a sports ball, Sasha kicked it away and grimaced while engaging the muscles to sit up without the aid of hands. "No. It's… weird. Kind of numb, but tight."

Roughly, Pablo wiped his face with a nondescript towel typical of hotels and offered his hand. Sasha took it, and he hauled her up.

"Good sign, no?"

Inhaling, she quirked a brow. Precisely five days had elapsed since reaching the six-week post-operative milestone. Liberation. On every one of those days, she'd attempted something different and been slapped with reality. Scraped a 'Satisfactory' score on cardio, retained 'Excellent' on push-ups, but everything else? 'Probationary'. Perhaps more insulting was that she'd resorted to her age bracket, not 20-24 years, only to fail anyway. Sasha knew there'd be a change. Impossible not to after everything, but this much?

"It'll come," Pablo assured.

But not in two days.

Meaning she'd have to exploit the soft spot one last time. Didn't like it—but it needed to be done. There was a way forward from this. She could see glimpses of it now—like sand dunes revealing a tantalizing mirage—and the first step was to go home.

Something was different—and Tom was both relieved and anxious upon Sasha's second appearance in as many days before his desk. There was a spark, a glimmer of old like near dormant coal flushed fresh with oxygen. It pierced her apathy. Perhaps because light-duty was lifted. Maybe because Pablo was back. Possibly she'd needed the space—the part where they'd barely interacted for twenty-five days—not that he was counting—or maybe the anti-depressants had leveled her imbalance. Probably all four. Whatever the reason, Tom only hoped it would stay.

There was no envelope today, just her hands stuffed in a down jacket.

Lowering a report, Tom offered his undivided attention, and though Sasha's silence stretched, it was not uncomfortable, but a sign that whatever should follow, she'd considered at length.

"I need you to take me with you."

The answer was no—and Sasha knew that, along with every reason, as CNO, he couldn't sanction it—yet here she was.

"Why?"

Some tension eased from her stance. "Because my condo is right across from the National Archives."

Exhaling, he leaned on the armrest and braced his chin between thumb and forefinger, cursing himself a fool a dozen times.

"You're asking?" His voice was low, the repetition of her words seven weeks prior earning gentle but meaningful recognition. That timeless quality he'd felt sorely missing from their recent interactions.

"I'm asking," she confirmed softly.

This was why.

She'd blown through his life when he couldn't define its next minute, let alone future, and something had put her back. Because he owed her. His purpose, perhaps, was always signed this way; help her stand as she'd helped him, and then set her free.

"Okay."

Her head tilted; the quirk of her lip unsure. It drew a perplexing mix of amusement and introspection from Tom—a touch of melancholy. Somehow, Sasha still didn't grasp the way he loved her.

"I'm not saying I don't have conditions." He'd kept his tone light, allowed mirth to color his words.

Suppressing a small grin caused her cheek to dimple, and it struck that the last time he'd earned her smile was at the Green's wedding.

"And what are those conditions?"

Inhaling, he lowered his hand and instead clasped both across his lap, studying her. Basking in her qualities while still given that chance. It scared him. Realized he'd reached the point where he might do anything if he thought it could make her happy.

"Just the condo—nowhere else."

"Okay…"

"You stay with the transport when we're done and on base after that."

This time, she nodded once.

"And while I appreciate that you can still put a bullet in my head from over two-thousand yards—if we encounter enemy contact, you do not engage in offensive combat. In any way."

She remained still. Blinked but didn't agree.

"Sasha."

"I can still help without putting myself in—"

"Unless you've already met PRT standards, which is impossible because it has been five days since you were cleared—I won't be able to focus. And if I'm not focused, I'm risking the rest of the team. You can't put me in that position, Sasha. It's one thing when I know you can take care of yourself—but you're not back there yet—which is exactly why you're asking and not telling me."

For several seconds, she only stared and then swallowed. "And if I was pinned and you could give fire support from a distance?"

Well shit.

But now there was something else lurking in her hesitation. Something that made his pulse increase.

"Tom, you—" a hint of sheen glazed her eyes. "Just because I don't know how to be with you the way you want doesn't mean I don't care." Her gaze faltered, and then she whispered, "It never has."

Goddamnit, he was being ripped by her gravity again, but he had a duty to protect everyone. He was responsible to uphold it.

"Those are my terms, Sash," he spoke gently. "Take it or leave it."

She drew her bottom lip between teeth. Chewed on it. Gaze averted while Tom watched and heeded the danger. Those lips were soft. Made him feel things… and if it were right to do so, and Sasha not in a vulnerable state, he needed so much he'd go bold and taste them. Save his guilt for later.

One day, eventually, it would be right again. Tom believed that still to his core.

But not this day.

For the second time, Sasha bucked herself up before knocking, though this visit and the envelope between her fingers made her nauseous. Jed offered no comment, but swung open his door and despite her fear, the similarities between father and son still drew levity to her soul. He walked to the port door, his posture more hunched than she remembered, and closed it—both Sam and Ashley were watching a movie she didn't recognize.

"I'd say it's nice to see you—but you've got a hell of a look on your face and that envelope doesn't bode well."

Her lip tugged into a sad smile. "Always were a sharp man, Jed."

He gestured to the armchair arranged around a small table, and she complied while he sank into the adjacent one.

Andrew used to do this; multiple times per day when the virus hit, and that always astounded her. How she could compartmentalize taking life, yet couldn't fathom how he dealt with telling families they'd lost a loved one.

She cleared her throat.

"You found something," Jed surmised she suspected in part because he couldn't bear her silence.

Again, she cleared her throat and nodded. "Matthew."

She thought his lip quivered, but he shut it down.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, swallowing, and extending the envelope.

Though it remained unopened, Jed took it into his lap. Averting attention, Sasha studied the room, landing on a picture of he and Cathy. Looked like it was taken on vacation—Italy, if she had to guess. Recently, too—Cathy was wearing a headscarf, but it was the way Jed regarded his wife that made Sasha's heart ache. She always had admired the love they'd shared.

"Have you told Tommy?"

She refocused. "No. I was going to, but it wasn't a good time and—honestly, I don't know if it's better to know, or to have hope—even if it's slim… but I know that you need answers."

Through the walls came the sound of yelling.

"Ashley! Grandpa said it's my turn!"

Resigned to the interruption, Jed pushed out of the chair with a sigh and opened the door.

"What's this noise?"

Simultaneously they answered, and despite the anchor in Sasha's heart, she was still bemused to hear Ashley's adamant denial that the movie was done—because it had a sequel—versus Sam's insistence that it wasn't fair.

"Ashley, it's your brother's turn."

"See! I told you!" Exalted Sam.

Sasha heard a noise of exasperation from Ashley.

"Come on now," Jed chided, still leaning through the door. "None of that or I'll take it away, and we'll go back to math."

The change in tone was immediate and again simultaneous when both kids answered. "Sorry, Grandpa."

Closing the door, Jed returned to the armchair. "They're good kids—" he began, but Sasha interrupted with a headshake and knowing smile.

"You don't need to explain." She paused. "They've been through a lot—must be difficult."

Somewhat, Jed nodded. "It is—they'll come around in time. Once we get some classes up and running again, it'll make a big difference. They need routine. Something normal." He broke off and then switched gears. "What about you? What are your plans?"

Ah—classic Jed. Offer more than a brief response, and then barter for information. Still, it drew an impish grin.

"I didn't have the sway for your un-redacted file—" he continued. "But I know enough to bet most of your department's gone—could be a blessing? Maybe you'll get more time stateside now."

The look she threw was somewhat coy. "Subtle."

"No one would ever accuse me of that."

Still grinning, she shook her head. "I have some business to take care of in Asia."

Fractionally, Jed's eyes narrowed. "Asia again."

"Mmhm."

His head bobbed, and something heavier entered his tone. "Different kind of place—Asia. Especially after things like this." He peered hard. "Hope you're not planning on making it a solo mission."

Inhaling, she tilted her head. "Jed—"

"Do an old man a favor—think on it."

Her brows drew sympathetically. "Jed, I don't know what Tom's told you—but I'm not stayi—"

"Tommy hasn't said a word about you in years. Not to me." Lowering his chin, he fixed her with 'the look'. The one she'd always hated because it urged divulging secrets. "But he told Katie—everything."

Softly, Sasha's lips parted while she breathed.

"I know you two made a mess of things, and you moved on. But I know my son—" It was stern. "You're his Cathy."

Her sinuses tingled, and without blinking, she stared.

"I'm not telling you to stay. I'm telling you to make damn sure you keep yourself alive."

February 2nd, 2014—Naval Station Norfolk—Norfolk, Virginia

Upon boarding the C-130 commandeered from Fort Leonard, Sasha made another choice that perplexed Tom. She sat beside him, not Pablo… and that he was juvenile enough to care, settled uncomfortably—no small talk, though. For the two-hour flight, Green, Wolf, and Pablo slept while Sasha remained lost in thought, and only after the plane began descending did Tom perceive that he'd passed out.

"Welcome back," she drawled.

Foggy, he peered left where she sat. The shift in cabin pressure popped both ears.

Leaning closer with a mischievous air, Sasha grinned. "I'm not the only one who snores now."

And he tried not to become trapped in her eyes and their gentle gleam, but he was.

On the ground, Mike waited while the plane taxied toward the hangar. The day was crisp. Cool but clear with a stiff ocean breeze. He'd missed that salty smell; didn't know how Tom would enjoy being landlocked in St. Louis long term. Suspected he wouldn't. Speaking of, he'd disembarked, duffel in hand—as did Wolf, Pablo, Green—and Sasha.

"Mike," Tom greeted, extending a hand.

He took it, returning a stiff shake. "Welcome back."

He didn't know why Tom seemed to falter, almost like he'd experienced déjà vu before switching gears. "I miss anything good?"

"Nothin'. Crowds were a little rowdy this morning—but the SEALs and Marines handled it."

Squinting against the bright light, Tom looked toward the fencing erected at multiple intervals around their airstrip and docks. There were civilians spread beyond them, seeking the cure. "Let's hope it stays that way."

Mike fell into step, and they progressed into the hangar, where Tom dropped the duffel—it sounded mostly empty. "Not staying on base?"

Tom rested both hands on his hips, still surveying and occasionally nodding at personnel who saluted. "Kids want some things from the house."

Without comment, Mike watched the team setting gear close to the chairs gathered in advance of the mission brief. Not Sasha though, Pablo did her share of lifting.

Gesturing with his head, Mike asked, "Can't imagine she already cleared PRT."

Tom dragged his focus back slowly. "No." There was a lull, and Mike wondered if he was debating bullshitting. "She asked me to take her home."

Truth then. Also explained the civilian attire. Huh. "She's been in Norfolk the whole time?"

"D.C. and no—I didn't know she was there."

Mike smirked. "I no longer have an opinion."

"Progressive—what's the catch?" Tom shot back dry.

"No catch," Mike assured. "Just perspective."

Some defensiveness evaporated from Tom. "This have something to do with that conversation you two had?"

Again, Mike smirked and then clapped his shoulder. "Recon team's due back in twenty."

A lot had changed.

It was both jarring and intimidating, for Sasha had never struggled to keep up, and yet, everything was moving too fast. Amongst the familiar faces—Tex, Miller, Burk, Cruz, Jeter, Garnett—there were many she didn't recognize. SEALs, Marines, Army, all discussing intel on their target locations; CIA, FBI, NSA, ONI, Pentagon… the list went on. National archives—her stomach lurched—'compromised but intact'.

No immune encounters.

Bodies—a given.

Ground conditions—'clear of snow, but cold'.

And before Sasha knew it, they were suited up, TAC vest sitting uncomfortably over thermal sweater and incision, loading up twelve separate Sikorsky Super Stallions. She noted the deliberate placement of a Nathan James crew member with each team—smart. Another sign that Tom heeded her warnings. He kept Green with them, and she wondered about that. Whether Tom watched Green's back because he cared more than required, or did it for Kara's sake.

Their chopper landed a block south of the archives in the park connecting the former US Capitol, Washington Monument, and Lincoln Memorial. Icy wind from the blades blasted Sasha's cheeks as she took the hand Tom offered, assisting her down. To this day, she felt the spark whenever they touched. Moving clear of the Stallion, she observed while the team disembarked. The expansive lawns, always impeccably manicured, were overgrown and patchy with frost burn. Strewn with litter, too. On the weekends, she'd run this loop; the few cumulative months she'd actually spent at home. What she wouldn't give to go back and change it all—fix every skewed priority.

"Alright, listen up—" Tom commanded, yelling over the whirring blades as they slowed. "We stick with the plan. No one works alone. Stay in your designated areas, prioritize the servers and hard drives, give them to transport, and then go through the list. If you find something of value, or are unsure, and it is not labeled for physical preservation—scan it, verify it is readable, and then add it to the burn."

Tom paused, standing now at the head of their team designated Alpha, a gloved palm perched on the butt of his rifle where it hung from his neck. "I want radio check-ins. Every fifteen minutes—keep your eyes and ears open. I shouldn't need to remind you, but I will. We are sitting in a firing hall with no backup, and Ramsey's men are wearing our uniforms."

He peered through the small crowd—the two dozen men comprising Alpha—and then settled on her. She held his eye contact. Seconds stretched.

"Move out."

Selecting which part hit hardest was impossible. There were many: the dereliction of buildings and streets made D.C. resemble a Warzone. The absence of people—sound—everyday noise lost to a haunting silence. The memory of walking these streets, frequenting that Starbucks, strolling hand in hand through the park, watching the sunset behind the Washington Memorial… too many. But it was gone. All of it was gone.

Alpha team approached the National Archives, its windows smashed, flags removed or torn, doors obliterated or simply gone. Part of her wanted to go inside, just to see, but the larger was staring down seventh toward Pennsylvania Ave with mounting anxiety. After several minutes where Alpha swept and secured the building, Tom loomed closer.

"Ready when you are."

It took less than five minutes to round the block toward Market Square. She swallowed. There were still cars abandoned in gridlock. The two fountains anchoring Navy Memorial Plaza, a putrid stagnant green. Two stately buildings of thirteen stories lived east and west of the monument, and after remaining immobile, Sasha took steps toward the east. Much like everything else, the commercial lower floors were decimated. Every unboarded window smashed; every useful item pilfered. Sparing little attention, she headed to the residential entrance, a pang firing when it dawned that she'd never see Jeremy, their favorite doorman, again.

Tom moved ahead, rifle primed, and she followed—eyes adjusting to the cavernous dim before he fixed that by turning on his mounted flashlight. All she could hear was her own blood, Tom's breathing, and his careful footsteps.

"Left, or right?" he murmured, so unexpected she flinched.

"Left."

They reached the stairwell, security door splintered and trashed. "Twelfth floor."

Without comment, he continued at a slower pace for her benefit, and she was glad for the burn in her calves distracting from the smell. As with all, the entrance to her level was also trashed.

"Go right—unit twelve nineteen." Her voice sounded pitchy.

By some miracle, theirs was intact. On autopilot, Sasha retrieved the keys from her pocket—twisted with sick humor that she'd successfully saved keys—and turned the lock. Tom's next move was unexpected. Shifting, he un-holstered his sidearm and relinquished it to her.

That damn tingling assaulted her sinuses again. It gave her pause, and for a moment, she did nothing but hold his gaze. After accepting the weapon, checking the chamber and safety before flicking it off, she prepared herself, and then entered.

Everything was the same.

Precisely as when they'd abandoned it. Their home wasn't huge, a little under thirteen hundred square feet. Two bed two bath though the second bedroom functioned as an office for Andrew. Gun ready, Sasha progressed through the small foyer, into the living space, and beyond, verifying each room was clear before re-engaging the safety and tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans. Several minutes passed where she stood in their bedroom staring at Andrews' side. It was still unmade from the morning they'd left. Slowly Sasha approached and then sat, removing a glove and resting her hand upon his pillow.

Outside, Tom kept watch, his back against the wall, ignoring the burning curiosities and trying to shut down thoughts. This place was upscale; classic structure with colonial flair that echoed the civic buildings surrounding it. Reminded him of Manhattan, actually. Sasha always said she wanted to live in a hotel; he guessed pre-pandemic, this was as good as.

'Housekeeping, fresh towels, and room service. What more could you want?.'

Sometimes Tom forgot how different their backgrounds were. Apart from striving to anger her parents, she'd had little motive in joining the military. Wasn't until she discovered intelligence that she fell in love with the adventure of it all—'travel the world and dig up secrets' she'd said.

The radio in Sasha's ear chimed, team Alpha checked in. Blinking, she removed her palm, left chalky with dust, and went to the closet to retrieve an item. She should never have forgotten this, and yet somehow, in the chaos, it didn't register until they were sitting on tarmac awaiting emergency evac. With trembling hands, she retrieved the satellite phone and powered it, hoping, almost praying, to find a message.

There were none.

No messages.

No record of any missed calls.

Nothing.

Doesn't mean anything, she told herself. For all she knew, Jesse could be without power. It could be broken. Lost. Abruptly, Sasha straightened and stuffed it into her rear pocket. Now in the kitchen, she approached the fridge, wincing over the pungent wafting of decay. It was the picture tacked to it that she needed. How naïve she'd been to leave it behind, wrongly assuming there'd be another. One further than eight weeks. The zone was supposed to be safe; they had a team of forty doctors, hand-picked and evacuated from all over the states. They had supplies, medical equipment, everything they'd need. Jaw clenched, Sasha robotically unpinned the sonogram and tucked it into her vest.

At the dining table, she stopped again. Wedding photos; had them less than two weeks before everything spiraled.

Tom tensed, holding his breath. Waited. Thirty full seconds with keen ears—couldn't be sure because it was so quiet, but it had sounded like something on a lower floor. His focus was pierced when another check-in rang out over the radio. Number two. Thirty minutes had come and flown, and he hadn't heard a single sound from Sasha.

Something was off.

Eyes narrowed, Tom pushed away from the wall and moved closer to the stairwell, listening intently.

When she exited, large duffel in hand, Tom pivoted. She appeared eerily calm—and it was exactly opposite of his expectations. She wore a subtle frown, quirked her head, and in one smooth motion, drew his sidearm from her waistband. He'd said no combat, and yet, on the ground, the idea of her not being armed terrified more, and he found a modicum of comfort in her ability to read him so well.

Or he was simply paranoid.

On alert, Tom gestured to his ear and then pointed down. Stealthy and silent, Sasha approached and listened with him, hovering at his side. A full minute passed.

"I don't hear anything," she whispered.

Hesitating longer, Tom then relaxed his stance. Sasha mirrored the action, and it was then that he noticed the lack of space between them. Mere inches. She'd braided her hair today, pulled it back from her face, and the small scar above her right brow had faded completely.

"I'll carry the bag," he murmured, already slipping it from her shoulder.

The pit in Tom's gut only widened as they traversed the frigid street back. Slower this time—she hid it well, but twelve stories, plus a mile walk from chopper to condo, gassed her. He almost wished he'd ditched the cold-weather turtleneck; anxiety burned hot enough. There were too many buildings, too many vantage points for him to scan. Without the reflection of glass, windows became black soulless holes. The eerie vortex of missing civilization wasn't the only thing off. Tom was perplexed by the weight of Sasha's duffel… lighter than its stuffed appearance implied.

The radio crackled again. Check-in number three.

And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Something darted from between two cars, and Tom whipped the rifle in its direction; Sasha's reflex, he noted, was still sharp as ever.

A dog.

Just a dog.

Tom exhaled and exchanged eye contact with Sasha. Ahead of them, smoke from the burn billowed.

"Flight to team lead. We've got a problem here! I'm seeing people, and they're heading this way."

Danny held up a hand, fingers splayed. "Just stay back!"

"Please, just give it to me!" The man lunged, unsteady on his feet, smearing blood against the sleeve of Danny's jacket.

"Hey!" A SEAL named Page shoved the man back and drew his weapon. "We told you, man! We don't have it—none of us are contagious anymore!"

Breathing heavily, Danny pivoted around, counting rapid fire the number of people heading toward the steps. Five minutes earlier, their perimeter was dead, no signs of life, and from fucking nowhere, there were contacts. Not immunes, though. Civilians. Desperate. Some already sick, and others exposing themselves falsely believing they'd get the cure. Jesus Christ, there had to be at least a hundred of them.

In his peripheral, Danny spied Chandler round the southwest corner.

"Hold your fire!" Chandler yelled.

Page tensed his jaw and took his finger from the well.

Shit, this was bad, Danny thought. They didn't have many options. It was either get pinned in the building or fall back and wade through the steadily swarming group.

God damnit, he should have trusted his gut.

They needed an army to secure an area this big, not the threadbare number of troops they could spare while spreading cure across an entire continent. And the doses were running out—production in Guam and Hawaii lagged. From their position, Tom couldn't approach Green, nor the rest of team Alpha where they attempted to hold the steps without firing on their own people.

"Tom." Sasha's voice rang in warning.

Snapping around, he checked his six.

Fuck. How the hell—they'd just jogged that street. A woman was stumbling toward them, more people emerging from a building to the west.

He hammered the mic. "All teams fall back to the chopper, now!"

"Please!" the woman coughed, blood splattering from her mouth. "Please, help me."

They were already withdrawing, backing away from the woman with strides, Sasha manning his blind spot.

"I'm sorry, we can't help you—we don't have the cure—you need to stay back," he implored.

"Move. We're clear." He heard Sasha say, then felt the absence of her body at his back and jogged toward their transport.

The sound of Green, Page, and the other members of Alpha yelling over the crowd's desperate cries seemed amplified by the concrete streets. They crossed through the overgrown sculpture garden, emerging on the south side by Madison Drive, and the sight of what surrounded their helo spread mild terror through Tom's system. She was spun up, the downforce of blades blasting the horde of people attempting to climb in.

Green came to an abrupt stop beside Chandler and Cooper.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Sir?"

Chandler's jaw tensed; Alpha moved in formation, a line at their backs holding off those who'd swarmed the steps, but each man carried a rucksack weighing seventy pounds in addition to full combat gear. Heavy and slow. And there was nowhere else to land the chopper. Not within accessible distance.

"Warning shots only. We are not killing civilians," Tom said.

Danny nodded sharp. "Page, Boondog—on me."

Betraying the steady panic, Tom stayed cool and prepared to move, glancing to his right. Sasha nodded once, her lips near white for how hard they pressed together. The three shots fired into the grass from Page earned screams from the crowd and enough distraction for a tight path to open. They weren't going to get a better chance.

"Let's move!" Tom yelled.

Hunched in a defensive stance, they moved fast toward the chopper while Green, Page, and Boondog continued to suppress the desperate civilians.

"Stay back!" Green shouted, firing another shot into the ground.

Fuck, this was bad.

They were almost there, blades whipping air so fast Tom's eyes watered. All he needed to do was load Sasha up, and then he could help Green suppress while the rest of Alpha moved in. The chopper's rear ramp lowered halfway, enough to jump in, but without touching ground. Their co-pilot was armed and aimed at a civilian man attempting to scale it.

"Hold your fire!" Tom bellowed, before firing his own shot into the ground, right at the man's feet. "Stay down!" he yelled, now close enough to aid in securing a narrow perimeter around the ramp. Green mirrored his actions on the opposite side of Sasha, who was now wedged between them. The pilot extended a hand, which she took, and hauled her up.

"We do not have the cure!" Green yelled. "I do not want to shoot you—just stay the fuck down!"

The rest of Alpha started filing in, pushing their way through with enough force to speed up the process, aided in part by their oversized packs.

"You next!" Tom yelled to Green. Green seemed to hesitate like he wanted to belay that order; exchanged rapid but meaningful eye contact with Chandler. "I said you next!" Tom repeated.

Bunching his lips, Danny drew back his weapon, pivoted, and jumped up easily into the helo.

A woman got close enough to grab Tom's arm. "Please! Just take us with you!" she cried.

He almost broke his cool. "I can't do that—I'm sorry."

The last member of Alpha loaded up, and Tom drew his arm away, suppressing nausea in his gut when he too lifted himself into the chopper.

Silence reined when the tail closed, plunging them into near darkness. The space echoed with collective labored breaths. A few quiet mutters between men. 'Where the fuck did they come from?' and 'Son of a bitch'.

Pulse still thrumming beneath his chest, Tom moved through the cargo hold, traversing the narrow strip of metal decking left bare for movement between their men and packs. When he reached the front, he removed both the rifle and Sasha's duffel; the latter set down with care and then sank beside her. Through his peripheral, as he basked in the safety of weightlessness—the confirmation that Alpha was now airborne—Tom watched. They were barely touching, yet he could feel her shaking. She cleared her throat several times, removed her gloves with clumsy hands, and began opening and closing her fists.

Tentatively, he placed his on her thigh and gently squeezed.

Again, she cleared her throat, and he was surprised by the strength of her grip when she grasped his wrist and took several deep breaths.

He had never been so thankful to have not been on the ground.