It takes hours for the doctors to give her the all clear and send her off with crutches and a small bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen. They'd offered her vicoden, but a self-flagellating part of her needs to remember this. She's grateful, relieved even, to sit idle while the doctors see everyone else first. If this had been fast or they'd let her out with anything besides ibuprofen then it meant she would have been in worse shape. A mildly sprained ankle, a banged up nose, and two barely-cracked ribs are a small price to pay for not getting blown up.
Clarence is waiting in the small office that's hers while she's here. He'd gotten off even easier than she had, couple of scrapes, head a bit knocked about but no need for a doctor's visit.
"Hey sweetheart, you ok?" He stands back to let her in. "They said I had to wait till you were out. Busy place."
"Yeah, you should see the other guy." There's not much of him to see anymore. To laugh about it is probably tempting fate, but Lena doesn't want to fall into the rhythm of an invisible drum.
Clarence lays a hand on her arm and gives it a squeeze. "You need anything, you just say." He means it.
She nods, pulling away. "You want some coffee?"
"I can get it."
"Nah, I just sat still for five hours. I need something to do." He relents, but hovers. It's sweet, but unnecessary.
That was one thing she hated about being in the hospital, especially during the time where she couldn't even sit up yet cause her gut was still a fileted mess: all the touching. All that patting her on the foot on the way out, the encouraging ankle squeezes through the blankets. She imagines it's how pregnant women feel once they start showing enough. Maybe that's what being hormonal is really about – getting pissed with every Tom, Dick, and Jane rubbing your belly all the time. Everyone means well of course, but why when you're down and vulnerable and unable to do anything about it – or unable to do it politely – do people suddenly think it's ok to start getting touchy? Anywhere that wasn't a hospital room you'd have the right to smack them, but when you're bed-ridden and in pain and just want to be left alone you have to grin and bear it.
"You sure you're alright?"
She knows what he's asking, can see the genuine concern there. He's a decent man, and she reminds herself that that's how people are taught to provide comfort because that's how most people need it from others. It feels ungrateful to try to explain that's not what she wants from most people.
"Yeah, I'm fine." She smiles, "promise." Depending on the sense he chooses to take it, it's not a lie.
He doesn't stop hovering.
"Here," she holds up the mug between them, "you want sugar?"
"No, thank you." He turns the mug back and forth in his hands for a bit without taking a drink. "Walehd was killed."
"I'm sorry." She's not really. Maybe in the abstract sense that anyone dying is sad, but it doesn't pull at her. When she does feel her gut clench, it's relief and the fear of could-have-beens. "At least we know we're on the right path. We did get the surveillance right?"
"Yeah, but take a night. There'll be plenty of time tomorrow."
That's fine with her. Sitting still and sifting through footage isn't what she needs right now. In an hour she'll probably be crashing like a sack of bricks through a glass roof, but for now, she needs to move. Fuuuuu…dge, why does her ankle have to suck?
"Right, tomorrow then." She makes her excuses, confirms that Clarence will be at the base hotel so that they can get started early tomorrow and heads to her room. Instead of turning in though, she only stops long enough to grab her iPod. Lena doesn't want walls. If she could walk that far, she'd sit outside the airfield and watch the planes, feel the vibrating thrum of the engines. She wants to feel dwarfed and insignificant. There's a sense of safety in it. There might be a thousand awful little things happening in the universe, but as a whole, it can't be taken and twisted. It just is.
Lena stands outside her door, unsure where to go and not in a hurry to get there. Once she would have been worried, anxious to have a plan and stick to a schedule, but it's nice to have time. Finding the energy for stress is something she's no longer programmed for.
Crutches and cracked ribs are an uncomfortable combination, so she doesn't get too far. There's a small circle of stone benches, and since it's dark and no one else is around it seems as good a place to park herself as any. Good thing the military is full of early risers. Using the crutch as leverage, she manages to lie back on the bench. Kabul is too big to see any but the few brightest stars, so she contents herself with watching the moon and stray wisps of clouds. Now that she's horizontal, the energy from before drains away. She's feels like lettuce that's been left too long in the sun. Soon, there's a sting in the back of her nose that has nothing to do with the break. Christ, all day and nothing; now this. Of its own accord the stinging spreads to the back of her eyes. It's always the quiet moments. After the giddiness wears off. No sadness, no fright, just being worn out. The rest of the energy packed up and disposed of now that it's unnecessary. Lena wonders if she can get it under control before it causes problems for her injured nose. In the end, holding it all back is just going to give her a headache, so she dials up the volume on her music and lets the tears have their way. They'll decide when they've had enough.
o.O.o
"I swear to god, I will fuckin' beat yo' ass from here to kingdom –"
"You couldn't beat a five year old if he handed you a crowbar." Tim fights to maintain his spot on the floor. Here, video games are a full contact sport, and he's been shoulder to shoulder with Mark for the past half hour in a shoving match that mirrors their onscreen combat.
"Ohhhh! Can't touch that now, can ya son!"
They've been at it since midnight this morning after Tim was discharged. Doctor told him he was lucky, that if he'd landed on tile, he'd probably have brained himself, like knowing random chance was supposed to make him feel better. Just a casual 'by the way, ten feet to the side, you'd be dead. Here's some Tylenol. Next!' This is number three, Carter reminds him, third time's a charm. Tim doesn't point out that the first and second times were a charm too, since he lived to see the third, but then again, he's come out of this one in much better shape than the last two.
"You motherfuckin' –"
"That's right, who's your daddy now, bitch? Yo mamma love that shit!"
"My momma's gonna be the one tea-baggin' your dipshit – " No one registers the door behind them opening at first. Only reason anyone sees at all is because Clark has Pascal in an upside-down headlock faced towards the door. They've given up Mortal Combat for real life. "– ass."
When Pascal doesn't have his usual snappy comeback, they all turn around to see what's up. Lena's standing half in, half out of the doorway. She's got crutches, and her nose is one and a half times its normal size.
"Ma'am." Clark nods, but doesn't release his victim, business as usual. "Something we can do for you?"
"Uh, no, sorry." She looks from Tim to Carter, to the rest. "I didn't mean to interrupt but…" she shifts her crutch a bit, "Pretty sure I'm breaking a few rules," She reaches inside her jacket, and for an absurd moment, Tim's fingers tense on the controller, "and if you don't want it, you don't have to take it… but someone said it was pretty good stuff, and I thought you might like it." Lena sets a bottle on the shelf by the door. The corners of her mouth jerk into a momentary smile as she tips an uncomfortable nod and slips back out before anyone can say anything.
Clark is first to the door. "Well hot damn," he says, letting out a whistle, "one of you fuckers must have a magic prick." Tim is heartily grateful the door is closed.
"That'd be me."
"In your dreams, Carter." "It might be a prick, doesn't make it magic."
"Well what is it?"
"This, Gutterson, is the medicine that will heal your wounds, a balm for your soul –"
"Oh Jesus fuckin' Christ," Tim jumps the chairs, "Gimme that." He turns the bottle and raises his eyebrows. "Staggs…shee-it."
"Well take a swig and pass it dude."
"Fuck you, go get a cup."
"Yeah bro, have some goddamned class."
He's probably not supposed to drink with a concussion and pain meds, but Clark is right – this is some damn fine medicine, and not taking it would be a damn tragedy. Where'd she get this stuff?
No one is on duty today, and Tim also gets tomorrow off on account of his head injury, so everyone gets two generous fingers of the Staggs. After the rations are passed out Tim sets it between his crossed legs like it's his firstborn. He wins a few more games since no one is willing to bodyslam the person holding primo alcohol.
Later, when they've headed back, and he can't fall asleep, Tim seriously considers drinking the rest of the bottle. It's like his body knows being tired is better than dreaming. He knows when his eyes close he'll be on that roof again. That first jolt of vertigo as the floor gave way, the tug of Carter's grip on his boot.
Just once he'd like to dream about something mundane, like walking in an endless loop or showing up naked to class. He'd had a fling with a girl once, partier who took too many things in order to stay interesting. He'd liked her for her wild side until he realized she was boring. She'd always said she liked to dream when she got high; without the drugs she just sat in the swings at the neighborhood park she grew up in, looking at the dead plants on the side of the road.
Tim dreams about bombs and bullets. He'd kill for a dream about just sitting in a swing. When he's not being shot or ambushed, forced to relive the waking nightmares, his brain makes up new things for him to dread. He stands to the side, sometimes incorporeal spectator, sometimes there, but hundreds of yards away, always unable to do shit about what's happening, just watching as everyone else is picked off and killed. It's the helplessness that's the worst. At least the good part of waking up is being able to hold a gun.
It's too bad the bourbon isn't the shitty kind, else he wouldn't feel bad about drinking himself to sleep. Instead he pulls out his flashlight and the book and drifts in and out of the shallows of consciousness, dreaming every now and then about following ravens down empty roads and dodging potholes that have no bottom.
o.O.o
"There, that guy watching him." Lena points at the frozen image taken from yesterday's operation.
"Which?"
"Blue hat."
"He's got a baseball cap, looks western to me."
"Look, see over here? People are starting to run. You'd think a westerner would be the first to follow. He's just sitting there."
"Damn. He knows he's not inside the blast radius. Can't actually see his face though. It could be a ruse."
"Do we have any other footage from anywhere? CCTV?"
"If it exists then the Afghan police don't want to give it to us. They don't like our meddling. Play it out a little. Let's see if he gives us anything else."
Lena lets the video run. Whoever the guy is, he manages to keep his face from the camera. Their mystery man is wearing sunglasses, and no matter which way he turns there's always a hand or something else in the way.
"Oh, truck!" Clarence jerks forward. "Freeze that."
"I see it." Lena squints. "It's an older vehicle, but it's got Arabic numerals on the plates, so those are newer. You think it was stolen?"
"It's a good possibility, but it's worth checking out all the same."
"I can read part of it, and if the software can't figure out the rest, then I'll hope someone back home can clean it up a bit. Are you friendly with anyone who could be useful in tracking the plate down?"
"Everyone's friendly when you have cash." Not that Clarence hasn't been incredibly effective, but in Lena's opinion he tends to rely too heavily on paying for information. It's lazy.
"Let me know when you find something, yeah?"
After a firm promise to do just that and a last solicitous inquiry into the state of her wellbeing, Clarence leaves. Lena sends the still frame of the license plate back to Oona with directions to get her a clear and full picture of the whole thing, but twenty minutes with her own computer gets a complete number. And luckily the US government has its fingers everywhere in the Afghani government, so finding her way into their DMV database takes minimal effort.
Oh hello.
The plate actually belongs to a van, not a truck, but the van it was stolen from is registered as a delivery vehicle for the Safi Landmark Hotel. Coincidentally, this is the same hotel Gutterson and Carter had been camped out on right before someone put a giant crater in the front of it. It's the same hotel they parked the jeeps at. In a parking garage. With cameras.