Disclaimer: Everything in the Twilight universe belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
AN: As always, I've got to thank edward-bella-harry-ginny for her corrections, words, and support.
I have three announcements at the end.
Before I had time to blink, he was suddenly at the window – I had registered no movement. He could move faster than I could perceive. One of his hands was splayed on the window, his face only two feet from my own. His beautiful features were contorted in either rage or pain, his eyebrows glowering over his coal black eyes. Even in shock, I found myself more drawn to him than repulsed, my only desire to understand his mercurial nature.
"Now!" he roared at me, and I backed rapidly out the door of the anteroom, the heavy door slamming shut behind me.
Chapter 5. Meetings.
"You've got to give me some answers." I looked Colonel McCarty in the eye. We were both seated in his office, where he had practically dragged me on the run after I had left Edward's rooms. Or was it a prison?
His jaw spasmed. "Think for a moment about this facility, and what might happen here."
"Top secret DARPA research facility," I said, remembering back to our earlier conversation. There were always rumors about what went on with secret military research, and military personnel were as prone to paranoid conspiracy theories as anyone else, maybe more so. I had always assumed it was ridiculous speculation. Secret weapons development rarely got the same attention as rumors about experiments with human subjects. Now I had to consider the prospect that super soldier research was real – no ordinary human could have moved as fast as Edward had.
"How long will it take you to finish these evaluations?" Apparently, Col. McCarty had finished with the "answers" I had requested.
"I've barely met them," I pointed out. "I'll have a better idea after I talk with each of them on Friday."
"You may already suspect that some will require more work than others," he said, with a slight smile.
I tried not to glare. "Your restrictions have made this assignment very difficult."
"Are you asking for something in particular?"
"I accept the restriction about written records, but this rule about never mentioning old missions completely ties my hands. Therapy requires discussion." I doubted I would get my way, but any serious discussion with Col. McCarty's team about their issues with their job was going to need a discussion about their job.
"There are very good reasons for that restriction, most of them concerned with National Security."
"Exactly," I told him. "Your people will never be able to discuss their issues with anyone else ever again. If you give them the freedom to talk out something bothering them now, you should be able to rest easier knowing they've resolved an issue."
"I'll consider your request and let you know on Friday. In the meantime, here is the information about your official transfer. Review it in the car. You need to leave now if you want to be at your other assignment on time." He handed me a manila folder. Clearly, I was dismissed.
I spent the car ride back to my apartment reading over my "official" reassignment orders from the VA in Hampton to the DARPA research center. It wasn't going to be hard to lie about what I was doing because the imaginary research project I had been assigned to was hypothetically classified top secret. There wasn't anything I could say. After I read the information twice, I realized I had no need to save the papers. When we arrived back at my apartment, I left the envelope on the car seat.
"Major Swan, we'll pick you up at 7:30 a.m. Friday."
"Thank you, uh, driver." I still had no idea who was driving the vehicle, except that he was male. Heck, the guy talking could have been someone in the passenger seat. There was no way to know.
I ran the flights up to my apartment. I needed my briefcase which had the draft of the plan for family group counseling I was preparing. Checking the clock, I realized I only had about fifteen minutes to get to the Metro if I was going to be at work on time. Luckily, I was already in uniform, and I had left my briefcase by the front door. I only opened the door long enough to grab my bag, fumbling with my keys as I relocked the door. I would have to walk briskly to the station, but at least I wouldn't have to jog.
The crowded train car was the perfect place to think in solitude. Anonymous crowds were to me like those white noise tapes. Random conversations flowed around me as tourist families discussed their sightseeing and workers chatted with friends during their lunch breaks. It allowed me the time and place to mull over the information that had been thrust into my lap despite my protests. Was Edward the secret that Mystery Man wanted? Or was it information about past secret missions which violated official policies? How did I avoid Mystery Man's questions, and should I tell Colonel McCarty about him? I still wasn't sure who to trust. Col. McCarty was operating a covert ops team. Mystery Man promised me a particular vote from Congress. Neither had earned my trust.
My thoughts circled back to Edward, and I flushed red, glancing around the train car as I felt my face get warm. As usual, there was no one even looking my way. Everyone not busy talking with someone seemed to be absorbed in their iPods or in texting on their phone. I wondered what would drive a young man – a male-model-kind-of-attractive young man – to undergo enough experimental treatment to become what he was. And what was he? A super soldier assassin? I wondered what his physical limits were, and what about the ventilation system would have caused him to freak out. I surreptitiously sniffed myself, but I smelled like my floral bodywash. I had never seen anything like it; he had looked so wild, so feral. I was reminded of a scene from the movie Greystoke, the Legend of Tarzan which Renee had made me watch with her at least three times. She had a high school crush on the star, Christopher Lambert. The scene was one where Tarzan stalks Jane. In bed. I choked out a laugh, which made the lady across the aisle frown at me. I had just cracked a bad fortune cookie joke, in my head no less. While thinking of Edward. In bed. I swallowed nervously. He was going to be a problem for me, and not just because he had issues of his own. I kept seeing his eyes, glowing like backlit topaz gems, and then turning to coal. The last look I had of him as I left his rooms was haunting me; he had appeared to be in agony, struggling with something out of his control. Mystery Man might be highly interested in Edward, but he had nothing on me.
I exited at my stop, and wended my way to the office. It was about five till one, so I was right on time. Angela's desk was empty; I assumed she was still at lunch. In my office, I sat with the papers I had been working on, reading and re-reading the same paragraphs. I needed to put something together by lunchtime tomorrow since we had a staff meeting at one, but I couldn't concentrate. If I wasn't reviewing the names and stories of the team members, I was panicking about a surprise visit from MM. And if I wasn't panicking, I was thinking about Edward, which involved a different kind of anxiety.
"Hey!" Mike poked his head into my office. Before he could open his mouth, I stopped him.
"No swan jokes."
"But—
"And no bell jokes."
"But—"
"Haven't you graduated to Stanley jokes yet?" I smiled to take the sting out of my words.
"Sorry. I get it." Mike looked dejected and started to leave.
"Wait; was there something else, though?" I doubted it, but thought I'd ask.
"No, well, I wondered if you and Jessica would join me for a, uh, sailboat ride this weekend?"
"Oh, sorry, Mike. I haven't had a chance to tell anyone here yet since it just happened. I've been transferred from Hampton to another facility, effective immediately. I haven't even called Jess yet to let her know I won't be there this weekend." Well, that sounded natural-ish. Sort of.
"What! Where are you going to be?"
"A DARPA facility," I told him with a shrug.
"Wow, what are you doing there?" He looked genuinely interested, and a little surprised.
"Ugh, can't get into it," I said, making a face.
"Can't or won't?"
"Can't."
"Oh. Wow. Okay, maybe another time?" Mike had not given up yet? I thought he liked Jessica!
"You could still go with Jess, if she's free," I suggested. I was just as optimistic as he was; we just weren't hoping for the same things. He just nodded as he left my office.
As it turned out, the interruption with Mike was exactly what I needed. His demented interest in me was enough to clear my head of dangerous men. I buckled under and put all of my work together.
"Major Swan?" Angela was at my door.
"Hi, Angela." I finished up with the documents, satisfied that I was ready for the next day's meeting.
"How did the plumbing situation work out?" she asked.
"Oh, it was fixed up by the building manager before I even got home," I managed to stutter out. Lying on the fly was not one of my talents. Suddenly I realized I should have lied (well, a different lie) and I could have gone home with Angela. I was fairly certain MM wouldn't approach me there. I needed more time.
"That's great! Your management is obviously better than mine. It took three weeks last year to get our hot water fixed. Well, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Oh, no, I'm leaving, too. We can catch the Metro together." I threw my stuff together and joined Angela for the trip home. It was nice every now and then to be one of the chatting couples instead of one of iPod-mesmerized loners.
When I got home, I opened the door and entered my own place very cautiously. I stood just inside my door and sniffed. I didn't catch a whiff of cigarette smell. I walked slowly forward, flipping lights as I went. The living room was clear. I let out a breath in relief, but then headed toward my bedroom. I flipped the light switch while still in the hallway, and then peeked in. It was the same as this morning. I checked the bathroom as well. The apartment was blessedly clear of spies and broken furniture. Though I was left to ponder if that was because MM was waiting for me to have more information or if my angry outburst with Col. McCarty was more effective than I had thought.
I spent the evening running on the apartment complex' treadmill and then eating a boneless, skinless chicken breast with a plain baked potato and a salad. It was mildly depressing, but nutritionally balanced. I was ready for the staff meeting, so I indulged in various reruns on TV, and then went to bed.
That was the first night I dreamed of Edward. This time, there was no glass separating us, and he approached me slowly, with the slightest rumble of a growl from his chest. He was wearing a very tight olive drab t-shirt and his camo pants, and his pale skin seemed luminous in pale moonlight. I wanted to run, but I was frozen by his overwhelming presence. When he was only inches away, he leaned forward, and whispered in my ear "You smell delicious."
I woke with a start, and realized I was gasping, and covered in goose bumps. The room was empty, although the moon was shining directly in my window. I laughed weakly at myself. Maybe I should be in therapy. Who dreams about being told they smell delicious?
Work the next day was routine, except for the staff meeting. Generally, meetings were the low point of any day. I would make my report, dutifully take notes on reports other people made, but spend most of my time watching Major Newton drool in his sleep and Major Crowley surreptitiously check on his fantasy football league on his phone under the table. They would undoubtedly ask me for notes later. Our CO/project leader, Col. Brown, was slightly disorganized but paternal in a pleasant rather than overbearing way.
Today was the exception. Around 1100, Mike burst into my office, for once appearing panicky rather than his usual jovial self.
"Senator James is going to be at this meeting!" He looked frantic, eyes rapidly looking over my office as if expecting to find a treasure to present to the senator from South Carolina.
"What is he coming to a staff meeting to do?" I asked. Admittedly, I was a little nervous as well.
"I don't know! I don't know! My report this week is really bland; I was only talking about knee replacement materials," he lamented.
"I'm sure the senator is a busy man; he's probably just coming to give us a pep talk. He's on the Armed Services committee and he's been a big supporter of an improved VA system and veteran's support groups. I really doubt he will want to hear our reports."
As it turned out, I was right. Col. Brown, who looked nearly as concerned as Mike, swept through our office a few minutes later to let us know the usual staff reports were postponed until the following week since Sen. James was going to address us instead. I was surprised he had come through personally with that message, but then I realized he was checking our uniforms when he straightened Mike's tie.
The meeting was a formal affair, with short speeches from various higher-level brass and an introduction of the senator. The speech he gave was longer than I would have liked, and although I tried to listen carefully, I was unable to discern what was so important that he needed to visit us and give a pep talk. I wasn't even sure it was a pep talk. I settled for examining the senator. He was probably in his mid fifties, but he was nicely built, dressed in an expensive grey suit, and perfectly coifed. His hair was still full and blonde, and he had intense blue-grey eyes. I could sense his charisma as he spoke, even if the words were uninspiring in themselves. He was more presence than substance, I suspected.
One of the other committee members, one working on veteran's insurance benefits, leaned over and whispered to me. "His son Victor is over there."
I turned, and saw a striking man in his dress blues. He had flaming red hair but the same eyes as his father. He apparently sensed my attention, and turned his gaze on me. His lips curved into a smirk more than a smile. I didn't sense "friendly" so much as "gotcha." I turned away in embarrassment and tried to concentrate more on Senator James' speech.
At the end of the speech, I clapped with everyone else, and then filed out into the hallway. I was walking with Mike and Tyler back to the office when I heard Col. Brown call my name.
"Major Swan! I'd like to introduce you to the senator." He waved me over. Mike and Tyler both gave me looks of surprise, which I'm sure I returned with interest. I walked briskly over.
"Come on," he urged me. "Senator James' office worked with my office on selecting the committee members, and you were one of the candidates he supported."
"Oh!" This was surprising. "I didn't know, sir."
"He liked your file, something about your long term commitment to counseling soldiers."
We approached the senator, who was still surrounded by an assortment of aides and generals.
"Ah, the lovely Major Swan," the senator exclaimed.
"Senator James," I replied. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."
"No, the honor and pleasure are all mine, I assure you." His words were slightly elongated with his southern accent, and his intensity had increased with proximity. He was charismatic in a powerful rather than a personable way. This was a man who was used to getting what he desired. "I wanted to meet in person the young crusader for soldier and veteran mental health."
"Thank you, sir. Counseling servicemen has been an interest of mine since college." I wasn't sure if I should publicly thank him for securing my position at the Pentagon. I decided against it since I thought Col. Brown had shared it in confidence.
"I've seen some of the reports you've prepared for the committee, and I'd like you to give a presentation in my office next week. That won't disrupt her work here, will it, Colonel?" The senator's question didn't fool anyone; he fully expected my presence in his office.
"Absolutely not, Senator." Col. Brown was beaming like a proud father.
"I'll have my staff make arrangements for next Wednesday." The senator turned towards one of the generals at his side, our impromptu meeting over.
Col. Brown escorted me back to the hallway. "This is a great opportunity for you and the committee, Major Swan. Matthew Hunter James may be young for a senator, but his star has been rising fast. We'll spend all day Tuesday on your presentation."
"Of course, sir." My head was spinning.
I spent the rest of the afternoon frantically looking over every staff report I had given since arriving at the Pentagon, and then reviewing all our goals and objectives. We were still so early in the process; I wondered why the senator didn't wait until we had a complete draft before having us meet with him.
When I arrived at home that evening, I was so distracted I didn't even notice my apartment was empty until after I'd eaten dinner. That night, my dreams were torn between two very different but clearly dangerous men.
My first round of interviews with team began at 8 am Friday morning with Rodney. He was bright, cheery, and charming. I spent each half hour until lunch chatting informally with each team member successively. I learned that the quadruple knockout – Brock, Jack, Rick, and Franc – were a diverse fighting team. All four were proficient at hand-to-hand and small weapons, but they each had specialties. Jack Goldstein was adopted from Korea. His hobby was juggling, but only objects with sharp edges. He had a very dry wit, to the extent that I was unsure at the end of our talk whether he was joking or serious.
Ivan Brock was a small arms specialist, and his darker-haired counterpart Rick was the martial arts guru. They were both polite, but clearly put out with having to talk with me. Frankie was nearly effusive, confiding that she was interested in additional estrogen on the team. She was the only fully qualified sharpshooter on the team and nearly Rick's equal in martial arts training. The only tough moment with her was when I asked about her family.
Shannon let me know right away that she rarely left Major Heinz's side during an operation; she was the communications wizard, and her primary job was to keep track of the entire team and feed them information when necessary. With Mitch Hoone, I realized I was doing all the talking. He was quiet, but laughed at anything I said which resembled a joke. He was going to be difficult, but not for the same reason as Brock and Rick.
At 11:30, Mitch checked his watch and waved to let me know he was leaving. When he was gone, I blew out a long breath, and then put my head on the desk while banging on it with my fist.
"Frustrated?"
I sat up instantly. "Oh, Major Heinz. I thought I was done for the morning."
"You are. I wanted to let you know that you will be training with the team at 1330." He tossed a pack on my desk. "Clothes for the training session."
"I don't know if this is a good idea," I said in the understatement of the year. I had a sudden lurch of nausea. Everyone on this team had extensive training in hand-to-hand or martial arts or both, including Heinz, Shannon, and Mitch. I was transported back to junior high, and the day I was knocked unconscious by a volleyball. And then the day I got hit on the forehead with a softball. And the day I broke my ankle when we were supposed to be doing the hurdles. What sadist makes 13-year-olds run hurdles?
Heinz looked amused. "Everyone on this team trains, Major Swan."
As he left, I got up and locked my office door. I opened the package, and found a full complement of workout clothes, down to the socks and shoes. I put them on and was unsurprised that a covert ops outfit could successfully determine my clothing size. I tucked my hair under the cap with the clothes. I took a few cleansing breaths, and headed downstairs for my first real trip to the mess.
When I arrived, Shannon and Frankie waved me over. "What's for lunch?" I asked.
"Not here yet," said Frankie. "Good morning?"
"Long," I admitted. I didn't usually have any type of relationship with "patients" outside their sessions. This was going to be weird. Really weird.
The other team members filed in, one at a time, waving politely. Rodney came in and sat by me, across from Shannon, and I smiled to myself. Definitely something going on.
The sergeant from the "front door" arrived a moment later, pushing a cart with sandwiches, chips, cookies, fruit, and chilled cans of various sodas. My eyes bulged a little. There were only ten of us, eleven if Col. McCarty counted. It looked like enough food for at least thirty.
"Don't worry, Major Swan," Frankie assured me. "Mitch can put away three or four sandwiches by himself, and Brock's not much better."
Lunch was a pleasant affair, the team showing its camaraderie during the enforced downtime. Apparently, there were no missions to be scheduled until I finished the evaluations. The army way of life was often called "hurry up and wait," and the team was in a waiting period. When Shannon dropped her fork, mouth hanging open, and Frankie audibly gulped, I swiveled on the bench and was shocked as they were when I saw Edward coming into the mess with Col. McCarty. If I'd thought I'd overreacted to his presence on Wednesday, I was sorely mistaken. Even his measured gait next to the colonel's was that of a predator, if one under control. We all stood until Col. McCarty waved us off. Edward wandered over to our table and sat next to Rodney, although he hadn't grabbed any food.
"Major," Rodney said by way of greeting. I watched the interactions at the table carefully. Edward was clearly tense, but he wasn't the only one. The body language at the table was indicative of nervous tension, and perhaps a little fear. I was worried that I didn't know enough of Edward yet to be properly afraid. On top of that, I could still feel the pull towards him that I had felt before. Pathetically, it had taken a lot of my professional skills to avoid questioning everyone about Edward's role on the team during our initial sessions.
"Rodney, ladies," Edward responded. I noticed his eyes swept the table, but he managed to avoid looking at me. I supposed the obsessive interest I had developed for Edward was not exactly mutual, and the realization gave me a sad, empty feeling. I also noticed that he was gripping the table and wrinkling his nose. Apparently he found my smell as objectionable today as he had on our first meeting. No wonder I dreamed he thought me delicious. It was definitely a wish-fulfillment fantasy.
"What brings you to lunch, Edward?" asked Frankie. I could tell she was uncomfortable, she was twitching her first and second fingers against her thumb; it was the same twitch she had engaged in when I asked about her family.
"Yes, did the colonel spring you from the cage?" joked Rodney, a slight smirk on his face. I was concerned that the blonde had a death wish.
"I thought I'd join the training session today," he answered, addressing Shannon and ignoring Rodney. I could see Edward's profile, and felt justified taking in all his features since he was speaking. It was the polite thing to do.
"Edward. You can help set up equipment." Major Heinz was walking some line between asking and ordering. Edward stood without protest and followed Heinz, Brock, and Jack.
"I've never seen him in a session," Shannon said in awe.
"I've been on the team for five years, and I've never seen him at lunch, much less at a session." Frankie was staring at the empty doorway where Edward had exited.
"So, have you ever seen him in action?" I winced at the various images my question conjured.
"His part of a mission is usually pretty secretive," said Frankie slowly. She appeared to be weighing her words, considering what she was permitted to share.
Shannon started to speak, but Frankie nudged her, and she coughed instead. I pretended not to notice, and changed the subject instead.
"Uh, so, what exactly are we about to do? I don't think it's any secret that I don't have the same preparation as the rest of you. It's a bit of a miracle that I made it through basic." I was probably going to end up heaving my lunch on Heinz's shoes.
"Probably warm-up, flexibility training, and maybe some sparring. We did strength training yesterday. I'll work with you and Shannon today. Rick can be a real jerk with newbies."
With that confidence builder, the three of us got up and headed for the gym. Jack led the team (save Col. McCarty) through warm-up; it was a standard set of drills, and except for my extreme embarrassment for coming in dead last during the shuttle run exercise, I didn't have a problem with anything we did.
"Not bad major. You're a good sport." Shannon smacked me on the shoulder with that back-handed encouragement. It was a measure of my discomfort that she actually made me feel better.
Flexibility training was also fine; I'd never really had a problem with that. At least it wasn't a race.
That left the sparring, and I felt my mouth go dry while conversely my hands became unpleasantly moist. Rick and Frankie started out with a demonstration of moves they were teaching the rest of the group; I couldn't even follow their description, although I was impressed with beauty of their movements together. I decided that even if I would end up looking like a complete idiot, I could use my time to observe the dynamics of the team. I watched how the others were studying Rick and Frankie's demo; most of the others appeared engrossed, making slight movements of their own as if to absorb the information with their muscles rather than their mind. Meanwhile, at the far side of the group from where I stood, Heinz was watching Edward, and Edward was acting bored.
"Anyone want to give it a try?" asked Rick. I snapped back to where he and Frankie stood, and realized he was looking me in the eye. As if.
"I'll take on Edward," challenged Rodney. I wondered what he was trying to prove, and to whom. Did he have no clue?
"Not a good idea," said Rick at the same time Mitch guffawed, the loudest noise I'd heard him make.
"Are you worried I'll beat his ass-et?" asked Rodney.
"They're worried you won't live through it," replied Edward softly. He hadn't moved a muscle since Rodney's challenge. I was instantly drawn in. I had been in the military all my adult life and studied psychology, and I should be able to dispassionately examine Edward's role on the team, but my mind was flooded with hyperbolic adjectives like "powerful," "hypnotic," and "dangerous." He was quietly certain of himself. He didn't force himself on the situation, but everyone in the room was aware of his menace.
"Perhaps this would be instructive," suggested Heinz. "Assuming you don't kill him."
"It has been a few years since you had a…sparring partner," Rick commented with a slight smile. "In fact, I think I was the last. Good luck Rodney."
Rodney blanched a little at that statement, the implication being that the team's martial arts master wasn't good enough to best Edward. The others were in varying states of fear or amusement; I noted the amused ones included those I knew had been on the team for the longest.
"Still interested?" asked Edward. "I won't think less of you if you've changed your mind."
"I'm good. What are the rules?"
"Choose any weapon you like, any style of fighting you like. If you can touch me, you win."
"How do you win?" asked Rodney, his show of confidence marred by a slight quaver to his voice.
"Don't worry. You'll know when I win," Edward deadpanned. Rick snorted and flushed, apparently remembering something he didn't like.
Rodney wandered to the rack of practice weapons, and chose a long sword-like weapon, but apparently made of bamboo. It was more than a yard long.
I must have looked confused, because Frankie leaned over and whispered to me. "It's a shinai, a bamboo sword for kendo. That's a Japanese martial art. One of Rodney's preferences, although of course he's not as good as Rick. He's not bad at it, but…"
I wondered if anyone besides me had seen Edward in action. I looked over the two men. Edward had maybe an inch or so on Rodney, but Rodney was broader in the chest. If I didn't know that Edward had (I didn't like to even say it in my head because it sounded corny) superpowers, I would have picked Rodney to win. But as it stood, I knew Edward would win. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. He showed no sign of concern. He also showed no sign that he knew I was in the room.
"When you're ready," Edward said dryly. He stood in the center of the floor, arms at his sides, feet slightly apart. He looked at ease.
Rodney shouted and attacked, and Edward just slipped out of the way, avoiding contact by only centimeters. One of my eyebrows popped up. Edward was playing with him. This wasn't going to be pretty.
"Do you want protective gear?" asked Rodney, breathing a little hard. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Don't hold back. I'll be fine." Edward hadn't changed his stance. He let Rodney make two more passes, each time slipping away by a handsbreadth.
On the next pass, Edward simply wasn't there. Rodney froze, stopped in the middle of a lunge. Edward was directly behind him. It was like a choreographed dance, but only Edward knew the steps.
"Ready to concede?" Edward's voice was quiet, but still sent chills through me.
Rodney whirled, but when he stopped, the shinai was gone, as was Edward. I searched the gym, looking for where he had gone, but he was as suddenly back, standing over a prone Rodney.
"Oh, geez. I think you bruised my ankles," Rodney groaned facedown into the mat on the floor. "Best two of three."
"If you wish." Edward stood back as Rodney lurched to his feet, rubbing his chin. It had a strawberry, probably from striking the floor mat at a high rate of speed.
"Did you see what he did to Rodney?" I asked Frankie quietly. I certainly hadn't, even though I had tried to keep my eyes on Edward's form throughout the whole thing.
"Just barely. He grabbed his ankles and yanked. I think. It was so fast; it was more like I saw what happened to Rodney. I didn't really see Edward until he was done. And, uh, Rodney's shinai is back on the rack." There was awe in her voice, and I wondered if Edward would find her scent more to his liking than mine.
"No concussions this time," Heinz was warning Edward. I noted that he didn't warn Rodney not to hurt Edward.
Rodney walked gingerly toward the weapons rack, trying to shake off whatever pain he was feeling. "Suggestions, Rick?" he asked.
"Yeah. Quit while you're only this far behind."
Rodney turned and glared, but then perused the rack. This time I could name the weapon he chose; it was a fencing foil. I glanced quizzically at Frankie.
"Faster response from the lighter weapon," she said.
"Good luck," I muttered under my breath. I thought I saw Edward's cheek move, as if he were suppressing a smile.
Rodney took up a fencing stance in the center of the floor. Edward stood calmly.
"En garde!" Apparently this was French for "land me on my ass," because before I could blink, Rodney was on his butt groaning loudly, weapon gone. Edward did not appear to have moved.
"Uh, wow." Frankie was impressed. "I didn't see anything."
"And that's why he doesn't come to training," smirked Rick. He was rubbing the back of his head as though it had met the floor recently. I had a feeling it was sympathy pain, remembered all too clearly from Edward's last match.
"Okay, I concede," groaned Rodney. "But we didn't learn anything; you didn't demonstrate any fighting technique." Rodney sounded petulant.
"If I look like I'm going to fight, you can assume someone is going to die." Edward's words, though spoken quietly, seemed to echo through the gym. At that moment, it occurred to me why Col. McCarty had rushed me from Edward's rooms. The danger within him was usually contained, but somehow that morning, the container had cracked. I had looked into the face of a killer when he had been poised to kill. But why me? It had to be something more than my bad odor.
Rodney was properly chastised, apparently, since he uncharacteristically made no more comments. Shannon had rushed over to check on him, and the other members of the team were making somewhat rude comments about whether a concussion would lower or raise his IQ, but I was watching Edward. He had moved toward the periphery of the floor, still at ease, I thought. His head jerked slightly, his eyes focused on the ceiling. If I had to guess, I would have said he was looking in the direction of Col. McCarty's office. I doubted anyone who wasn't obsessively watching him would have noticed the movement.
Rick had just started to set up sparring pairs, when the gym door burst open.
"We have a mission, we leave immediately. Briefing on the plane." Col. McCarty looked over the room, and I thought I saw him nod slightly toward Edward. The two of them exited the gym together.
I was standing in shock, as the rest of the team hurried out of the gym, leaving the equipment where it lay. At the door, Major Heinz swiveled. "That includes you, Major Swan. Pack a bag ASAP. Transport leaves in fifteen."
AN2: Three announcements:
First: Voting continues until Dec. 15 at midnight (Tuesday night!) for the Twilight Anniversary Challenge sponsored by me, edward-bella-harry-ginny and Justine Lark!
There are some great entries which I hope you all read and review! Help us celebrate a year of writing for ebhg and Justine. By the way, we each wrote a sample, but ours are NOT ELIGIBLE for voting.
www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/~twilightanniversarychallenge (or check my profile for a link)
The entries are collected in a C2 (check my profile or the anniversary profile for a link).
Second: The mentalward challenge includes an entry by crmcneill titled Downward Spiral which was inspired by The Cold War. It's a great one-shot, but really dark (mentalward!) www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/~MentalwardContest.
Third: Hey! The Cold War won Best Volturi in the most recent round of The Sparkle Awards! EliseShaw, Justine Lark, and edward-bella-harry-ginny also won awards, so congrats to all of you, and thanks to any of you who voted!