Author's Note: Happy readers get happy chappies! Well... nvrmd. This one's not all that happy, I guess. Beginning is, though!
Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
MADNESS REIGNS OUR FEARS
*
Well your faith was strong, but you needed proof
I've seen this room, and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Well maybe there is a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
-Kate Voegele-
August 20th, 2010
"My name is Seeley Booth. With me, is Doctor Temperance Brennan. We are survivors living in Washington DC. I am broadcasting on all AM frequencies. We will be at the Lincoln Memorial everyday at midday, when the sun is highest in the sky. If you are out there… if anyone is out there… we can provide food. We can provide shelter. And we can provide security.
If there is anybody out there–anybody–please… you are not alone."
They spend the waiting period at their favorite side bench near the Reflecting Pool dwelling just in front of the Memorial. The truck is parked close by, and the duffel with all their snack food is deposited on the bench. Sunlight glints like sparkling diamonds off the surface of the wide expanse of water. Two clouds heed the bright blue sky, never straying too far from each other. Companions today, at odds during others.
After digging out two extra waters, Booth makes his way back to the stone edge of the pond, where his partner sits. Her bare feet tread contentedly within the shallow waters, leggings rolled up to her knees. While she relaxes back and enjoys the gentle nibbling of smaller fish against her toes, she graciously lectures her companion on his choice of pastime.
He plops beside her with the drinks, birthday cone hat deliberately crooked atop his head, and promptly casts his fishing line across the water, intent on attracting some bigger game than the peaceable toe-nibblers. Her own hat sits perfectly straight in tidy arrangement atop her waves. He insists that he's deeply in the mood for calamari tonight, for which she incredulously assures him there isn't any logical prospect viable of him catching a cephalopod. In response, he informs her of a more optimistic reality in which he lives, charm unleashed to its fullest.
She purses her lips in reprisal, splashing water at him with her feet. He yelps at the cool refresher, curling away from her gentle onslaught. She laughs at him, bats him away when he dangles a worm before her nose. He's such a juvenile. And she's no better when her second splash provokes further retribution from the former agent. She scrambles upright, laughing and dashing away on bare feet over the grass when he chases after her, threatening to toss her into the drink.
Somehow, his hat ends up snapped over his nose. Hers becomes tangled in her hair, and later she requests a replacement when it winds up with the cardboard tip bent. He apprehends her defective party favor when it's substituted, and wears both it and his own at once. It's here she starts referring to him as the Great Moose.
He rotates hers to the front of her head so that she can assume the role of his unicorn lover.
Iraq
1997
The Rec Hall remains in easy use, even late past sundown. Simmering voices bounce off the wall's of the interior, sometimes expanding when a chorus of raucous laughter swells in bursting intervals. Most of the younger soldiers having retired to their tents, only a small few darken the doorway of the mess building. Usually those with higher ranking just getting back from their assignments and details.
A small group had gathered around the small table off to one of the corners, some watching on as they indulge in a card game or two. Almost all decked in fatigues and wifebeaters.
"And anyway, jackass, don't think I didn't catch that ace up your sleeve," Cortman derails from his account momentarily to send a glare over the scuffed table at Lieutenant Tafton. "You'll pay for that later. As I was sayin', these bunch a' towelheads decided to rain in on our show sometime around fourteen hundred…" Some remain heavily interested, hanging on every word, in Cortman's retelling of events. Others try to stay focused on the game. Tafton inwardly surrenders his last pack of cigarettes after the red-handed cheat. "And what a sucky spotter you turned out to be, Louis. Lucky I had an eye on both sides of the field or we'd both be signin' off on those folded flags to our mommas."
"Screw you, Cortman," Louis laughs, happy to volley back an insult of his own. "If you'd a' kept your sights on the head cheese bomber in the first place, I wouldn't of had to be covering both our sixes."
A hearty laugh erupts from the hulking sniper. "Quit being such a whiny bitch and deal the cards. You're lucky I saved both our asses and not just mine." Another round of disorderly laughter captures the room as Cortman leans back in his seat, catching eye of a new target. "Hey there, Booth. Gonna play a hand, or just stand there all night like a schmuck?"
A series of "Hey Sarge" disrupts the smoky air.
Largely uninterested in the game and more intently focused on a turn at the showers when his chance comes around, Booth shrugs a bare shoulder while mumbling a halfhearted declination. Decked only in fatigues and boots, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, he drapes the St. Christopher's medal back over his naked torso. Sliding muscles beneath his skin protesting at the day he's had near the bluffs outside camp. He doesn't wear it on missions very often, the metal could often be too compromising against the heated sun of the desert.
His hair is a disheveled mess, telltale signs of soot and dust coating his skin in small layers. Definitely ready for a hot shower.
"Nice talkin' to ya, Sarge," Cortman laughs dismissively, though his baiting won't end there. "Hey, by the way–caught the story on how you wasted that bastard down in Kosovo. Nice going, man. Right at his little brat's party, too. Wish I coulda been there. Good thing you're with us now, though, huh?"
"Yeah, glad he's on our side," Louis remarks with a snort, but fires another jab at his partner. "Isn't that classified, anyway? Why don't you leave that to the bigshots before you wind up dead in a ditch somewheres?"
Booth bristles at the account, a pain twisting in his gut at the suddenly vivid memory. Frown deepening, he rotates away from the group, spitting toothpaste into the large drum sink. Tosses off his toothbrush with a little more force than necessary. He hasn't been here long. Barely a month, only recently deployed.
The rest of the men share another laugh.
"Don't waste your breath, Cortman. Hawk Eye's brooding again," Louis mutters when no answering reply comes from the elite sniper in the darker confines of the room.
"Whatever. Barely says two words to anyone, anyway. We'll see how good he is when he's dodgin' IED's tomorrow."
"You're just bitchin' cuz he was sent here to do your job," Tafton snickers. "Party's over when they call in your replacement, C-man"
"Shut the hell up. Last thing I need is a replacement. I bagged at least a dozen of those hajis today."
"Way to brag, dirtbag." Tafton, again.
"Ain't braggin' if it's true." Cortman lashes out with a crooked sneer, leveling his sights back on his competition. "That why they ship you over here to the sandbox, Booth? Figure you're bad ass enough to do my job for me?"
"Maybe," Booth replies with little attention spared. Inwardly grateful that his less generous counterpart hasn't brought up the events down in Guatemala—which would be more than enough emotional ammo. He's not in the mood for any kind of spar, verbal or otherwise. Cleanliness and sleep are the only things on his mind. "Feeling unwanted?"
Cortman glowers, expression darkening. "You'd know better than anyone what that's like."
"Cool down," Booth sighs, leaning back against a support beam, eyeing the door leading to the shower longingly. Absentmindedly, he rubs at the tattoos on his wrists. "I just go where they aim me."
It's gotten quieter, the exchange sparking the active interest of the surrounding soldiers.
"Yeah, sure, sure," Cortman nods, easiness rolling off his tongue with careless nonchalance. Seemingly forfeiting the debate, before snapping back with the scorching sucker punch. "Say man, how's your brother getting along with your old man since you left? Haven't seen you writing to him lately."
Booth feels his jaw clench unwittingly, his entire frame suddenly rigid. The room falls into a tentative silence, everyone apparently catching the way the clouds darken in the other sniper's eyes. Booth doesn't talk about Home… a fact that everyone knows and neglects to examine. And obeys, until recently.
Only one speaks, brave enough to break the heavy, profuse quiet that's suddenly consumed the Hall. "Why don't you lay off, Cortman?" The young Corporal advises with a suffering expression.
"Can it, Parker. I asked the man a question–only polite that he answer."
Eager for a respite from the discussion, Booth glances sharply to the right when a new private exits the shower room. Shrugging apologetically, he jerks his head at the space. "Heater's busted. Sorry, man."
"Jesus," Booth mutters, rolling his eyes heavenward. A cold shower wasn't what he had in mind, but he'll be damned if he's sticking around here any longer. Having only recently transferred, it won't do his record any good to have it against him for embedding a man into the wall so soon at base. No matter how excusable that "doesn't play well with others" mark may hold on his file.
He keeps his temper in check almost at all times, is known for his somewhat pacifist nature. But it's when that scale tips and lines are crossed that things start to get ugly. Gathering his belongings, he moves for the door when Cortman suddenly blocks his path. "Actually, I think I could use a shower, too. You don't mind, Booth? I'll save you a few drops."
Booth withholds another sigh, glancing to the side. He's really not in the mood for this. "Outta the way, Cortman."
"Try me, hotshot."
And suddenly the room is tense and sparking challenge is issued with the graveled tone of the larger sniper. Booth drags his eyes up to the visage of the other man, already calculating angles and means of attack. Exit strategies, if necessary. Ways to defend the other soldier's from this ox blocking his path, should it come to that…
A thousand scenarios tear through his mind in the span of a few seconds. This… is why they sent him.
He's the best at killing, though Cortman would like to think otherwise. He doesn't enjoy it, doesn't revel in its dirty adrenaline rush. But he's about to get some small satisfaction out of this altercation. He just wants his damn shower before the operation tomorrow. He's tired of scratching sand out of his scalp. Tired of picking blood from under his fingernails. Tired… of people mentioning his father.
"Think you're making Daddy proud?" Cortman leans closer, voice lowering dangerously into a mocking deadpan. "Laying the place to waste like some monster archangel? Pounding on guerillas in the jungle?"
And there it is.
Cortman tenses when he realizes he hadn't even registered the rapidly provoked sleeping dog in the reticent Sergeant when Booth's right hand closes around his throat with fierce determination. Suddenly Cortman's back is pressed against the wall while the tip of a knife is pressed against his ribs.
"This how it's gonna be, Benny?" Booth grills quietly, brown eyes suddenly black and hard as onyx.
Cortman's knuckles crack, fingers curling into fists, but he stays still, green eyes clashing against the building storm. Challenging.
"What the hell is going on now?" a booming voice suddenly commands every attention of the Hall. Only Booth doesn't turn at the voice of Sergeant Major Harris. Absorbing the situation, the ranking officer takes a step forward, voice lowering but the volume not following suit. "Cortman, I suggest you back off of whatever altercation you've aggravated into play unless you want Booth to drive that Swiss home. Clean it up, boys," Harris addresses them all, then. "Curfew's in ten minutes."
Raising his hands slightly in forfeit, Cortman gives an abhorrent nod at the man with the knife aimed into his gut. Without pause, Booth retracts the blade, darkened gaze penetrating his adversary. Never breaking eye contact.
"Get the hell out of my way, Cortman." But it sounds more like Stay the hell out of my way. Booth has issued a warning of his own.
Glaring his resentment, Cortman huffs out a careless breath, brushing past him and moving on. Determined to achieve that shower, Booth heads for the back room with fierce resolve. The kid bounces up to him in loyal younger sibling fashion, nudging him without forethought subtlety.
"No worries, Sarge. Guy's a Bob Tail in the making, anyway."
"Save it, Teddy," Booth reprimands halfheartedly. "Get to your bunk, we've got an early morning at the dunes tomorrow and I'm not wasting a bucket of my shower water in waking you up."
"You got it," Corporal Edward Parker, Booth's young spotter, nods dutifully. "I'll be ready, Sarge, don't sweat it."
With that, the kid's off with enough energy to fight the whole damn war himself. Jogging out of the Hall entrance and into the night. Sour mood still withstanding, Booth nevertheless allows a lax smile to tip his lips at his eager comrade.
Now they ride in comfortable exchange, damp hair and clothing suctioned to their skin, a lighthearted bicker thrown into the mix in random succession. The truck approaches a short bridge to its left, which leads off toward an old bank. Another small congregation of birds flutter in a squawking huddle as Booth's carefree driving nearly runs them off the road.
"Listen, uh…" he begins, throwing a glance over at his partner who's calmly snacking on a granola bar. "I don't want a surprise party or anything, alright?"
The passive seriousness to his tone nearly leaves her choking on her bite. She hides her appreciative chuckle behind her hand and turns her attention away from him and out the window. "I'm afraid you're a little late to be making requests."
They only have a few more errands to tend to before returning home, and she's told him to make a stop by the lab to pick up a few things as well. While this is true, she also wants to buy some time in order to make him something special. Though the lab is a mausoleum, she's positive she can find something within the large expanse of the abandoned building to formulate a gift.
"Well," he shrugs. "I guess if you want to throw one, that'd be cool." He tosses her a toothy smile. "I'll act surprised."
If she'd been certain she could become no more endeared to him than she already was, she's thoroughly mistaken. She's about to respond with a wily comeback when she jolts in her seat, attributable to him slamming on the brakes without warning. The tires screech and leftover luggage jostles loudly in the back seats.
After her heart settles back into her chest where it belongs, she shoots him a questioning glance. His full attention is locked far to their left, after he'd done a severe double take. Her confusion quickly molds into concern. "Booth? What is it?" she's anxious to know, feeling slightly unnerved. Before she knows what's happening, he's shoving the Tahoe into reverse and peeling backwards in the direction they've come. "Booth…"
Arriving at an abrupt halt, he spins the wheel, turning onto the bridge they'd passed. He aims the truck straight ahead at the large bank building, engine revving. "You see it too, right?" She's startled by the way his voice shakes, a man in control of everything at all times. He's scared. "I'm not just freaking out, am I? Right, Bones? You see him?"
His frantic raving is frightening her. Her pulse quickens exponentially. "Booth, what are you… oh my God," she trails off in barely contained shock at the sight that greets them as they close in on the large, broken edifice.
Directly in front of the ornate bank structure, is Fred.
"Mannequins don't go for walks," Booth maintains, his voice half an octave higher in baffled alarm.
Brennan can only stare in mute astonishment. Parking the vehicle behind a fallen street sign, Booth slams the engine into park and shoves open the door, jumping out and stalking towards the well-dressed dummy. Snatches the Remington from the backseat before exiting. She climbs out just after him, worried expression marring her face. An unsteady chill settles directly over her lumbar curve. Suddenly, the city seems unnaturally quiet–even quieter than usual.
Her clear eyes dart over their environs, as if expecting something to leap out at them. Even though they're surrounded by a wide and open expanse.
"What the hell are you doing out here, Fred?" Booth's demanding shout wrenches her back to the dilemma at hand, its echo haunting. "Goddammit! What the hell is going on?"
"Booth," she calls to him, quickening her pace to catch up. "Stop!"
"No," he snaps, spinning on his heel to face her, expression stormy. Desperation clouds his voice. "No! Bones, I didn't move him!"
"Well, neither did I!" she stresses back, feeling herself begin to lose control along with her partner. A trick of the light certainly could have fooled any solitary man or woman, but…
Whirling back on the lone figure a short jaunt ahead, Booth snaps the bolt on his rifle and takes aim. "Fred!" It's loud, demanding and carrying across the block. He draws closer, moving past a battered taxi cab to his right leaning against the edge of the bridge, frontend tilted up at a thirty degree angle. "If you're real, Fred, you'd better say something!"
Fred's bright orange hoodie billows lazily in response.
Though his focus is directed strictly upon the hooded figure ahead, he hears his partner coming up behind him. He doesn't like to think he's going crazy, and defends himself that he's not. He knows Fred the Mannequin is indeed a lifeless statue. What he isn't certain of, however, is that perhaps a real live person has taken Fred's favorite hoodie and decided to play chicken with a Remington M-24 fully automatic sniper rifle.
If this be the case, he has to deal with the current revelation that they are not alone–that a human being is before them, and maybe just as freaked as they are. If this is not a real person who enjoys lifting hoodies off of creepy mannequins, he has to deal with the even more daunting idea that Fred–a plastic mannequin–occasionally goes sightseeing.
He waits another minute in silence, which feels more closely to a year. No human being could maintain absolute stillness for that amount of time. He should know–he'd trained to be the perfect statue. And also, the passing glare of sunshine off the individual's plastic face finally gives it away.
He feels a surge of angry fear course through him and he begins unloading rounds into the unthreatening figure. Bullets confirm their impact with loud paks against the uncaring mannequin, and before long, one arm drops from the rest of the torso. It's followed almost immediately by the upper half entirely. What remains of Fred topples over into the murky puddle in which he'd been standing.
"Dammit!" Booth swears, hearing Brennan's pleading voice in the back of his mind as he lowers the rifle. He raises a trembling hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Booth!" He feels her hand on his arm. Pulling himself from the blackness and opening his eyes, he finds himself staring back into hers. The perfect shade calms him almost immediately, and her soothing words, rapid and trembling, only aid him further. Her voice is hushed, fighting to placate him. "Booth, there's a rational explanation–there has to be. I promise you, we'll figure it out. But right now, I need you to calm down." He shies away, wincing. Unable to tear his eyes away from Fred. Moisture welling, desperation escalating, she seizes his face. Forcing his eyes on hers. "Booth. Please," she insists, looking up at him beseechingly.
His breaths come in shallow bursts, but he nods, easing under her touch. "Alright," he says, voice hoarse. Tension still coiled beneath the surface, though lessening. "Alright." Closing his eyes, he exhales heavily, shooting a glace back in the direction of the bank building before turning back to her. "I'm sorry…"
"It's okay," she assures him, comprehending his obvious distress and understandable loss of control. Her own hands still shake with confused apprehension.
He gives a distracted nod and moves away from her slightly. Begins to pace.
Stilling and taking a deep, settling breath, he turns slowly back toward the bank and moves forward, if a little cautiously. He feels her come up closely behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Just… stay back," he advises her quietly, not turning around, but holding a staying hand out before her. "Bones, alright?"
She does as he asks, too distracted to do anything else, and feels her heartbeat pounding within her ribcage as they approach their fallen ally.
His rifle is snug against his shoulder. She feels a nervous rise in her chest as he slows to a stop, looming over the pile of plastic–receiving no reaction from the dismembered mannequin. What remains of Fred is roughly three parts, held together crudely by articles of clothing. Flashy sweatshirt begins to soak up some of the puddle's water, and lifeless eyes stare up into the sky. A heap of blasted mannequin is all that is seen here.
Barely a minute passes in silence and, relaxing slightly, Booth slowly lowers his weapon. He takes a step closer, into the puddle.
Click.
There's a pause, as if the very air around them has solidified.
A large weight sinks in his middle, a shudder racing up his spine. Brennan feels her body freeze. Behind them, a heavy metallic moan sounds the warning. They each glance over their shoulders as the taxi cab slowly begins to tip over the edge of the bridge, then plummets.
Her startlingly blue eyes meet his russet ones in a clash of uncertainty and fear.
She knows it's too late.
"Booth–"
He only has a split second to shove her out of harm's way. Though instinctive, it's mostly unnecessary. Before he can jump back, the snare is already closing around his ankle and jerking him viciously off his feet and into the air. He sees stars when the back of his skull connects with the concrete and suddenly, he's airborne.
His rifle clatters to the street. The taxi nosedives into the ground below the bridge. He whirs to a stop well-above her reach, her frantic cries sending ringing bolts through his ears, merging with the throbbing pain and his swimming vision.
As he tries to fight against the dark cloud quickly overtaking his senses, her voice sounds strange to him–like she's calling him from a great distance. He feels a hot moisture soaking into his dark hair. Hears the drip in the puddle like a muffled thunderclap, his blood turning the water crimson.
Her voice fades entirely, drowned out by the rushing in his ears. His lashes flutter.
Everything goes black.