A/N: It's…been a while to say the least. Almost 2 yrs later and I still struggled to write this. Don't mind while I shake the rust off and get underway. Again, thank you to everyone who views, and reviews.

Ch 21: C-Wing

Day 64, Saturday February 18, 2017, Approx 1800 hrs

It's a goddamn zoo at C-Wing.

It's my first time down there, and a lot different than the other parts of Steinn Aflinn. Not just newer renovations, but the format of the rooms remind me more of military barracks, hallways after hallway of square rooms. It's a place reserved for the better rehabilitated patients. Majority of them are casualties of the war who still needed looking after on the occasion, but are otherwise moving under their own power. Low maintenance personnel.

J.J.'s confiscated the common room in C-Wing and turned it into his personal office to conduct his illicit business. The crazy bastard gives zero fucks. The lounge itself has a few nice amenities -several chairs, two couches, a round table and a few end-stands scattered about, a battered pool table, and a big screen TV. A small fridge is tucked in the corner. The place has all the bells and whistles.

I wasn't exactly thrilled when Whitney suggested we catch up with "the boys" in C-Wing. Half of it was straight up out of spite. Chad was probably hoping to cash in on the pool they had going for "D-Day," and I didn't feel like being present when the prize was being awarded. The other part of it went a bit deeper. There had been a low point in my life where I had spent more time and money at the track than I'd like to admit. A lot of bad habits developed during a rough phase in my first recovery. I wasn't crazy over the idea of getting myself around something I fought so hard against leaving behind. One slip, and old behaviors had a way of manifesting itself into other parts of your life.

I think the only reason I said yes was because I just wanted Chad to quit nagging me. Him and that oversized mutt hovering around like damn vultures. After dinner and a follow-up stretch session, we were allotted a couple of hours to travel down to C-Wing.

"Hey fuckers! Finally come down to join us I see!" J.J. greets us with all the informalities as can be expected from him. The young kid Stratton is shaking out an ice cube tray into a large dish.

"Don't start with me Johnson! Convincing Johnny-boy to come out is like leading a horse to water. Can't make the bastard drink!" Chad slaps me on the back in a good-natured way. Wally dodges between us and goes about making his security sweep of the room.

"Well, maybe some of this will change his mind. Pull up a chair mate. Chance, ice!" J.J. holds up a glass bottle three-quarters of the way full of a bright amber liquid.

I take the open seat next to J.J. and he immediately takes the ice-filled tumblers from Chance and fills each halfway with the bottle he was holding. He pushes one towards me, and holds the other up in the air poised. I take a moment to roll the ice, catching the distinct aroma of scotch.

"Cheers, Mac." J.J. salutes with his glass and winks.

I return the gesture with a nod and take the plunge. It starts off smooth. Rich in taste but a nice dry bite to finish.

"Aye, you got good taste." Give credit where credit is due. J.J. knows his drinks.

"What were you expecting, piss?"

"You Aussies aren't exactly known for your refined pallet."

"And neither are you cunts up north. Welcome to the club. Tonight, yours truly is hosting a fine spread of heavyweights kicking off in the next hour, followed up by some American hockey. Still have a chance to get in on it."

"I'll pass this time. Thanks for the offer." Best to avoid the temptation and enjoy one indulgence at a time.

"Right-o, maybe next time then. Whitney, you want in?"

"Sure. You got a list of the fights?"

"Right here. But don't take too long." J.J. grabs a spiral notebook and pulls a loose sheet of paper out from the middle containing a list of names, and hands it off to Chad. He pulls up a seat and starts mulling over the roster. After much deliberation, Chad raps the page with his knuckles in a moment of elation.

"Put in 10 marks on Perraro. 2 marks on Lewis."

"You got it mate." J.J. takes a quick sip and flips to a dog-eared page in his notebook. He plucks a pen from behind his ear and scribbles in a column of names.

"Speaking of which, you owe me that Copenhagen fucker." Chad points an accusing finger at the Aussie.
"Johnny-boy here's a tougher sell than we all thought."

Johnson digs around in his pockets and slaps a small round tin down in front of him, keeping his hand firmly over the top. He looks to me for affirmation with a lift of his one brow. At that very moment, I realized the room that had been so full of energy and cheering just moments ago, had fallen unnervingly silent and all eyes were on us, gawking. I give him the same nonchalant shrug of the shoulders and indifferent expression I had pawned off on Whitney before going back to my drink. Johnson begrudgingly lifts his hand off of the tin in defeat. The lot of them commence the heckling of disapproval.

"Mac, what the fuck were you doing?" J.J. exclaims before practically inhaling his drink, the bottle of scotch refilling both our glasses on the next pour.

"Nothing, apparently." The words come out in an annoyed scoff. I catch the distinct sweet earthy waft as Chad cracks the tin open and packs his bottom lip. The smell instantly takes me back to my early days with the SAS when we were assigned to a joint take force with the US Marines -at the very beginning of this shit storm were all so deeply involved with now.

…

I remember the sound of the disintegrating rotor blades as the helicopter burst in a cloud of molten smoke. The last look in Staff Sgt. Griggs' face when our eyes met as he carried out his final duty. Gaz trying to pull himself to his feet when Zakhaev stood over him. I remember laying there, helpless. Scared wasn't even the right word to describe it, the true cold grip of what imminent death felt like. The old man was sprawled on the ground, desperately looking for my recognition. It was a wordless exchange as the pistol skated across the pavement and all my training had taken over the moment it was in my hands.

…

The world comes back into clear view when something cold touches me. The room erupts in various profanities as a penalty flag is thrown. J.J. slams his glass down on the table, spilling his drink. Everyone's eyes are fixated on the screen now as the replay is shown in slow motion at the blatant foul. I look down and find Wallace's head poking from under the table and in my lap, his wet nose against my arm and his big brown eyes staring up at me for confirmation. My knuckles are white where they're clenched at the top of my thigh, trying to stop the shaking.

On the field, the ref sticks with the shitty call, eliciting another wave of every imaginable slander from the guys. Stratton looks like he's about the rip the television out of the wall. Lattimer has his hands up in the air, vocalizing the loudest out of everyone. I calm myself with a small sip and keep my eyes forward, swallowing back the writhing nausea in my gut.

"That's what I call bullshit Mac! Absolute bullshit!" J.J. grumbles, trying to shake the spiral notebook free of the spilled scotch.

"Aye, it is. But it's only a game."

I feel the tremor in my hand subside as I scratch behind Wallace's ear, giving him the acknowledgment he deserved. I try not to dwell on where my thoughts were heading, but as of this point, nothing good has quite come of them. A small part of me is grateful for his uncanny intervention.

I try to catch myself back up in the moment, taking in the room, of the all people I have met here -all broken in one way or another- finding comradery under one roof. I hold steady on the second glass and savor the taste as the pay-per-view fight comes on. Despite my initial reservations about coming down to C-Wing, I'm grateful to be here now. J.J. and I spend quality time shooting the breeze as the three preliminary fights get underway. Wally settles in under the table at my feet for some time before finally joining Whitney and the others on the couches.

By the time the main event is finished I'm pretty well gassed and there's a low headache starting between my eyes. Whether it's from the stress or the alcohol I couldn't say. Chad and I make it back to our respective rooms before the night orderlies come looking for us. Once I'm settled in my bed, I pull out my journal and reflect back on everything that's been in there from day one, from the mangled words and doodles, to the most recent portrait of Elle in all her glowing splendor. I flip to a fresh page and pause at the top, marking the entry with the date and time as I always have. I try not to let my thoughts dwell too long on today's episode, but I feel an obligation to the memory of those who were lost that day.

Specifically Gaz.

It had been a long time since I had thought about him. He was as solid as they came. I remember my first day reporting at Credenhill, a desolated parcel and those god-forsaken blue warehouses. The Lieutenant had met me at the front gate for check in no sooner than I had stepped out of the vehicle. Gaz had taken one look at me and shook his head, even laughed a little, before introducing himself. Right then I knew I was about to get my ass handed to me, but the punishment didn't happen until he handed Price the reins.

The one image I can't shake is Zakhaev's body laying there next to Gaz's.

The words feel too familiar as I write them down, as if I had the very same thought before in my previous life.

Gaz had been on his back, shell-shocked like the rest of us, trying to gather his wits about him as Zakhaev rolled up on us. He was trying to unholster his pistol the second he saw the radical dictator shadow him. It never broke leather. The .50 cal had blown a perfectly round hole in the top of his skull, leaving the majority of his face intact due to the close proximity.

Killing Zakhaev had left me a changed man. Not for the better. We often try to place ourselves on a pedestal, trying to justify why our actions were better than another's. Telling ourselves we were right, that we're doing it to protect people, to protect the world. For our very same actions we were crucified. Became fugitives and international war criminals.

It had felt…good, to kill Zakhaev. It had felt good to kill Shepherd. My only regret was I hadn't done it sooner.

That night, my dreams take me back again to our last moments on the collapsed bridge. Price, Gaz, Fletcher, Harvey, Griggs. But it's all in reverse -everything exactly as it happened leading up to the first day I set foot inside the fences of Credenhill. Gaz is standing at the front gatehouse. Things begin moving forward again, and I step out of the truck, greeting my superior with a proper salute, just as I had been taught.

He draws a .44 magnum from his hip and points it to my head with a smile. The voice I hear doesn't belong to him. His features change into a greyed out old man with a bold look in his eye.

"…I lost 30,000 men in the blink of an eye...And the world just fuckin' watched."

"Tomorrow there will be no shortage of volunteers, no shortage of patriots…"

There's a trickle of blood running down my face. The cylinder of the revolver rotates forward as the hammer cocks back.

"I know you understand."

Sadly, I did. Now more so than ever.