One year and a half ago.
Coulson and Elizabeth were lounging on their respective reclining chairs, vacation look complete with sunscreen, hats, and beers.
The sun was blazing. The science trailer was on the top of the world, ok, fine, on the top of a medium-sized mound fifty miles from the Center. The rear of the trailer had deployed in true sci-fi fashion; the instruments were working and blinking and doing their assigned tasks like obedient little robots. The only way for zombies to approach was through the western side, a solitary, slow hike up a narrow, steep slope.
Life was pretty much AWESOME.
"Don't tell me I've got to get up," Coulson grumbled, when they heard the characteristic sound of little rocks tumbling down onto bigger ones.
"They can't feel us from all the way down there, right?" Elizabeth mused. "Or is it the beeping?"
The instruments had beeped like hell during the deploying, and kept doing it now, at regular intervals. Yes, a pretty dumb engineering design in a world where undead creatures were, among many things, attracted by sound.
"Might be the beeping," Coulson said. "It's too hot to think." A minute passed. The noise was getting closer. "You know what? I'm over this whole human/zombie war," he declared. "Live and let live, it's my new motto. I won't be moving from this chair, ever."
"Good thinking," Elizabeth muttered.
There was growling now, so after a minute Coulson reluctantly rose. He walked toward the ledge and stood a moment in contemplation before turning to Elizabeth.
"Hey, why don't you handle this one?"
"What?!" Elizabeth was instantly upright and awake. She looked at Coulson, aghast.
"I'm not… No, Coulson, I'll freeze."
He was studying her, his face unreadable.
"You got your A+ in Undead-Defense, as I requested. I checked. So. What's happening here?"
"We only practice on mannequins, or with human partners. It's— I will freeze, you know I will. Especially if the— If the creature is male. Was male. I just— You know, you know why."
They had just spoken of it once, and very indirectly. But Coulson had read her file; he read everyone's file.
"Trauma, how touching. Get up. You're taking on that zombie."
Elizabeth stood up, trembling.
"Coulson…"
"Call it exposure therapy."
Elizabeth took a few hesitant steps before glancing over the edge, then retreated with a start. The zombie was almost there, and now, she had broken its d. He had seen her—yes, he was a male. The creature went into a frenzy, lounging in her direction, then slipped on the dusty earth before rising again…
"I don't have time to put the armor on, and— What the hell are you doing?" Elizabeth cried when Coulson drew out a gun—a gun¬!—from the back of his vest.
He moved to the left and aimed at approximately a foot from Elizabeth's head.
"Security measure, if you panic." The zombie was visible now, growling. Two more steps and it would be on even ground with them. "You will not always be in armor when shit hits the fan. Come on, Elizabeth. You got this."
She did. She did. Of course, she got this. Elizabeth opened her security bag to get the knife, hands shivering.
"Collar. Gloves. Z-Knife," she said, checking each step. "In position."
The next minute was at the same time tense and ridiculous, as she tried to keep the right stance while the now silent and focused zombie slowly trudged her way, Coulson's aim remained steady, and—
Lizzie! Lizzie! help me! HELP! Please, sweetie, please, help me, please, please, help me, please please
… petrified couldn't move a limb someone screaming her name fresh blood on her face blood and goo she could not move could not go help mom it was hot so hot under the sun the blood was already drying…
Sky. Blue. Mountains.
Coulson.
The zombie was on the ground, its head split open by a perfectly aimed bullet. The blood and the goo on Elizabeth's face were indeed real, and already drying.
"What happened?"
"You froze." Coulson was livid. "Ok, sit down."
She sat. She drank the water he gave her. She ate a chocolate bar—blood sugar.
Time passed. Half an hour maybe.
Distant growling. The characteristic sound of pebbles tumbling.
"Don't make me try again," she whispered.
"No." Coulson walked to the hanging rock and waited. When the zombie appeared, he just pushed it over the edge with his left hand and watched the creature land sixty feet below with a sickening crush.
It was darkly hilarious, and Elizabeth felt better. "Firearms are prohibited inside the Center," she protested when Coulson came back.
"Are we inside the Center?"
"Will the gun magically disappear when we head back?"
"It will go under a potted plant near the door."
"Right."
"As soon as we're back, you are getting exposure therapy."
"A real friend would respect my boundaries."
"A real friend would want you to stay alive."
"The Center is one of the safest buildings in the world," Elizabeth protested, but then there was more snarling. Coulson rolled his eyes in exasperation before glancing at the situation at the bottom of the rocks.
"Just the six down there," he sighed. "Time for a hike. I'm getting rid of them, and then I'm teaching you how to shoot."
"What? No."
"I do not believe this was a request."
"You are not the boss of me."
"I am, quite literally, the boss of you."
"We are not hierarchically connected."
Coulson just waved his red-clad wrist; Elizabeth flipped him the bird; when Coulson came back they pinned a HR memo on a tree as a makeshift target, Elizabeth did some shooting, then they defrosted cafeteria pizza, drank more beer, watched the sunset, and life was AWESOME again.
-XX-
Now.
Forty hours till diagnostic.
Now, she had to tell Edwards. About outside, the zombie, and the fallen fence.
-XX-
Edwards walked into Cafeteria Three as Elizabeth was getting her walnut cake off the oven.
"Just in time for dessert. Sir," she added as an afterthought, without much conviction, looking for plates and spoons. Not meeting Edwards's eyes.
She had to tell him, she had messaged him to come here after all, she had to say it. "Remember how you told me not to go outside? Well. Interesting little anecdote—"
But she did not look forward to the scolding, the "'I told you not to go out, I told you not to leave the Center,' complete with oozing red-bracelet-superiority speech… and when she looked up at him Edwards was already looking miffed.
"What?" Ok, maybe Elizabeth's tone was not exactly conciliatory.
"It seems the word 'sir' has great difficulty passing your lips, and when it does, the irony is palpable," Edwards said, and oh, come on. Come the fuck on. "Your respect for me is perfunctory, and not always even such. I let it slide last time, because it was an emergency, but I must kindly ask you to course-correct. You are always…I would call it subtly insolent."
Your only ally in this place, remember. The only other human being.
Elizabeth took a knife. She cut the cake into six parts. A slice for her, a slice for Edwards; she briefly held the forks under the running water. They were clean, but only if you consider a utensil clean when it had been washed a year ago.
Your only friend in here.
At last, she turned around. "Your analysis of my behavior is accurate, sir." She met his eyes with perfect calm—there was no particular irony to her words. "I never believed in our unformal and temporary emergency system of castes, which, if you remember well, was only supposed to last the war, and—surprise!—is somehow still in place. I do not like the token respect we are supposed to show our so-called superiors. I do it only because—I do not want to get another blame, or to be fined, or give the Witch any reason to leave me stranded here longer. Cake?"
She pushed the plate toward Edwards. It smelled heavenly, if she could say so herself.
Edwards looked at the plate, then at Elizabeth.
"See, this," he said slowly. "This is an instance of your discreet impudence. We are having an important conversation about respect, and you interrupt it with this—cake proposition—to undermine the seriousness of our debate. It is disrespectful."
"But it is really good cake."
Edwards glared at her; Elizabeth sighed. "The cake is a way to even the playing field. It is my way to say, we are both lost in this hell, we are lonely and sad—at least I am. I had a very bad day, and I am about to tell you why, and cake means, forget these stupid formalities, forget these stupid rules. Let's just interact as two human beings, and share—food, and a few jokes, and a relaxed conversation, and we will feel so much better after. Sir."
Edwards seemed so tired, suddenly—so tired. There was a note of despair, she thought, in his eyes, something deep and anchored there and for a moment she wanted to reach to him—but…
"I apologize," he said, even more formally. "I am not one to play your games. Enjoy your cake."
He walked away, seemingly to leave; Elizabeth had to stop him, of course, but before she could Edwards turned back.
"I believe in rules," he stated. "Not all rules, all the time—this would be absurd. But those precise rules we are following here—the caste system legalities—they were set up to protect the fabric of society in a difficult time, and I found them very useful."
"In the midst of the Event, maybe. But now?"
"We need structure more than ever. And—this cake? Walnuts? Did you go outside again, Ms. Moore? This is crazy; you are crazy. We know, well, we think there might be something wrong with the security system, and you shouldn't…"
He rambled for a minute. When he stopped, Elizabeth gave a wry smile.
"Well." Edward just looked at her. "Interesting little anecdote…"
The news was not taken well.
Night. Morning. Breakfast, alone in her apartment.
A delicious piece of walnut cake. The smell of coffee.
-XX-
It was like Elizabeth's life was not a continuity anymore, but a series of disconnected moments.
Twenty hours till diagnostic.
-XX-
One hour before diagnostic.
Elizabeth was early, waiting by the 'special' elevator on Level Two. She needed Edwards's clearance to go further.
"Hello, Ms. Moore."
"Hello, sir."
You could just feel the ice.
They made their way down to the system room. Inside, the huge, grey computers were still busy, working with a subdued humming. The place was reassuring, in a way. No windows opening on the perilous outdoors. No glass doors, no glass walls. A big, comfortable bunker. With the computer's song, it felt like a womb.
They both stayed silent, waiting. At last, one of the monitors emitted a little, unobtrusive "ping".
Anticlimactic, considering.
"30% of the security system inoperative or damaged," the system declared. Coldly. In Arial 14.
Thirty percent. Thirty percent.
"Fuck," Edwards said.
No kidding.