an. Apologies once again for the length of time between these updates. I've been facing burnout in my professional life, and it's bled into my creative endeavors. However, I hope that with some recent changes I have made, this will resolve itself. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this chapter.

References: St. Augustine, Chapter 39: 'A Wicked Thing, To Let Me Dream Of You', and St. Louis 'Said the Joker to the Thief'.

Guest Review Responses below the Chapter:

.

Paint Me a Smile with Blue & Gray

float in my heart from day to day

.

.

"Grenade!"

But a split second passed before they dove to unforgiving concrete. In the same length, Pablo struck immeasurable luck when the device landed beside his foot, and a fractional second before it blew, he kicked it across the space. Walls crumbled when the explosion obliterated the bedrooms.

Smoke clouded her lungs while she clawed the grated walkway and breathless pain engulfed her side.

"Burk!"

"Sasha!"

It was Australian, but it wasn't Wolf.

Senses muted as though the air were viscous, Sasha crawled to the storage chest functioning as a table. It housed a dozen rifles and enough magazines to fight. Really fight. More than the pistols drawn from Tex, Pablo and Tom's waistbands after the grenade failed to wipe them out. Around her, the impact of bullets registered through vibration alone. With the chest finally open, contents formerly atop its surface brushed in haste to the floor, Sasha returned fire while Jesse took cover at her side. Around a dozen men wearing all blacks swarmed through the entrance, faces covered by balaclavas—atypical of MSS—but the thought died under another: Wolf wasn't in the fight. In fact, Sasha couldn't locate Wolf at all.

"I'm out," Tex yelled—even those words were muted.

"Fall back, I've got you covered!" Sasha responded. As though illustrating the point, she shot through the skull of an attacker, his blood spattering across a window. Leapfrogging over an overturned chair, Tex skidded to the nearest body and took the deceased's weapon, then fired again. Bullets flew and men swarmed like ants from a tunnel until abruptly, it all stopped.

In the immediate aftermath, no one moved; the cavernous din of their rounds spent, echoing like an imprint burned from sun into retina.

"Find Wolf," Tom commanded, eyeline still affixed to the door.

"I see him," Tex called.

Uncurling with Jesse from their cover behind the crate, Sasha surveyed the damage. Wolf was knocked out by the blast, a sizeable gash oozing blood from his temple, but he was otherwise unharmed and semi-responsive to Tex's approach. Satisfied that Peng's men were the only casualties, she began counting. Eighteen men against four guns? MSS was more accomplished than that. They should be dead. Compelled, Sasha approached a body, and, after toeing the rifle from its grip, crouched to remove the balaclava—a stranger—but the gut feeling remained. Undeterred, she checked another, and then another, until the fourth corpse she de-masked yielded results. Scoffing, her head shook.

"Friend of yours?" Tom asked.

Tossing the mask, Sasha stood, a wince suppressed when the muscles beneath her incision flared. She pivoted to face Tom, noting that Pablo was helping Tex sit a now conscious Wolf upright, and Jesse was picking the floor in search of something.

"Chuán Xìnrén," Sasha announced as Tom moved closer to inspect the dead man.

"The Messenger?" Jesse repeated, straightening.

Sharp, Tom addressed Sasha, "Who?"

"When we went to Shangzhai to find Wu Ming," she pointed the tip of her rifle, "he'd taken over." Reading Tom's confusion, she elaborated, "It's an ungoverned dodge city on the south coast—all the pirates' trade runs through it, that's how we were smuggling the cure. He's the one who gave us the intel that MSS had threatened Wu Ming's mo—"

"What made you think they aren't MSS?" Tom interrupted.

"Because we shouldn't be having this conversation right now." This time, Tom's eye contact held. "And MSS doesn't wear balaclavas."

Again, Tom studied the bodies.

"He knows you didn't get on that plane, Tom. His people were all over the airfield, they saw us leave together." She paused. "Which means Peng just tried to kill you without drawing the US into war, and if anyone asked questions, he was going to use what we've been doing here to pin it on the pirates and claim that you got caught up in the crossfire."

Tom discarded the commandeered rifle and snatched The Messenger's sidearm. "Well it's bad luck for him that they didn't succeed—how's your head, Wolf?"

"I'm good, sir." Though bruised and swollen, he was moving under his autonomy.

"I don't know about you," Pablo began, "but I'm not all too keen on stickin' around to see what Peng does once he figures out that we're still alive."

"Zach!"

Sasha blinked.

Jesse wasn't screaming for Zach. She was picking smokes from the floor, stuffing them into their crumpled box.

"Right," Sasha uttered, cringing over how distracted it sounded. "Where's my bag?"

Adrenaline only lasted so long, and as they descended the stairs, energy seeped like a hissing, slow leak. Over the months, she'd treated this building like a Stairmaster, determined to recapture peak physical conditioning, yet her body kept fighting her every step of the way. By the time they reached the subterranean garage, her legs were jelly, the bag like a 70lb kitted combat ruck.

"You couldn't have picked a shorter building?" Tex grumbled, and Sasha was glad for the distraction; it was growing difficult to ignore Tom's knowing watch prickling the back of her neck.

"This is us," Jesse announced, unlocking a sun-damaged SUV.

At least Tom hadn't said "I told you so," yet, but his warning the night before percolated all the same. As they loaded into the truck, she grappled with knowing she'd inadvertently created a perfect narrative for Peng to exploit, and it was a weight Sasha was loath to carry.

Jesse put the car in gear, heading for the south-western exit. "Look sharp, kiddos, those pirates had to come from somewhere."

In less conspicuous transportation than an open-top Humvee, they escaped onto the streets unhindered, save for the small crowd of people drawn by the explosion. Sandwiched between Tom and Pablo in the rear middle seat, her ability to scope their surroundings was compromised, but so far it appeared they were clear.

"How far away is Shanzhai?" Tom inquired.

So he was questioning the same thing.

"The only way they could have made it here in time is if Peng flew them in, or they were already waiting in Hong Kong on standby," she confirmed.

"Well"—Tex began, voice tinny against the rear window where he manned their six from the trunk—"considering we're not being followed? I'd put my bet on the first option."

May 17, 2014, 1600 Hours UTC+7

USS Nathan James, South China Sea, 28NM from Hai Phong

With no backup, no Seahawk, and no Captain, Andrea Garnett paced in the pilothouse, recounting every operational choice she'd made in the attack's wake. Over the radio, periodic updates chimed as their VBSS teams searched for survivors, knowing that every minute spent delaying their retreat to Rally Point Bravo risked the James being targeted by the Hayward once more.

Aboard a RHIB, Burk surveyed the plunging waves through binoculars, Cruz at starboard, and Wallace Captaining the vessel. Even a debris field would indicate that they were on the right path, and yet it seemed the ocean swallowed the Seahawk and her crew whole. It wasn't supposed to be personal—everyone knew that—but Danny was family. Kara was family. And sooner rather than later, the math would force XO Garnett's hand. Without a safe place to refuel, chewing through their reserves by operating 4 RHIB crews meant "no man left behind" was a shrinking option. This wasn't like the coast of Jamaica, and Burk held a damning belief that their share of miracles was spent.

Meanwhile, Hong Kong

Beneath his feet, the small rusting fishing boat skunked through the Tolo Channel on course to the Dapeng Peninsula through Mirs Bay, its engine sputtering loud like his father's lawnmower. The sound seemed to ignite long-slumbering memories of childhood summers as he stepped out onto the narrow starboard deck. Apprehension wasn't a look Tom appreciated coming from Sasha, and yet that's what she'd been for the entire duration of the ride from Penthouse to harbor; perhaps the driving factor behind his choice not to lash out. Lectures never worked on her anyway, and bitching semantics when he'd defied Michener's order to leave would prove hypocritical.

"This the part where you finally say I told you so?" She hadn't turned, standing slightly aft of the cabin door, and most of her face was obscured by her hair, oscillating in the wind.

"Based on that greeting, I'd say I don't need to."

If a scoff could embody the word touché, Sasha had just said it, and now she stood with her head slightly bowed.

"I can't figure out what Peng could possibly have offered the pirates to turn them." Her palms circled the railing. "Or how any of this connects to Takehaya, or why Peng's so fixated on the Paracel Islands, or why Wu Ming was running a Chinese lottery of Hai Phong."

"What?"

Sasha stilled and then cautiously met his gaze through peripheral. "It wasn't actionable intel until now, Tom. Everything I had was anecdotal."

"That's never stopped you from sharing before," he countered, though he kept his tone neutral.

"Maybe I didn't want to give Michener more ammunition to send you into a war without it being concrete."

He squinted, and she shifted to face him, seeming to search for something in his gaze.

"Which part of I love you did you not understand?" Despite their direct delivery, the words had been murmured intimately.

His pulse jumped. In the aftermath of her departure and subsequent months spent digesting the intensity of all that transpired, caution had crept in. He didn't doubt that she did, but he couldn't discount the influence of grief on their wider judgment. Before he could respond, the same hatch he'd exited protested its disrepair, and Sasha straightened. Jesse appeared, wind similarly whipping her hair, and she glanced between them, expression unreadable, and then lingered on his left wrist, exposed by nature of his jacket riding where his hands were braced on the railing.

"Nice watch," she commented.

It was not a compliment, and then her gaze passed over his wedding band. This must be how Sasha had felt when subject to Mike's scrutiny, left questioning how much or how little he knew, if anything, and over-aware of Mike's loyalty to Tom's deceased spouse.

"It's my father's."

"He was a pilot?"

And apparently, Jesse knew her timepieces. "Army General. Retired. Can't stand the Navy, it was a gift from a friend of his—it's an old family joke."

Beside him, Sasha auspiciously avoided reacting or being drawn into Jesse's line of questioning.

She hummed, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, then fighting the wind to keep a steady enough flame. The sun hadn't yet set, but it was hidden enough by surrounding typography for the ambered glow to reflect in Jesse's eyes when she took the first drag. "Small world." It was nasally, and then she blew the smoke through the corner of her mouth and folded her arms. "Didn't you used to visit a retired—"

"Jesse."

Shaking her head, Jesse rolled her eyes. "Why am I not even fuckin' surprised?" She took another drag. "You have a type," she gestured. "Tall. Handsome. Wants to save the whole goddamn world."

"Look, he's my ex, oka—"

"Obviously," Jesse scoffed. "You wouldn't dream of trading your engagement ring instead of a watch for anyone else."

Tom uncoiled from the railing, standing now at full height.

"I did that to get answers for you," Sasha hissed. "That's what he would have wanted."

"Yeah? And you think Drew would have wanted his wife to go running back to her ex less than six months after he died?"

"Hey," Tom rasped, staring her down while Sasha paled. "That is not what happened. And from where I'm standing? She's the one who risked her life by coming here to find you. So you might wan—"

"Tom."

Against his jacket collar, Tom's pulse throbbed, and only his decades spent controlling his temper allowed his mouth to close. Doing so proved more difficult than anticipated, though.

Several contentious moments of silence stretched where Jesse glowered and then flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the ocean, and moments later, the door slammed closed. The curveballs, it seemed, wouldn't stop coming, and when he chanced a glance at Sasha, she was hunched over the rail once more. Leaning on an elbow, Tom watched while her jaw worked overtime, and she refused to engage.

"Sasha," he sighed.

Her lips pursed.

"Listen," he began. "You're not looking at the upside." She didn't move, but he had her attention. "She called me handsome."

Two seconds of shock followed, and then an incredulous snort erupted that she quickly tried to withdraw. He smiled. That was all too infrequent these days. Finally she relented. Faced him. Skin flush and reluctant to smirk. He canted his head.

"Stop being cute."

"Why?" he challenged.

"Because," she drawled, "I'm trying to brood."

Lopsided, he grinned. "That's never stopped you from interrupting me before."

Accepting that he wouldn't allow her this guilt trip, she rearranged herself to mirror his stance. "Andrew was…" she took a moment to remain composed. "They were good friends. She'd known him for more than a decade, and her brother was one of the people we lost in Guangzhou. She's angry at everything and everyone, and I can understand that."

Now the comment about owing her answers made sense.

"Give her a few hours. She'll apologize."

"I'm not worried about an apology." It was true. I'm worried about you, though what remained unspoken lay communicated through eye contact alone.

Tension further seeped from her frame. "I'll be fine, Tom," she uttered. "Nothing she said is something I haven't already felt guilty about."

While he regarded, Sasha tucked some hair behind her right ear, though a few stubborn strands continued to dance across her face. At the tip of Tom's tongue floated words, more than a decade's worth denied, and yet the timing still wasn't right. To unravel the truths he wanted to share with her, and only her, would propel them further than they were ready to be. The situation, as ever, demanded Tom find whatever willpower available to remain objective, and at root, this was of what he was most afraid; the choices he'd be responsible to make until they'd gotten to the bottom of all this.

Somewhere in the South China Sea

A sting on the pad of his middle finger pulled Danny into semi-consciousness, and then someone squeezed. Liquid warmth dripped from his skin. Unlike before, he could hear and within seconds of awaiting the person's retreat, Danny's eyes snapped open. Two men of Asian descent, lean, maybe 5ft 6" at best, wearing soiled clothes were huddled together in the corner of a wire cage holding a white card that he recognized as a rapid immunity test.

Immediately, he began taking inventory of his situation. He was untethered, laying on the floor of a shipping vessel—based on the rocking—of much smaller displacement than the James. It was in disrepair. The musty stench of diesel, oil, body odor, and moisture met his senses, and from what he could tell, there were at least three men patrolling the perimeter of his confines.

The men started fanning the card in the fashion you would to develop a polaroid, and Danny waited with an insidiously growing dread for the result to appear.

May 17, 2014, 0900 UTC-5

White House, St. Louis, Missouri

Fresh from another press briefing, and a night where she'd resorted to sleeping in her office, Kara tried to stave off thoughts that she'd already abandoned Frankie when he was little more than 7 weeks old. Intent to call Debbie, Kara had almost reached the privacy of her office when someone spoke.

"Hey, so what else is he lying about?"

"Excuse me?" Twisting around, she met Jacob Barnes' leery gaze as it slid down her form.

"First the virus. Now he's dodging questions about what Captain Chandler is really doing in Asia? I just want the truth, Mrs. Green. Why are we being lied to if this administration has nothing to hide?"

"You're not being lied to. The summit in Asia is classified. Why aren't you asking questions about President Peng holding the cure for ransom instead of doing everything that he can to help spread it?"

"Because I don't care about power grabs in the rest of the world. I care about the one that's happening here."

Kara forced herself not to recoil and instead squared her stance. "The President has been trying to protect our national security from a group of terrorists who were devising ways to infect children with the virus." He had the decency to display a modicum of shame. Not nearly enough, though. "That's why he sealed those records. Neils' experiment had already brought the world to its knees—can you imagine what it would have been like if our enemies knew that it was possible to accomplish something like that? If we had advertised the idea and then given them a roadmap?"

He seemed to consider his next point before speaking. "See, that would make sense, except Doctor Scott made a contagious cure, so surely at this point, everyone knows that it's possible. And it's a little convenient that he died before any record could be made, don't you think? Nobody. Just another account from the same administration that we all have to accept?"

Kara glanced around the corridor, battling her frustration. "I don't think you understand or appreciate the situation that this country was in when the James reached St. Lou—"

"No, Mrs. Green, I don't think that you understa—"

"Sean Ramsey had been running a propaganda campaign all over the Eastern Seaboard, telling people that it was not safe to trust Doctor Scott or the cure. You think it would have encouraged people to believe that we wanted to help them if the President had told them about what Neils did? That another scientist was responsible for all of this?"

His distinct lack of response bolstered her stance.

"I wouldn't be standing here today without Doctor Scott, and unless you're immune? Neither would you. Europe has been decimated by Ramsey's movement. There are still entire factions of immunes left in this country who are actively seeking to undermine what President Michener is trying to accomp—"

"And what exactly is he trying to accomplish?"

Kara stiffened. "What kind of question is that?"

"Look," his eyes narrowed, and he shifted closer, forcing her to peer even further up than she already had to, to maintain eye contact. "While you were out on the James, there was a deafening silence from the top. It cost lives—"

"Because they were dead, Jacob. Everyone in the presidential bunker, and the first thing that President Michener did when he reached the James was start broadcasting to the American People—"

"Yeah, I heard the broadcast from Jackson, I know the legend," he dismissed.

"It's not a legend." Her tone remained clipped. "It's the truth."

His head shook, and he lowered his voice. "I get that you're enamored with the guy—"

"I am not enamored. I just don't agree with you doing everything in your power to question every decision he's made like he's some kind of criminal when all we are trying to do is rebuild this country. Unless you're telling me that you want things to go back to the way they were before the James came up the Mississippi?" A moment of silence passed between them. "I need to get to another briefing. And I'd appreciate it if you scheduled a meeting through my office like everyone else instead of trying to ambush me in the corridor."

Refusing to react to the smug way he forced a smile, she merely lifted her brows. "If there's nothing else?"

Jacob stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tweed suit. "I'll be sure to schedule that meeting."

May 17, 2014, 1840 UTC+8

Nan'Ao Town, Shenzhen, Guangdong, New China

When they docked at port in the small fishing town, the sun was almost beneath horizon, and regardless their less-than-favorable introduction, Tom conceded Jesse appeared to have her shit together where logistics factored. As promised, less than a half click from the docks, a secondary vehicle waited to transport them to the helo. The only problem, much to Tex's enjoyment, was the lack of space. Unlike the first, the trunk couldn't stow a person in addition to their gear, and he supposed that's how Shemanski came to be sitting in Tex's lap after Sasha declined Tex' invitation to do so.

"Shit," Jesse muttered.

"This checkpoint's new," Shemanski said.

"Guess they're lookin' for us," Tex supplied.

Problem number two, and it was how Tom found himself hanging from the underbelly of the car, considering his need to incorporate more workouts into his shipboard routine. World horizontal, he watched the boots of a Chinese soldier prowl the vehicle's perimeter, and then looked down through the frame of his legs where the soldier stopped to inspect the trunk. Tom's finger curled itself into the trigger well of his sidearm. One by one, bags were tossed onto asphalt. Thud after thud, until Tom counted the final one. Twelve seconds later, there was a gunshot, and the soldier lay dead.

In a flurry of pre-coordinated movement, he rolled East as Wolf rolled West, while Jesse dropped the soldier at her window, and Shemanski and Tex emerged, unbeknownst to the driver, from beneath another vehicle. It went to plan until MSS swarmed the checkpoint. Forced into breaking formation to find cover, Tex and Shemanski were pinned without clear shots, and Jesse subdued beneath the glass line, unable to return fire. Near the SUV's rear, Tom, Wolf, and Sasha were grouped, trying their best to pick off soldiers.

"I'm almost out," Sasha warned, firing another round that at least hit a target.

"Cover me," Tom announced before darting out, leaving Sasha no choice but to reposition and spray what bullets remained while he sourced another weapon from the nearest body. Heat grazed his cheek when a casing ricocheted and burned the skin. Then, from the position he'd last seen Tex, a smoke grenade was launched, earning enough distraction for them all to move.

"Time to bounce!" He heard Jesse yell.

On the double, they hauled the bags into the vehicle, and in the act of doing so, Tom saw Sasha falter, a lightning-fast flinch and wince. Gunfire took precedence, and he flanked her, providing cover until she embarked and threw himself into the back of the SUV. Jesse floored it, Tex and Shemanski firing through the broken rear glass.

"Hold on!" Jesse warned them a few seconds before crashing through the checkpoint barrier, sending whiplash through the cabin that he'd surely feel the ache of tomorrow.

"Grenade launcher!" Shemanski demanded.

Sasha moved, forced to half straddle Tom's lap in the limited space where she then hung over the rear seat, rifling through the bags until she'd located the correct one. With a finesse honed from years of training, it was loaded, primed, and handed to Shemanski, who traded his near-spent AKM. Shemanski got a direct hit, right under the hood of the vehicle in pursuit, sending it up in a fireball, where it then flipped onto its side.

The bullets stopped.

Slow to relinquish their readiness, silence, and lack of movement followed until Shemanski, Tex, and Sasha slumped into their seats.

"Nice shot," Tom commented, mostly to stop himself reacting to the sensation of Sasha's thighs over his, or the view offered when her blouse gaped. Stiff, she shifted, hair swooshing against his shoulder, and he found unconsciously his palm skimming the small of her back, guiding her weight to his left until she came to rest predominately against the door, though still in his lap. It lingered against the cool heat of her blouse, fingers itching to trail the familiar hollow. Tom stared at signposts without really processing them. Not that he could read Chinese anyway, but it was all the distraction he had from her shallow breaths warming his temple. The enticing column of her neck, where he could see her pulse thrumming in peripheral. Every subtle adjustment of her position when the car hit a pothole…

May 17, 2014, 2030 UTC+7

USS Nathan James, South China Sea, 28NM from Hai Phong

Burk slammed his VBSS locker shut, purposefully avoiding reading the taped tag of the one adjacent his.

Lt. Damon hovered. "You did everything you could."

He punched the locker, pain rocketing through his knuckles in a satisfactory way that compelled a desire to do it again.

"Hey," Lt. Damon's hand circled his bicep, and he placed himself in the path of Burk's target.

"Get off me man." Burk shrugged away, but Damon refused to relinquish his grip, and now Cruz had abandoned the ready table, and instead of anger, a surge of despair so potent it left him gasping for breath engulfed, and he found himself buried against Cruz' TAC vest choking back a sob as Nathan James proceeded on course to their rally point without Green.

Guest Review Response:

Thank you, as always, for your reviews. I love reading them and thanks for putting up with the lengthy delays. I wish I had been aware of this show when it was airing. I agree with everything you said about failing to show us the scenes we cared about and dealing with more of the emotional fallout versus focusing purely on action. In the first 3 seasons, they had the right balance - they should have allowed the storylines to run longer and included more character-driven bottle episodes. I hated that Tom never spoke to Kathleen after Tex died. I didn't understand the writing of Tom and Sasha in Season 4 or beyond it. She's with Fletcher but makes no attempt to care about the relationship the moment Tom returns... it was all around confusing. I've also wondered about how much influence Eric's depression had on the storylines and scenes we got. It was a shame and bad timing for the fans, but I can sympathize. Depression is hard. I put my blame on the writers not taking the time or effort to craft a coherent story around those issues, it could have been accomplished. Regarding your comments on the previous chapter, I agree that Mike was the most consistently written character in the show. I'm excited to have him working together with Kara more closely in St. Louis! Kara is one of my favorite characters, and she's so strong throughout the whole show! I laughed at the rest of your review; I have a terrible soft spot for the star-crossed lover's trope, and well... this show is perfect for delivering angst for these two in spades. Curious to see what you make of Jesse's response within this chapter. Hope you have been well!