an. Glad there's still interest in this universe. Thanks so much for the reviews and patience.

References: St. Augustine, Chapter 25: 'Been Digging It Up Like Groundhog Day', Chapter 29: 'What It Means to Be Human', and immunity mechanics discussed in Chapters 34 & 35.

Guest Review Responses:

Guest 1 As am I on all fronts! That you're still around, and that Tom & Sasha are in the same place again. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Guest 2 I'm so relieved that you enjoyed it. I scrapped and re-wrote it so many times that I hated the finished product, lol. (Ma'am, to answer your question). Part of my hold-up has been committing to how much of the show to complete re-write and which storylines to drop. I know where we are going, but the intricacies of how we get there are subject to change because there are so many possibilities. Tex was sorely missed in S3. Hence my need for him to be in Asia, and I'm going to take the fact that you wanted them to kiss as an enormous achievement! I remember you saying you hoped they argued and were full of angst, haha. I've invested way too much time and headspace to this show/couple to give up on finishing this story. It may take me a couple of years, but I will.

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We Were Just Bad Enough for Each Other

so cue the show

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.

So they'd located Jesse, but now he was dead? Somehow, Tom was left with more questions than answers, and more uncertainty than he had bandwidth to bury. It was simple, in retrospect, to segregate thoughts when she'd simply been gone. On the Nathan James, contemplations were structured. He worked, then retired, and—after documenting meticulously the day's evolutions and tending to the monotonous paperwork entrenched within command at sea—he dedicated time to Darien. The kids. Pondered his siblings' fates. Tried to process the fracture in this new world and occasionally—or often—allowed himself the compulsion of her. Thoughts, in Tom's view, were reflections of loyalty, and he'd been known to possess the attribute to a fault.

Her head was together with Shemanski; the pair engaged in dialogue—Tom assumed—about Sasha's latest crusade, and he could already feel it. The push and the pull. That friction of yearning to chase when he was bound to remain and, at best, would barely be able to follow.

He finished zipping his duffel, the action more aggressive than it should be, then re-emerged to discover that Sasha was waiting. Her gaze flittered down and then up almost imperceptibly, and the finest amount of pink appeared to dust her cheeks—but then again—it could be wishful thinking. What came next wasn't, however. Her hand extended, long, nimble fingers trailing the linear edge of his name tag, and Tom held his breath. It appeared the gesture was made without premeditation for she faltered; index finger stilled along with every function he could observe, and then she withdrew. Stuffed those hands deep into her jean pockets…

"Pablo and I need to figure out a wardrobe. Wolf says the peninsula is so well staged for the summit that you wouldn't know that half the world's dead. Peng's running his own private kingdom while the rest of China starves." Behind her, the C-130's cargo hold was open, the scent of humidity, civilization, and tarmac assaulting his over-heightened senses. "We'll need an escort to get through the security checkpoints. I figured we could borrow Tex. He's not exactly dressed for geopolitics. I take it he's handling recon?"

While the idea of using Tex for interior security had amused Tom, Secretary Rivera had shut it down. The guy didn't trust Tex not to ruffle feathers. Tom's chin lowered in affirmative confirmation.

"An hour tops. I'll be there before the dinner starts." He glanced beyond her shoulder to watch Shemanski, who was on the tarmac conversing with Wolf. "Just don't get into it with Peng before I arrive," she added.

"Why do I get the feeling this is about more than a wardrobe?" He dragged his focus back, openly searching her expression.

Too benign.

Followed by a silence that lingered.

Relenting, she softened, body language morphing from its tightly coiled default. "I promise I'll tell you everything," she murmured, but left unsaid the 'just not right now'.

Hesitant to crease his Dress Whites, Tom bent stiffly at the waist to gather his duffel, suppressing a sigh that radiated from his bones. The action effectively ended the conversation, and as they disembarked, he could only question why he'd been cursed to repeat the same elaborate patterns where Sasha was concerned.

The onslaught of late afternoon sunshine was almost blinding—not enough to hide the number of men Peng had watching—but enough to leave unsightly spots in his vision. Wolf approached. It had been over two months since he'd chosen to leave the Nathan James when they made port in Sydney. Tom hoped that he'd been able to find answers as to the whereabouts of his friends and family, but it had become an unspoken rule in the new world not to ask unless the information was volunteered.

"Good to see you, Wolf." Tom stepped back from the brief embrace, their final handshake firm before they parted.

"Likewise, sir."

A whistle pierced the air—Tex—attracting the attention of a security convoy sent to accompany their ground transport. Peng's men, dressed in a clichéd imitation of Men In Black, scowled and exchanged looks when Tex attempted to hail them like a cab.

"Listen," Tex's voice carried over the mechanical whine of forklifts removing the remaining cure from the C-130. "Cinderella here's got a last-minute ticket to the ball but the airline lost her baggage. They ain't what they used to be ya know? We need a ride into this utopia town y'all got goin' on."

The men remained stone-faced and failed to respond.

"I take it we can get used to that kind of reception?" Tom mumbled to Wolf, who was suppressing the urge to laugh.

"Yes, sir," he responded. "And you can expect eyes on you from now on."

"I counted one in the tower and one at the entrance," Tom said, approaching the open-top Humvee that Wolf had been granted; didn't need to mention the two soldiers primed to follow them on bikes.

"You speak English?" Tex hollered.

Tom thought Val snorted, but she hid it by pretending to cough, then threw her bag into the back.

USS Nathan James, Rally Point Alpha, South China Sea

Green observed as the landing crew refueled their chopper from the upper aft deck while taking advantage of his break period and a peaceful ocean. The Seahawk's blades were still rotating, albeit slowly, and he found comfort in the familiarity of protocols that were so ingrained they had become almost mindless. It was those, and the knowledge of the life waiting for him at home to which he clung over the darkness of the unknown. Most of the crew had answers to explain the fates of their loved ones. Unfortunately, he was part of the group who'd found nothing during his designated leave to search for survivors. Something else stole his attention, saving him from another painful trip into the land of speculating who else in his lineage could be immune. Lieutenant Damon had disembarked, and just as Danny committed to investigate what had summoned Damon from St. Louis, XO Garnett's voice pre-empted.

"Lieutenant."

Spinning away from the railing to face his acting CO, Danny's posture became rigid. 'Ma'am."

She smiled, handing him what looked suspiciously like change of command papers. "Captain Chandler wanted me to give you these once Lieutenant Damon safely landed."

He accepted them, cautioning himself against the undue hope that this meant what he thought it meant.

"Orders from CNO," she continued. "You're going home."

Presidential Palace, Hong Kong, New China

Peng's palace was a sprawling playground of sumptuous fabrics and expensive stone—Sasha expected nothing less. She shouldn't have been surprised; Val didn't seem like the type to wear business professional, but Sasha was at least hoping for slacks over the variety of skinny jeans, t-shirts, and singular blazer the younger woman had packed. Wolf's intel had been accurate. The peninsula was its own kingdom with one access point at the base of the cliffs connecting it to greater Hong Kong, and within its confines, the people lived like kings. There was no currency. Merely a system of give and take—except the taking only benefited the few. 'A communist paradise,' she'd mumbled to Pablo while they loaded up what they needed under the constant oppressive escort of Peng's MSS. And though she'd never admit so—especially to Tom—until their transport had entered the gates of Peng's mansion, she'd been expecting to encounter a conveniently well-timed and fatal accident. Pablo's abnormal quietness gave Sasha the idea that he felt similar… Tex, on the other hand?

"Howdy." He sauntered up to one of the dozen guards manning the entrance, his casual appearance standing in stark contrast to their well-tailored suits. "This ain't a bad place to work, huh?"

Sasha chewed the inside of her cheek, smoothing the lapels of her blazer, and noted one of Peng's security conspicuously speaking into their mouthpiece while staring at her.

"You do have some kind of backup plan, right?" Pablo uttered, grabbing both of their rucks from the Humvee only for a member of the palace staff to scupper forward, insisting that they would take care of transferring luggage to the accommodations provided for foreign delegates, et al.

Sasha made a skeptical sound. "I may or may not be winging it."

"Oh," he chimed. "So really all you're banking on is him not wanting to shoot us point blank in front of the rest of Asia?"

"Something like that."

"Nice. At least tell me you clued Captain America in."

They ascended the exterior steps; the shoes Sasha had acquired already chaffing because they were a half size too small. "Just stick to the plan, okay?"

State functions had always fatigued Tom, but this exemplified everything he hated about his newfound status. From the moment he'd arrived, the throng of individuals who'd approached seemed endless, and true to Sasha's belief, he didn't require translation to gather the gist. Most of the attendees were multi-lingual or had a dedicated translator themselves. There were only a few people with whom he'd been unable to converse, and he'd kept it brief when Peng had approached in greeting. Now Tom found himself on the lower rear patio, surveying the expansive gardens. The sun was still yet to set, and already he was itching to return to his ship, but not before convincing Sasha to stop playing this deadly game of cat and mouse. Almost as though she'd sensed her ownership of his thoughts, Tom registered footsteps on the stone behind him.

"Taking refuge?"

Something warm seemed to travel the length of his spine in response to the sound of her voice.

When she stood beside him, he glanced. Unlike an hour before, her hair was flowing loosely to her shoulders, and it occurred that it was shorter than it was in Norfolk. The black suit she'd chosen was crisp. The fabric of her ivory blouse gleaming a golden hue in the dying sunlight, and it shouldn't be jarring to witness how smoothly Sasha could execute a flawless charade, but it was. It stood as definitive evidence of their years spent apart, a suggestion of the many evolutions she'd undergone where, in contrast, he felt abjectly stuck. There was so much about Sasha that Tom wasn't privy anymore, and lately, a deep regret had begun to eclipse his guilt. A gnawing one.

"There's only so much of the same conversation I can have," he confessed, forcing himself to stop looking at her and map the pattern of Peng's security team instead.

"Well you're quite the celebrity," she chimed. "The man who saved the world?"

His cheeks hollowed.

"I did warn you that it wouldn't blow over this time."

"And I seem to recall you admitting that you've always loved being right," he drawled, abandoning the delusional pretense that he was going to do anything other than spend the evening intensely distracted. Her lip curved, demure in avoiding a full-blown grin, and he found unintentionally that his body had pivoted to face hers.

That night.

In truth, he hadn't much replayed it—yes, she'd been beautiful, and he'd loved her all the same, that was a truth he'd accepted long before the Red Flu—but with time and distance, he'd been able to perceive how deep his grief had been. How far it had seeped into their every interaction.

"Michener's using you as a politician now?" she redirected, softening that particular aura she could wield that often left him captivated. A smart choice on her part, Tom could concede—because he didn't know how much longer he could stare at those lips while she goaded him without kissing her.

"He's been very clear about the message he intends to convey."

"And he thinks that sending you as the aggressor will be better received?" Her skepticism was dripping, and Tom couldn't hold her at fault. "If anything, Peng's going to take it as a direct threat," she continued.

"Maybe it is."

Taken aback, Sasha shifted her stance. "There's no way the US has the bandwidth to go to war with China."

"We don't. Not without allies, but as of two weeks ago, what's left of the Canadian and British fleets pledged their support in Peng's removal." He paused. "If it comes down to that."

For a few seconds, Sasha processed then stepped away from the stone balustrade, drawing close enough for him to map every delicate freckle dusting her skin. Again. This time around, he felt he'd done a better job of remembering them.

"Are you seriously telling me that if the US doesn't reach an agreement with Peng, it's about to declare World War Three?" When framed in a broader context, yes, he supposed that's exactly what was at stake. "Tom, this is insane," she hissed, amending her stance almost immediately upon remembering that their every move was being watched.

"More insane than you walking through the front door of the man who tried to kill you?" he countered, jaw clenched.

Whatever response had been forthcoming was tabled when Sasha's demeanor changed, and not ten seconds later, Tom understood why. In yet another language he couldn't identify, someone began speaking behind him, and there was no other choice but to temper frustration, turn around, and engage.

Dinner was just another exercise in discipline that chipped methodically away at the widening gap called his resolve. "Japan's a no-show," he began, while Sasha sipped from an ornately decorated wine glass. "Make's me wonder if there's anyone left to sit."

Now he was stuck admiring the finely sharp angle of her jaw. How it complimented the elegant contours of her neck… She glanced faster than he could pretend, and instead of answering, she squinted. Next, she finished swallowing and swept away the renegade bead of champagne left on her lower lip with her tongue...

"What are you looking at?" she murmured.

"You."

Around him, the drone of clinking cutlery against china seemed loud, and before the flush of color finished painting her skin, the announcement of a toast quieted the room. Sasha straightened, returning her focus to the opposite side of the table, and donned a falsely approachable expression. Peng began speaking in Mandarin, and moments later, her translation followed:

"To our guests, for taking the time to gather during this great period of uncertainty. And to you, Captain Chandler—the man who brought the cure to the world."

Tom lifted his glass—its contents still untouched—as the table echoed mummers of customary approval. "And to you, President Peng. For being gracious enough to host this event."

Peng made a show of awaiting his translator before smiling and nodding, then drinking to the toast.

"Though I do wonder, Mr. President"—Tom continued, adjusting his flute by the stem to smooth a crease in the tablecloth—"if I haven't done enough."

Again, the gathering fell silent, and he felt Sasha stiffen.

Peng took his time similarly situating his glass before responding.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Sasha relayed.

"I'm sure you're familiar with the Scott Effect. The scientific formula used to determine the critical number of people needed to receive the contagious cure for it to continue spreading effectively?" The President remained impassive, and Tom continued, "Without it, the cure burns out, and whole populations are left unprotected. Now, I've been in Asia for the past month, Mr. President—trying to spread it... and it would seem to me that the doses that I've been delivering, haven't been getting to the people who need it."

Peng canted his head and lifted a hand, dismissing his translator. His next words were spoken in fluent English, though certain syllables hissed from the influence of his mother tongue. "On the contrary, Captain Chandler. I, and the rest of my country, are eager to do more to combat the virus."

Tom forced himself not to react nor to mirror the way Sasha's gaze slid left in search of his. "You'll have to elaborate. Mr. President."

The curve of Peng's lip was smug. "America is not the only country with access to a scientist, Captain." He paused for effect, and Tom's eyes narrowed, the turn unexpected. "There can be no doubt of Doctor Scott's achievements, nor your contributions… but trying to spread a cure through an entire continent with so few resources is a task that even China cannot accomplish at such speed." Again, the smug grin. "Forty-eight countries. Seventeen million square miles of land? Four billion people before the virus ravaged our shores?" Peng's brows lifted, and once more he paused. "Tell me—Captain. Why is it that America refuses to share its formula with the rest of the world, and instead relies on China to supply the muscles required to produce the aerosolized kind?"

Droll Tom canted his head to the opposite side. "The President has been more than transparent about our decision to keep methodologies that can be weaponized from falling into exploitative hands."

Peng hummed, his chin lowering and demeanor becoming demonstrative. "Yet it would seem that President Michener has been withholding information about the true nature of the virus." Peng glanced around the table, satisfied with the resulting tension that simmered in his wake. "How it came to replicate and spread so effectively when compared to the original strain that caused the initial outbreak in Asia?"

A low hum of chatter rippled around the table, and Tom felt the effects of over two dozen pairs of eyes awaiting his rebuttal. Except he was between a rock and a hard place, because Michener had chosen to keep sealed Neils' involvement, and worse, Tom sensed that Peng knew it. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, tone even. "I'm just a military man, Mr. President. Not a scientist."

"Of course, Captain." His sincerity was over-enthusiastic. "And I must say that I regret to be the one to inform you that you have been misled—our scientist has confirmed that the strain which infected and killed half the world, contains a human genome." Again more murmurs echoed, and the flames surrounding Tom began to lick. "The only reasonable conclusion we can reach is that the virus had already been tampered with. Weaponized." Peng leaned back, posturing himself in the chair. "One must naturally ask why it is your administration that seeks to keep this information from the world… if, as you say, it has nothing to hide."

Tom could no longer resist the urge to glance at Sasha, every ounce of the trepidation roaring through his system reflected in her eyes. And now he couldn't provide the explanation without regressing on the lie he'd used to deflect the conversation…

Finally.

A frustration of a different nature urgent enough to eclipse his need for the woman sitting beside him, and the unshakable notion that he'd been fed to the wolves—knowingly—arose.

"You understand, Captain. Why my trust in President Michener has wavered." Peng again smirked. His eye contact un-yielding while a member of his staff leaned in to deliver a message. Next, he removed a linen napkin from his lap, placing it upon the table whose occupants remained steeped in stupefied silence. "You must excuse me." Peng's expression became flat. Dead. "I have a pressing matter of business to attend."

White House, St. Louis, Missouri

"This is an absolute disaster!" Secretary of Foreign Affairs Rivera slammed his palm on a table. "We just gave Peng the floor in front of the whole of Asia and let him accuse us of not only creating the virus but trying to hide it!"

"Alex," Allison interjected. "Get a hold of yourself!"

Before him the bickering continued, and Mike fought the desire to roll his eyes.

"How the hell did we not know that he's working with a scientist!?" Rivera demanded.

"Trying to develop assets in the region is… we don't have many options," Green clarified diplomatically on his behalf.

"This is bad news," Rivera ranted.

"We just need to make our own statement. Get out in front of it—"

"No." Mike met the cool challenge in Allison's gaze and refused to back down from it. "Not until our team is off the ground and safely back on the Nathan James—"

"Well you can't pull him out early." Rivera whirled around amidst his restless pacing. "All that would do is signify culpability and admit to the rest of the world that we've just been caught shitting with our pants down!"

Presidential Palace, Hong Kong, New China

"Bold move to publicly accuse the US of engineering the virus," Tom stated, posture rigid while standing beside Peng on one of the many patio spaces. Several hours had passed since his theatrics at dinner, the evening drawing to a close and the grounds blanketed by nightfall. But there was still the matter of Japan.

"Surely you see, Captain, from an outside perspective how unlikely it is that such a coincidence has occurred when your administration continues to twist its own truths."

"You mean like the truth of why you're preventing us from reaching Japan?" Tom peered down to his right, unblinking as he awaited Peng's response.

"As I have explained many a time to your President—every effort we have made to deliver the cure has been met with nothing but hostility from Japan's delegates. Their primitive beliefs have allowed the virus to mutate, and I cannot risk my country, or my allies, becoming reinfected when we are still yet to cure over twenty percent of our own populations."

The grin on Tom's face was cold. "There's just one problem, Mr. President."

Peng feigned interest.

"The virus cannot mutate."

Nodding, Peng grinned. "I admire your commitment to belief, but our scientist has obtained a sample confirming that Doctor Scott is incorrect."

Only two decades of conditioning allowed Tom's expression to remain stoic, despite his visceral internal rejection of Peng's words.

"I'm happy to share our findings with St. Lou—"

"You should do that," Tom confirmed. "Along with scheduling a meeting between your scientist and ours—to discuss the findings."

The sneer slipped from Peng's features, his acceptance of the proverbial gauntlet, resolute. "Gladly."

For several moments, Tom held eye contact before lowering his chin in a singular nod. They needed secure comms. Done with the conversation, Tom made to leave but was stopped by Peng's next statement.

"Perhaps if we are to engage in matters of transparency, Captain—you'd be willing to explain why your translator has been stealing my cure."

A beat of stillness ensued before Tom pivoted, holding in earnest Peng's gaze. "I wasn't aware. My ground team encountered her in Hai Phong. She claimed to have been working with Médecins Sans Frontières during the initial outbreak. St. Louis ran her background before I approved the appointment. It came back clear."

While Peng stared, Tom forced himself not to waver.

Peng hummed, the sound between acknowledgment and amusement. "I'd like to see it."

Something tugged unpleasantly in Tom's gut. "Secretary Rivera can provide a copy."

Each room and hallway required keycard access. Dozens of guards were posted inside and out. CCTV covered near every square inch of the palace, and yet somehow, after traversing the maze of corridors, when Tom entered his designated en-suite, he found Sasha inside it. The door clicked, and the keypad beeped behind him.

She was standing at a window, frame bathed in moonlight. "Val found an exploit and hacked into his security systems," she announced, satisfying at least one of his endless and unspoken curiosities: how.

Still, he loomed by the entrance, willing himself to think instead of react.

"She created a loop in the feed for this corridor. She'll turn it off at 0200."

Her arms were folded, a formerly assured expression faltering under the weight of his unyielding gaze. Tom began to walk forward.

"The rooms aren't bugged. I checked," she continued quietly.

After Peng's team insisted on carrying their luggage, he'd ordered Wolf to do the same.

"So let's talk"—her words were almost whispered—"I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

She was within an arms' reach now, the pupils of her iris' so round in the dark that their brightly precise color was almost gone.

That ache that he had been carrying for so long flared hot.

"I don't want to talk," he rasped and then crushed his lips against hers.