an. FFnet is not sending alerts again (yay). This is cross-posted to AO3 if you do want reliable email notifications on my sporadic updates.

References: St. Augustine, Chapter 30: 'There Is No Take Two'.

Guest review response: Thank you for the review. Tom and Sasha are being avoidant as ever, if not more, of impossible conversations, but I did like in canon that they weren't the type to wax lyrical. I don't think there was really much left to say without making things harder. It's all been said already. I do feel evil, though, ha. Danny is in a seriously bad predicament :( — re: Mike, I feel awful for him too. I think that he needed to understand that Christine's anger wasn't so much at him but a very complex and traumatic guilt. It was a very important conversation for them to have. Hope you enjoy the update! Sorry, it took me a month.

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And I'm Struggling to Remember

just what it means to be alive

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USS Nathan James, South China Sea

"So, how's your girl doin'?" Pablo asked. Anything to pierce the empty monotony of being stuck on this tin can waiting.

"Good. She's good. They got her over at Fort Leonard. They're runnin' a bootcamp for some of the minors." Tex replied, voice tinny where it reflected from the bulkhead's ceiling.

"You let her enlist?"

Tex made a sound. Old. Weathered. "You're makin' it sound like I had a choice. That gal's sixteen goin' on thirty. She wants to join a flight crew—be a pilot someday."

"In the Army?"

"Nah. Navy—they turned it into a joint base a couple weeks after you guys left."

Sixteen and already pressing for the front lines. Damn if that didn't make him feel old. "The hell we doin' lettin' sixteen-year-olds enlist?"

"Product of the times, my friend." Despite Tex's easy delivery, Pablo saw it for what it was. Empty self-comfort.

"What about you and the Doc? Make any progress yet?"

A deep snort answered. "I'll let you know when the pigs fly."

Despite it all, Pablo grinned.

The metal joints above him creaked when Tex shifted, his head now hanging over the bunk's side. Tex eyed him for a long moment. "You're pissed at Commodore for lettin' her go."

Pablo clenched his jaw but said nothing. Resolute in starting at the bunk's underside.

"I get it man, I do. But Sasha's a big gal. Trained operator. Chandler wouldn't've green-lit the op if he didn't think she could handle it."

"Doesn't mean I gotta like it," he ground out. "I just don't get what she sees in him, you know?"

Tex raised an eyebrow. "Commodore? He's a good man. Knows how to lead. Sasha respects that—"

"No, I mean she trusts him, and I—"

He shut his mouth.

Sasha would flay him alive if he disclosed what she'd shared in confidence about their history—feelings notwithstanding—but that was exactly his issue. She was putting her faith, her life, in the hands of a person who'd already let her down, and that was a concept so uncharacteristic of the operator he'd come to know that he couldn't figure it the fuck out.

"You don't?" Tex said. "You got an actual reason for that or . . ."

Pablo narrowed his eyes. "The hell's that s'posed to mean?"

"Oh nothin'. Just sayin' . . . you're startin' to sound like a jealous boyfriend, is all."

"Fuck off." Pablo kicked the bunk, and Tex snickered. "It's not like that and you know it."

"Do I?"

"You damn well should. Sasha's—" he blew out a breath. Tried again. "She's all I got left, man. Everyone else is dead . . ."

There came a pause, where Tex sobered. "She's your family. Ain't easy watchin' family walk into the fire."

"Even harder when you're stuck on your ass playin' patty cake." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Exhaustion was pulling at him now that the anger had faded. "I'm gonna try and get some shut-eye."

"Roger that." The mattress creaked when Tex rolled onto his back again. "Just try not to dream about Sasha and Commodore makin' kissy faces." A series of exaggerated smooching sounds followed.

"Asshole," Pablo muttered, but there was no heat in it. He rolled to face the wall, forcibly shutting out thoughts of Sasha and whatever type of hell she might be walking into.

Not like he could do shit about it now except hope.

o o o

St. Louis, Missouri

Jacob arrived first, choosing a secluded booth at the back of the diner with a clear view of the entrance and windows. He sipped a black coffee, its bitterness sharp and befitting of his overall outlook since the virus. This place on Fifth had been a staple before the virus. On weekends he'd take his wife to brunch and chat with the owners, immigrants from South Korea who had moved in the '90s. The decor reflected that—dirty walls painted in faded aqua that was not quite blue nor green and might be considered soothing—except it held a tinge of putrid when competing against bright cherry vinyl booths, navy checkered floors, and a mismatch of curiously floral tablecloths.

The owners of S&S Diner had lucked out.

They won a place at Busch Stadium, but Jacob hadn't been so fortunate. The lottery system for civilians who lacked essential skills had been cruel to Barnes' family. Jacob had hoped that, given his wife's condition, they'd qualify on merit to quarantine either there or within The Dome, but as the days passed and spaces dwindled, Jacob soon understood that to the government? They were nothing. Mere numbers on a census deemed expendable. With only 100,000 tickets available to a population of over two million?

Well.

The conclusion seemed foregone, and he'd been right.

The government abandoned them, and he'd paid the ultimate price.

Jacob liked coming here.

Sure, the menu was limited to tea and coffee, often without the option of dairy, and occasionally, the basics of a fried breakfast could be snatched up, though supplies tended to run out within the first twenty minutes of opening, but none of that mattered.

Before the virus, he used to play hooky here, set up at his favorite table by the front window opposite the Chase. He liked watching people go about their business while he composed reports. Sometimes he almost convinced himself—if he ignored the boarded-up buildings and desolate streets—that Michelle would be at home waiting for him—ready to bitch about her day and the field of petty grievances and intricate corporate feuds that inevitably piled themselves upon HR's desk . . .

His musings were interrupted when Allison walked in.

Gone were the tailored suits and sharp heels, replaced with jeans and a simple hoodie. Her hair was tucked beneath an unbranded cap that shielded most of her face, and so departed from her public persona, she could have been anyone.

After taking a moment to locate him, she sat down on the opposite side of the booth, her posture rigid, and he bucked himself up—preparing for whatever wickedly worded newspeak would spill from her uncharacteristically bare lips. After failing to convert Mrs. Green—far too in love with the ideals of crew and country to think critically—Jacob had no doubt that Allison was here to rein him in.

"Allison, thank you for coming. I know this is a risk for you."

She took a moment to scan the diner before settling her gaze on him. "I wouldn't have agreed if it weren't important, Jacob . . . and I don't have much time, so I'm going to forgo the bullshit and be transparent with you."

His brow creased, and he squinted but quickly corrected himself.

"You're right. There's something off about the president . . . about Jeffrey."

Jeffrey.

"It's been nagging at me for weeks now, but ever since President Peng forced him into making a statement about the—" Allison broke off when a waitress approached and angled her face toward the half wall dividing the booths. Jacob took the initiative and politely dismissed . . . 'Beth,' her nametag read, and once Beth sashayed back to the service counter, Allison continued.

"The official account doesn't add up. Jeffrey has been too dismissive about the details. Too quick to bury any questions."

Slow, Jacob leaned in, his palm around the warm curve of his coffee, and kept his tone low. "What exactly are we talking about here?"

"There are whispers behind closed doors—about what really happened at Doak Stadium . . . why so many sections of the official report have been redacted."

"From who?" he urged.

"I can't disclose that."

Seeing the way her body language shuttered, Jacob dropped it despite the intoxicating thrill of conspiracy. "And what about Asia? Why has the president been so tight-lipped about what Captain Chandler is doing there?"

An indignant scoff arose. "Because Captain Chandler is a loose cannon. Jeffrey has no control over him—he doesn't respect the chain of command." Upon seeing his confusion, Alison placed her elbows on the table. "Look. Jeffrey and Chandler were two people who happened to be in the right place at the right time, and yes—along with Doctor Scott, they delivered the cure—but that doesn't make them the right individuals to rebuild this country. Jeffrey was too quick to shoehorn Chandler in and look at where that's gotten us—a yes man assigned to the White House to keep Chandler's seat warm—"

"You're referring to Captain Slattery?" Jacob clarified.

Allison only stared. "No one wants to tell the truth, and Jeffrey doesn't want to hear it. How could anyone turn their back on such a noble hero." Reigning in the impassioned nature of her tone, she leaned back again, tucking her hands in her lap. "The two of them are mongering for war when our duty is to the American people—not policing the territorial disputes of a continent on the other side of the planet."

"Are you saying that Captain Chandler is in Hong Kong to oust President Peng? And that Michener ordered this?"

An aura of defiance seemed to emit from her. "I'm saying that Captain Chandler is no longer in Hong Kong. Do you not find it curious that not one photograph shared from the summit depicts the Captain and President Peng together?"

Though he remained externally passive, his blood was beating a drum.

"How kindly do you think our president would take to being threatened in his own country while hosting a summit? And yet that is exactly what Jeffrey sent Chandler to do, in front of the whole of Asia." She paused. "I tried to warn him that this was too aggressive, but Jeffrey ignored me, and now Peng is no longer interested in cooperating with us. He's about to announce trade sanctions when we can barely feed our own people or produce enough fuel to keep our supply chains from collapsing . . . we're on the brink of another disaster, Jacob, and by the time the public finds out, it's going to be chaos."

For a moment, Jacob sat with the information, mind racing through the inconsistencies of President Michener's public statements in the wake of Allison's claims. "But what do the other regional leaders make of this? Is the president still trying to negotiate with Peng? Why isn't anyone doing anything?"

"They agree that our focus needs to be on our domestic policies. We can't afford to keep wasting resources in the East, but Jeffrey's put us in a situation where we may have no choice but to enter into a war."

Rapidly, his gaze bounced from left to right, almost stupefied by the severity of what Allison was saying . . . the unlikelihood of walking into a story that could be one of the biggest events in the country's history right after the world ended?

"Why come to me with this? If you all agree?"

Allison's eyes grew round and unexpectedly human. "Because I'm not sure who I can trust," she whispered. "I've seen what happens when too many questions are asked, but you, Jacob . . . you have a platform . . . and you've always sought the truth, no matter the cost. The other journalists"—a dismissive gesture flitted across her features—"they don't ask the critical questions like you do. They don't have the courage to dig deeper, but you do. You've seen them every time Jeffrey shares one of his meticulously scripted answers—they eat it up."

The implications of her words hung between them . . . acknowledgment of the danger she was asking him to undertake. An invasive mental image surfaced: a pistol—his finger in the trigger well . . . a man shielding his wife who cowered behind him in the alley he'd followed them to after they collected their quarantine wristbands . . . a choice. His wife and child, or his morality?

"What do you need me to do?" Jacob whispered, the words thick on his tongue.

A sheen of unexpected moisture glistened in Allison's eyes, and she tentatively reached across the space. When her palm curled around his wrist, a perplexing rush of sensations he felt ill-equipped to understand nor define assaulted him.

He hadn't been touched since Michelle died.

"I can get you access to some of the internal reports, emails, maybe. But you'll need to do the digging from there—and I need you to promise me that you won't go public with anything you may uncover about Doak Stadium until I am sure that Jeffrey doesn't suspect me." Visibly she swallowed. Her grip grew more urgent, as though he was the only thing tethering her to earth.

"I'm not safe, Jacob," she uttered. "He—he's paranoid. About everything. The regional leaders, the press, you. We're already operating under martial law without a functional congress or system of self-elected governance . . . the last thing I want to do is turn him into a full-blown dictator."

The tension in his frame leeched from one of trepidation to purpose, and he allowed himself this moment of connection. With a sigh, he covered Allison's hand with his own and squeezed.

"I understand."

o o o

Unknown Location

Hinges screeched, jolting Danny from a restless sleep.

He rolled, ignoring the protest in his ribs, just as hands grabbed him. Rough. Impersonal. A hood covered his head again, scratchy and foul, before he could twist away. Then they were moving. The cold floor sent shockwaves through his bare soles, and Danny shivered.

Left. Right. Right again.

He tried to track their path. Thirty-seven paces later, a door groaned open.

Antiseptic assaulted his senses. He knew that smell. Knew the quality of light filtering through the hood's weave and the distant sounds of machines beeping in tandem with the ragged breaths and cries of pain. The guards shoved him down, the impact of his back against a gurney forcing his ribs to scream. He fought them. Limbs flailing despite their lethargy, but the hood vanished, and fluorescent light seared into his retinas, stealing his vision. By the time the starbursts cleared, metal pinched his wrists and ankles.

They had handcuffed him to a bed.

A woman in scrubs appeared on his left. Hope tore through him—she was wearing a surgical mask, but he could still see that she didn't appear to be of Asian descent . . . her skin was olive. Her brows were meticulously sculpted and sloped wide over deep-set eyes with a generous crease. The medical cap that she wore strained against the thickness of her hair, long and brown. She lacked any discernable signs of aging. Her forehead was glass-smooth in a way that made Danny think she'd had Botox.

Penlight in hand, she checked his pupillary response, the touch of her gloved fingers clinical and cold.

"Where am I?" he rasped. "What do you want?"

She pulled back, features unchanged, and prodded at his ribs.

Danny flinched, but still, she continued the examination. No words. No acknowledgment of his humanity. Like he was just a slab of meat.

"He's a good candidate," she announced. In English. American English. "Prep him."

"Prep me?" Panic clawed his throat, stamping out the relief that he could at least understand her. "Prep me for what? Hey! Answer me, goddammit!"

The snap of latex gloves being removed was her only response before she walked away.

He thrashed. Metal bit into his flesh, but no one looked. No one cared. All around him, moans of misery rose in a discordant chorus, and bile scalded the back of his tongue. A man appeared on his right, also dressed in scrubs. His jaw was lined with stubble that peeked beyond the mask, and his gaze held no empathy. Only determination. He flipped Danny onto his side; the motion sending agony ripping through his chest, and then there was a swipe of ice at the base of his spine.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The only answer was a needle plunged through skin and muscle and into bone. Fire consumed his nerve endings. Pressure mounted until his vision tunneled and sweat streaked his face. He panted. Cursed them. But the searing torture only intensified as the needle probed deeper, and Danny could no longer hold back his scream. An eternity later, the needle withdrew, but there was no relief, only a hollowness where something vital had been stolen. Danny squeezed his eyes shut; body wracked with involuntary tremors as the distinct metallic stench of blood soured the air.

o o o

USS Nathan James, South China Sea

At the head of the wardroom table, Tom sat in the CO's chair as he waited for Shemanski to arrive. There had been no communication since the briefing, and as Tom contemplated, he was forced to acknowledge that the tension between them had blossomed right around the time he'd watched the man embrace Sasha after Vicksburg.

The wardroom door opened.

Shemanski entered, stiff, expression guarded. Tom watched as he came to parade rest, his gaze fixed just beyond his shoulder.

Casually, Tom took a sip, the warm liquid doing little to thaw the ice block in his chest. Next, he placed the mug back on the table, carefully arranging the handle to face just so until it was aligned in perpendicular fashion to the edge . . . a minor act of control in a situation that felt anything but.

Finally, Tom broke the silence. "The pirate's vessel turned due south-southeast thirty minutes ago. I believe they're heading toward the Paracel Islands."

A flicker of surprise broke through Shemanski's stoic demeanor, and Tom found himself pondering who 'Paul' truly was beneath the surface; then blinked instead of reacting to his own thoughts dictating the man's name in Sasha's voice.

"Not a coincidence," Shemanski said.

"Agreed."

"So, what's the extract plan?"

"There isn't one. Not yet." Tom held his gaze, clocking the anger which flared deep in Shemanski's dark eyes. "The Spratlys are on the same bearing—it's possible that my assumptions are incorrect, but even if they're not, that still leaves us with one-hundred-thirty islands spread across more than one-hundred nautical miles to search. It's too broad."

Shemanski's repose soured further; frustration etched in the taut lines around his mouth, but Tom found himself forced to extend credit—voicing displeasure was futile, and Shemanski did not attempt to.

The unspoken words and simmering resentment crackled like a living being in that moment; consequences that kept extending in ripples that none of them could have foreseen.

Lacing his fingers together, Tom canted his head, neutral when he spoke, "I understand that this is personal for you—but I won't tolerate another display of insubordination aboard my ship again."

A muscle ticked in Shemanski's face, a spark of challenge seeping from him in waves. "If we're speaking freely?"

Tom inclined his head once.

"It should be personal for you too."

The words sliced, and for a moment, Tom allowed them to.

"I never said that it wasn't."

Quiet intensity followed; a flicker of recognition upon Shemanski's face, and then he turned on his heel and left.

In the vacuum, Tom once more sipped from the drink and stayed the endless wave of anxiety and regret.

o o o

May 19, 2014—0700 UTC-5

White House, St. Louis, Missouri

Rachel meandered through the pristine corridors of the White House, the determined cadence of her footfalls a staccato juxtaposition to the unease worming within her gut in anticipation of meeting Peng's scientist and discussing his findings. Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed clammy palms along her slacks and approached the green room's entrance where a secret service agent stood sentry with a hypervigilant, unblinking stare.

"Dr. Scott." He dipped his chin in greeting, briefly sweeping over the visitor's badge pinned to her lapel before pivoting to grant her admittance with a sharp twist of the handle.

She murmured her thanks, but the platitude rang hollow as she crossed the threshold.

Her gaze was immediately drawn to the far corner, where Captain Slattery, General Bonner, and Allison Shaw stood huddled. The latter's posture was terse, arms folded and jaw visibly clenched while she issued clipped instructions to Dennis, who was bent over an open laptop.

Slowly, Rachel ventured further into the space, so distracted by the way her skin prickled at the negative energy permeating the room that she nearly tripped over an errant power cord and then froze altogether upon sighting the presentation board positioned in the far corner. It was cork and tidy, but what drew her focus was the array of candid photographs tacked with red pushpins and covered in scrawling black marker. The letters 'KIA' glared up from beneath several, but it was the 'MIA' stark against Danny Green's official portrait that sent her heart climbing into her throat.

"Doc." Slattery's succinct acknowledgment drew her attention.

Angling to face him, Rachel noted the grimness of his features and lowered her voice. "What's going on?"

Mike gave a minute shake of his head, gaze darting between Allison and the General before he muttered, "I'm sorry, it's classified."

Her brow pinched, observing the strain of unspoken words. Begrudgingly, Rachel accepted his reticence with a nod before asking softly, "Tex?"

"With Chandler." A muscle in Mike's jaw flickered. "Alive."

Bolstered by that meager reassurance, Rachel crossed to a chair at the table's far end and perched gingerly on its edge, lacing her fingers atop the table's gleaming surface while her teeth worked the inside of her cheek raw.

After a moment, Dennis's voice sliced through the cloistered atmosphere. "We're connected."

Wetting her lips, Rachel observed as he tapped a series of commands on the keyboard. The screen flickered, an angular face coalescing amidst the pixels—one that she recognized instantly—the man's thin lips curled, a serpentine smile that elicited nothing but frigid unease.

"Dr. Scott. I have been looking forward to speaking with you."

Beneath the weight of his stare, she affected an expression of calm to counter the sour churn in her stomach. "I am sure that you have, Dr. Velleck."

o o o

May 19, 2014—2100 UTC+7

USS Nathan James, South China Sea

With a foot braced on the panel before him, Tom allowed the rhythmic metronome of beeping to become his white noise. The bridge was muted save for the hum of instrumentation and the green blip crawling across the radar screen to his right. It had burned into his retinas with such permanence that every time he blinked, it flashed.

For twenty-eight hours, the James had been trailing the pirate's vessel from the precise distance of seventy-five nautical miles, the closest that they could be without detection. This ship was a different class to the one that had transported Green—half the maximum speed and smaller.

"Sir."

Andrea's voice cut through the fog and Tom straightened, mask slipping into place like an ill-fitting chafe against his raw edges. She approached with a tablet in hand, the glow casting shadows across her face.

"I have the fuel report from engineering. The diesel we took on in Hai Phong is holding mostly stable, but I'd recommend we increase our filtration to avoid mucking up the pistons."

"Do it. Notify me if anything changes."

Her nod was crisp, but the hint of something knowing, unconcealed in her gaze, dredged up the memory of that night in St. Louis. Andrea studied him for a moment; the cracks must be showing . . . but before he could deflect, the internship phone chimed.

Tom reached forward. "Go for Bridge."

"CIC, Bridge—Sir, you need to see this."

Tom's jaw ticked. "I'm on my way."

The handset slammed down. He hopped from the chair. "Attention in the pilothouse, XO Garnett has the conn."

In less than a minute, he was in CIC and moving with purpose to join Carlton Burk at the main console. A charter map was spread out with an erratic line plotted across it.

"What am I looking at?"

Burk's finger traced the zigzagging path. "The vessel, sir. They've been weaving back and forth for the past fifteen minutes."

Tom leaned in. The course made no sense, a nonsensical path that was neither a search formation nor what he'd expect under evasive maneuvers if they'd been detected via radar . . .

"Sir, they just made another adjustment," Nishioka said and then relayed the next set of coordinates for Burk to plot.

As the TAO's pencil marked the paper, recognition tickled Tom's spine. "They're avoiding something."

The crease of intense concentration in the center of Burk's forehead deepened, and then it went slack, along with the rest of his features. "It's a minefield—"

"And we're sailing right into it," Tom finished, muscles in his face hardening. "Get me everything we have on this area—I want a full tactical analysis, every scrap of intel we can find!"

"Aye, sir."