by Unknown
"Not a problem, soldier." Archer grabs a warm washcloth from the other basin. He wrings it out with one hand before swabbing Jason's face with it. "Gotta get you prettied up for the major."
Despite himself, Jason slouches a little, eyelids fluttering shut. He's been to a barber only once before; military life doesn't allow for such indulgences. Having someone else wash and lather up his skin is like being in a spa. "Major?"
"Major Grier. He's the ranking officer here. Once you're on the road to recovery, you'll meet him."
Jason frowns. "Where am I? What division of Spec Ops are you in?"
"Dawn Division," Archer says, pulling at Jason's skin. The razor blade is cool against his skin, and Archer wields it with efficiency. "You won't have heard of it. You wouldn't believe the security clearance necessary."
"What does Dawn Division do?" Jason asks.
Archer taps the razor against the edge of the basin. "Our primary objective is to expose and eliminate the Order of the Golden Dawn."
Jason blinks, confused. "And what is that, exactly?"
"It's like the Illuminati, only real." Archer goes back to shaving. "It's a terrorist organization within the United States, though we suspect their reach extends throughout the Americas. Ostensibly, they're a spiritual flock who teach others about various mythologies and practice geomancy. They have titles like Neophyte and Adeptus. We've spotted them advertising witchcraft and alchemy classes."
"Alchemy?" Jason parrots, skeptical. "Doesn't seem like the type of people that need an entire Spec Ops division dedicated to sniffing them out."
"It's all a front, of course," Archer lectures. "There are thousands of quirky, supernatural extracurriculars in the Western Hemisphere. Keeping track of all of them at all times is impossible, and the Order knows that." Archer drops the razor and pats Jason dry with the towel. His white shirt is marred with some water splashes.
Jason reaches up to rub his cheeks. Archer has done an impeccable job; he's smooth as silk again. "You call them terrorists. How are they terrorizing us?"
"They've got their hands in everything," Archer says. He drapes the towel around Jason's shoulders next. "Pharmaceuticals, corporate conglomerates, global warming, the housing market… you name it, they're pulling the strings somehow. No one knows precisely how deep it all goes."
No, that's too overwhelming. No conspiracy could possibly go that deep. Jason shakes his head in an effort to clear it. He's used to hearing about villains so evil that they couldn't be real. He's killed villains so evil that they couldn't be real. But this so-called Order is right out of a movie. "That's too much. Why does your division even exist if they control everything? God, why do they even allow the military to stick around?"
The low whirr of the buzzer starts up, and Archer begins touching up Jason's high-and-tight. "'The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn't exist,'" he quotes. "Armies are here to defend the homeland and protect the common man. But what happens when the greatest enemy comes from within?" The buzzer shuts off, and Archer cleans the stray hairs from Jason's neck. "The Order is best at hiding in plain sight. They could be anywhere, watching us at any time. That's why you're here."
"And you won't tell me where 'here' is, right?"
"Sorry, all I can say is you're in Washington state. This is our private base of operations, and one of the only places in the continental U.S. the Order hasn't penetrated." He smooths out the hair at the top of Jason's head. "Maybe they think you're dead. Maybe we really did save you in the nick of time. Regardless, we can't risk them finding out about you—not until we're able to figure out what it is you know."
Jason lets his head droop. "I don't know anything. My time with those wackos is blurry at best. I don't even know what they wanted with me. How did I get taken prisoner, but Kilik was killed?" He balls his hands into fists. "Why wasn't it the other way around?"
Archer comes around to kneel in front of him. "I wish I had an answer for you, Slate. I really do. Trust me when I say that Major Grier has teams working on getting to the bottom of this." He stands up and offers Jason a hand. "Now, do you want to try a shower?"
Jason stares at him for one long moment. "It's been a really weird day," he says, but he reaches for the hand.
Under the cover of night, Jason and Kilik wait and watch. They're camped out in a ditch on the edge of some foliage in the middle of Oregon. With the scope mounted on his trusty M40, Jason can see the safe house across the fields clear as day. "Can you believe this?" he murmurs into the darkness.
Beside him, Kilik stifles a snort. "Is that a rhetorical question?"
Jason glances back at him. Kilik is his spotter, his partner, and his protector—and he's supposed to be keeping a steady eye on his more powerful scope. But right now he just looks bored, staring up into the starry sky. "Don't let me interrupt you."
Kilik gives him a cocky grin. "No, please—interrupt me. Watching dust settle on that safe house just isn't that riveting."
Jason rolls his eyes and goes back to the scope. "When I signed up for sniper training, I wish I'd known that most of it is just waiting around."
"Recon, recon, and more recon." Kilik makes a noise at the back of his throat. "These are the most boring terrorists I've ever had the displeasure of minding."
"Can't disagree," Jason replies with a smile. "If I get a chance, I'd like to pepper the ground with Magenta's gray matter."
"If only. The brass really want that scum alive. Unfortunately, unless Magenta decides to make a break for it, we just have to babysit him until they organize an offensive." Kilik snorts. "I just can't believe he picked the middle of Oregon to hide out in. If I was an anti-establishmentarian with a wealth of drug money, I could think of a thousand places I'd rather be."
"You? You'd piss the money away in no time, and your enforcers would overthrow you." Jason catches some rustling through the scope. "Hold up. We got movement."
Kilik bends over his scope. "Maintaining radio silence," he says, switching from cavalier to professional with ease. "Logging all enemy activity. Jase, you might get that chance you were talking about."
"They can't be moving already," Jason protests, finger steady on the trigger. "They just got here."
Through the scope, he can see one of Magenta's goons stepping through the door. He looks like John Smith from Everytown, USA: nothing about him stands out. Jason can tell he's armed from the way he walks, one hand always hovering over his waist where his sidearm is hidden. John Smith walks to one of the two cars parked next to the house.
"Running an errand?" Kilik wonders.
"Even terrorists need Cheetos," Jason says. "How many people do you think are in that safe house?"
"Less than ten. Magenta will probably leave half of them behind the next time he jumps ship. It's easier to move in smaller groups."
John Smith is rummaging through the trunk of the car. It's a navy blue sedan that looks road-worn. They watch him for a long minute.
"What is he looking for?" Kilik finally asks. "The trunk isn't that big."
Jason opens his mouth to answer—and hears the underbrush snap behind them. Startled, he turns away from the scope. Then everything happens at once.
The men are everywhere. Jason goes for his transmitter. Kilik goes for his M16. Neither of them makes it. One of the men fires. Even though the bullet hits Kilik, Jason feels it rip through his own flesh—bright hot and unforgiving.
Jason wakes with a start, heart racing. He pants in the darkness, struggling to catch his breath, still locked in the throes of the memory. It's the fifth night in a row that the dream has woken him. He brings a hand up to his neck, fingers curling around his jugular. He wasn't shot, but he feels the pain keenly in the nightmare. Is that how Kilik died? A bullet in the neck, tearing him open to bleed out in a ditch?
"Fuck," Jason coughs, rolling onto his side. As usual, he remembers no details about the men who had jumped them. In his nightmares, they are faceless beings dressed in blackness
. No matter how many times he dreams of it, he never comes out with any answers. He doesn't recall if the men who attacked him were Magenta's or acting on someone else's orders. He doesn't know how they knew he and Kilik were at the safe house.
He doesn't want to go back to sleep. He doesn't want to relive that night again. Jason lies awake until morning light peeks through his window.
*~*~*
Eric wakes up at five-thirty, intending to follow a loose basic training schedule. He rolls out of bed, bare feet landing softly on the cold tiles. His room in this Dawn Division base is Spartan. It contains only his bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a small table, and an en suite bathroom. There isn't enough room to do much exercise, but Eric does some stretches. He showers, shaves, and dresses. Once he looks presentable, he heads out to Slate's room.
All things considered, Slate has been making excellent recovery, at least as far as his physical health is concerned. Once loaded up with water and proper nutrients, it hadn't taken long for his body to bounce back. Eric suspects that today will be the last day Slate spends in the medical wing. He makes a note to get a room ready for the remainder of Slate's stay.
He knocks softly on Slate's door before letting himself in. The dawn is muted behind the blinds, but ribbons of light are still shining through. Slate is still beneath the covers, but Eric can tell from the rigid line of his shoulders that he's already awake.
"Good morning," Eric says, grabbing the canteen from the table. He goes to fill it up while Slate rolls over.
"I had the dream again." Slate's voice is hoarse from sleep. A quick glance tells Eric that he hasn't slept well. His hazel eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and his face looks drawn.
Eric frowns, concerned. The first few days, Slate's sleep had been deep and restful. Once he'd started getting healthier, the nightmares had surfaced.
He goes back to the bed, handing Slate the water. "Do you remember anything else?" He needs to approach this carefully. Sending Slate into a PTSD episode won't do them any good.
Slate shakes his head as he pushes himself to a sitting position. "It's the same dream, every time. Memory," he corrects himself. "It's a memory, but toward the end, it gets hazy." He takes a small sip from the canteen. "Why can't I remember what the men looked like? Why do I black out, even though I didn't get shot?"
Eric strokes his chin, considering Slate's hunched form. "It could just be the trauma. Not of the attack, necessarily, but of the aftermath. Your memory may recover in time as your mind heals itself."
"Is that what all this is?" Slate asks, gesturing around them. "Mind recovery?"
Eric gives him a weak smile. "Actually, I was thinking it's time we move you to a regular room." The smile gains strength when Slate visibly lights up at the prospect. "A change of scenery might help, don't you think?"
Slate slides off the bed onto the floor. "I think I've had enough of hospitals."
Eric looks him up and down. Slate had shown up a little thin and drawn due to the weeks of abuse. He's filling out again, six feet of firm, cut muscle that the hospital gown fails to hide. "Think you can start handling some calisthenics? Or weights?"
Slate actually looks excited now, balling his hands into fists as he physically shakes the nightmares away. "Yes, sir. Enough of playing the invalid. When do we start?"
Eric laughs. He can't help it; he doesn't get to spend much time with regular soldiers anymore, and Slate's joy is infectious. "All right, Slate, let's see you showered, shaved, and dressed for PT in twenty minutes. Meet me here, and we'll start you off at a light jog."
"Along the grounds?" Slate asks pointedly, and Eric knows he's been waiting for that opening.
"Negative, soldier." His voice is gentle but firm. "We can't let you leave this building."
He can see Slate's hackles rise, a cornered animal on the defensive. "Not even in the backyard?"
Eric shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I can't. Too risky." He holds up a hand to forestall further complaint. "The Major wants to see you today. You can demand an explanation from him." This has the desired effect: Slate stops in his tracks, struck dumb. "Twenty minutes, Slate. Starting now."
He turns away and clears the room, not waiting to see if Slate gets moving.
*~*~*
They end up using the basement of the complex. It's been set up as a gym for on-site personnel, and it contains all the standard equipment. Around the weights, mats, and isometric bars, there's a makeshift track for running. Eric makes Slate jog for fifteen minutes, watching him from the middle of the room. For a man whose job consisted primarily of hiding in prime vantage points to report on enemy activity, Slate is still surprisingly fit. He leaps at the chance to prove himself—although at this point, Eric figures he's just happy to be doing anything at all. He's spent the entirely of his stay here so far confined to his room.
Slate ambles to a stop in front of him, covered in a sheen of sweat. He looks a bit flushed from his first active morning since being rescued. The white t-shirt they'd provided him is a bit too tight, leaving little to the imagination.
"Sir?" Slate asks, expectantly.
Eric realizes he has been staring. He gives himself a mental shake. "Drop and give me thirty."
Slate does as asked, hitting the mat without question. Eric spots him, trying not to stare at his shapely behind. Been on this base too long, he thinks, rolling his eyes.
The first fifteen push-ups are all right, but Slate starts to lose his form during the second half. Eric frowns, watching the ripcord muscles in Slate's arms quiver. "Your arms are too far apart."
"Yes, sir," Slate grunts. On his next rise, he hops up to bring his hands back to the proper position. Eric notes that it takes a considerable amount of effort.
He lets Slate finish the rep, but he doesn't demand anything else. "Go cool down. Have some water."
Slate looks up at Eric from his knees, wiping sweat form his brow. "That's it?"
Eric offers him a hand up. "This isn't basic training, Slate. We're trying to get you back in the field. We can't do that by pushing you too hard."
Slate ignores the hand, getting up on his own. "How am I supposed to go back to the field if you guys won't let me outside the doors?"
It's a valid question—to which Eric doesn't have an answer. "Major Grier will explain everything," he says, making an effort to sound convincing.
"I'm sure," Slate grumbles, pushing past Eric on his way out.
*~*~*
Eric doesn't know what he'd thought would happen once Grier and Slate were in the same room. He supposes a part of him hoped for a simple ending; that Grier's imposing, authoritative presence would somehow jog Slate's memory, and they could be one step ahead of the Order for a change. Slate's memories would contain a critical piece of information, everyone involved would receive commendations, and the Order would suffer a serious blow. Naturally, that's not what happens.
Instead, Slate raises his hands even before Grier has opened his mouth. "Major, I won't waste any of your valuable time."
From his desk, Grier raises one thick eyebrow. "Did you forget how to greet superior officers, Slate?"
Slate snaps into a quick salute, looking every bit the perfect soldier dressed in his new white service uniform, but he doesn't seem intimidated. "Sorry, sir—it's been a hell of a few months." Grier waves the issue away. Slate relaxes and continues. "But I meant what I said. I'll just save you some time and admit that I don't remember what they did to me in that church. I wish I did."
For a long moment, Grier stares at Slate. He'd been to visit Slate once, when he was still sleeping all the time. Eric understands the scrutiny; Slate looks drastically different now, fuller and firmer. Grier stares so long that even Eric starts to become uncomfortable.
Finally, Grier sits back in his chair and grabs a file from his desk. "When you were first brought here, I had samples sent for testing. I got the results back yesterday." From the corner of his eye, Eric can see Slate tense up. Fortunately, Grier doesn't make him wait
. "The toxicology screens came back negative for all known diseases and afflictions. By all accounts, you're healthy. Whatever the Order did, it wasn't permanent." Grier actually sounds disappointed.
Slate picks up on that. "Isn't that a good thing, sir?"
Grier huffs a laugh. "If we were dealing with anyone but the Order of the Golden Dawn, I'd agree with you. As it is, I can't help but feel like we're missing something." He points his finger right at Slate. "And that something… is in your head."
Slate blinks, lifting a hand to his temple. "I…" He drops his hand, giving his head a shake. "Major, believe me when I say that no one wants to see those bastards pay more than I do. But I'm being honest with you: I don't remember anything about my time with those psychos."
The room is eerily quiet while Grier considers this. Eric finds himself holding his breath. Grier turns a page in the file, and the rustling paper is the only sound. "Do you know why you were sent to watch Magenta?"
Slate purses his lips, looking apprehensive. "I would say yes, sir, but I have a feeling I don't."
Grier cocks his head, setting the file down. "What do you mean by that?"
Slate nods at the envelope. "You know more about me than I do at this point. It's not in that nice dossier?" There's a bit of an edge to Slate's voice. Eric quietly clears his throat in an attempt to help them through the awkwardness.
Major Grier doesn't stand up. He doesn't even sit up straight in his chair, but he still levels them both with a stare that makes him loom over them. "Slate, I'm going to ignore your attitude in light of your recent trauma. I was asking you an honest question. Do you know why you were sent to watch Magenta?"
Slate fidgets, still looking uneasy. Eric can't blame him; this isn't much better than the Order's prison hospital. "Sir, I assumed it was because he is a known terrorist. He's the leader of a very powerful and influential drug cartel. For once, we finally got a location on him; we couldn't let that opportunity slip us by."
"Who sent you on this mission?" Grier asks, leaning forward onto his elbows.
Slate glances over at Eric, who nods encouragingly. From the corner of his eye, Eric notices Grier catalogue this data. "First Lieutenant Blythe, sir. He was standing by with the rest of our squad in case of extenuating circumstances. We weren't—" He falters. "We weren't there to snipe anyone. We were there to observe. The house was isolated, only a handful of people were in there with him, and Kilik and I had eyes on the place at all times." He sounds out of breath by the time he finishes. Eric notices Slate is flushed. Is this traumatic for him? Is it ringing a bell somewhere?
