by Unknown
Who is—?
Who—
When the darkness lifts, Jason can feel warmth on his face. At first he fears the worst. He shifts, ever so slightly, but doesn't feel the telltale restraints. Adrenaline takes over, surging through his veins and giving him strength. Sucking in a gasp, he shoots upright. He needs to get away—needs to move before they realize—
"Easy, Slate," someone soothes in a smooth tenor.
The voice shocks him, sends him reeling. He sways and nearly falls off the bed. Strong arms secure him, holding him close and easing him back down.
"You're safe. You're in Washington."
His vision melds together, finally forming a cohesive image. He's in a real hospital room. It has a window. The sun is warm and comforting through the blinds, striping across his bed.
"Are you thirsty? Need something?"
Jason's mouth works. He looks over at the stranger. He's a tall man, attractive, with soft gray eyes. His tousled black hair is cut in a high-and-tight, but still a bit longer than regulation. He's wearing a white service uniform. Jason squints at the insignias and patches, trying to place him.
"Eric Archer, Warrant Officer," the man says. He holds out his hand. Jason blinks up at him before shaking it. Archer smiles. "You've been through hell, I've heard."
Jason stares down at himself. There's an IV in his wrist, one of the only spots not covered in bruises from repeated injections. He pats himself down, feeling for any other injuries. His hair is greasy, matted to the top of his head, and the beard growing in itches like mad. He's wearing a green hospital gown now, and someone has cleaned him up. "I…" his voice croaks, and he coughs violently.
"Might be easier to whisper," Archer advises. "I heard you screamed yourself hoarse while you were under."
Jason doesn't remember that. Probably just as well. He does try whispering, and his voice comes out a bit steadier. "I need to piss."
Archer barks out a laugh. "Perfectly normal. There's a wheelchair outside; want me to get it? Or do you want me to help you?"
Jason hesitates. He's not sure his feet will hold him. He glances around, but doesn't see any other personnel.
"Relax," Archer says. "I'm here for you, actually."
"So were they," Jason hears himself whisper.
Archer is quiet for a moment. "I could get a bedpan."
Jason shakes his head with renewed determination. "No. I want to walk. I haven't walked in… I want to do it. Help me?"
Slowly, Jason sits up again. The way his bed is angled makes this easier. His feet dangle off the mattress, not quite touching the tiles. One hand curls around the pole carrying his saline drip. The other goes around Archer, who supports him from his other side.
"Slowly," Archer says. "One step at a time."
When Jason's feet hit the floor, he nearly buckles. Archer's grip tightens, pulling Jason harder against him. His bare arm is warm against Jason's back. Their skin touches where the gown doesn't cover. Slowly, shakily, Jason puts one foot in front of the other. It takes forever for them to shuffle over to the tiny bathroom, but Archer never rushes him.
They leave the door open because there isn't enough room for both Jason and the IV station. "I'm in D.C.?" Jason asks, voice a little stronger.
"No," Archer says. "Washington state. I can't tell you where at the moment. I'm sorry."
Not Fort Lewis, then. He washes his hands, staring at his face. The short beard looks awful, scruffy and unkempt the way it is. His hair needs a touch-up, and his face looks haggard. "What happened to me?"
"We were hoping you could tell us."
Jason comes out of the bathroom to stare at Archer. "What day is it?"
"May eighth."
Jason shakes his head. "No. Can't be. I was—" he falters. His orders are top secret by default. "No, it's impossible."
Archer gives him a sympathetic look. "You were deployed March tenth. You went missing the same night."
Jason stumbles backwards into the sink. The IV pole creaks in protest. Archer is with him in an instant, reaching out. Part of Jason wants to pull away, wants to deny it all. It can't have been that long. It just can't. "But I—"
Archer's arms are around him once again, catching him as he pitches forward. They keep him grounded as the world tilts madly on its axis. "They found you tied to a bed, under some old church. You'd been dosed to the nines for God knows how long." Jason takes deep, shaky breaths, burying his face in Archer's neck. Archer's grip becomes a hug, one hand drifting up to cup the back of Jason's head. "You're going to be fine, soldier. We've got the best looking after you."
Jason pulls away so he can look Archer in the eye. "What happened to Seung Kilik?"
"Who?"
Desperate, Jason tugs at Archer's white collar. "I was part of a sniper team, sir. Kilik was my partner. Is he okay?"
Archer studies him for a moment, looking hesitant. "I'll check into it, but I won't lie to you, Jason. We didn't find anyone else."
It's a sucker-punch straight to the gut. Jason gurgles, his pain incomprehensible. He sags against Archer, who struggles to hold him upright.
"Nurse!" Archer shouts.
They'd failed. They'd failed, and Kilik was dead. It's too much, after all this. The blackness is welcome.
*~*~*
When Nurse Carey and some orderlies pile into the room, Eric hands Slate over and leaves him in capable hands. They get him bundled back into bed.
"Let me know if anything changes," he tells them. He leaves without waiting for confirmation, mind racing.
Jason Slate is a miracle. When Spec Ops' Dawn Division had closed in on the Golden Dawn, Eric had expected to find smoke and mirrors. No matter how covert the mission, or how concrete the intelligence, the Order of the Golden Dawn was always one step ahead of the military. Even this time, evidence was demolished and its members long gone by the time the squad was deployed. The church had been empty—except for Jason Slate. He's one of them, an accomplished sniper with fourteen marked kills under his belt. MIA after being deployed to take out known terrorist Gerald Magenta. Thanks to Slate's apparent kidnapping, Magenta is still at large and in the wind, but they may be closer to catching the higher-ups of the Golden Dawn.
Eric strides through the deserted halls with purpose. The whole safe house is virtually empty, staffed only by essential personnel. The high security clearance is another one of Major Grier's stipulations. Eric doesn't know who Jason Slate really is, but Grier seems to think that the fewer people who know about him, the better.
Located in the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest, the safe house is a nondescript building a few miles from Port Orchard. It could pass for a factory in a pinch. In reality, the building serves as a small base of operations for Spec Ops. It's only been used a few times over the past few decades. It's never been compromised, so Grier had Slate moved here for recovery.
Slate gets his own private base for convalescence, fancy that.
When Eric gets to Grier's office, he knocks twice. A gruff voice urges him in, and Eric opens the door. As is often the case, the lights are dimmed.
Major Hardie Grier is a large, imposing Black Scot. He's an older man, with a face marked by battle and wisdom. He keeps his salt-and-pepper hair shaved close to his scalp. He's sitting in his chair wearing his dress blues, fingers laced together as he meditates. On the far wall of his office is his investigation board. It's a replica of the one in his home office and his D.C. office, made from copies of evidence kept locked up. It contains all evidence and links to the Order of the Golden Dawn—consisting of everything from houses of worship to McDonald's. Grier rebuilds this board everywhere he goes, reconstructing it from memory.
Just looking at the board makes Eric dizzy. Grier has dedicated much of his later life to stopping the Order. Eric's admiration had made working for Grier's an easy decision.
Grier waits until Eric is in front of his desk before opening his eyes. "Archer." His voice carries the accent of a home he left decades ago. "Sit."
"Thank you, sir." The tiny chair creaks under his weight. "Slate is awake."
"How is he?" Grier seems genuinely concerned. "When can we begin debriefing him?"
Eric doesn't mince words. "Major, we may have a situation. Slate doesn't seem to recall his time in captivity." At Grier's gesture, he continues. "He seems all right, as far as it goes. No hints of lasting physical trauma. Psychological… quite frankly, sir, that remains to be seen. I don't doubt he's a strong man, but we don't even know what they did to him down there."
"Toxicology reports are forthcoming," Grier says. He taps a manila envelope on his desk. "Aside from being malnourished and perpetually sedated, we can't be sure. I've had blood and urine samples sent for screening, under a pseudonym."
Eric blinks. "You don't think this was an interrogation. You think they did something to him."
Grier leans back in his chair, gripping the armrests. "I don't know what I think. I know we were closer than we've ever been to catching some high-ranking Adeptus Minors. But we've come close before. Tell me, Archer: when was the last time the Order left something tangible behind for us to find?"
Eric shakes his head. "Never. This is… they've never resorted to kidnapping marines. You think there's a reason they left Slate alive."
"They're up to something." Grier leans forward. "Finding Slate breathing and functional was either part of the Order's game plan, or they fucked up. I want to believe it's the latter, I really do. I want to believe Slate saw something—heard something—that could turn the tide here. We've been fighting in the shadows on our own soil long enough."
"What should we do, sir?"
Grier stands up and walks toward his investigation board. He stares at it with his hands clasped behind his back. "We hope that Slate's memory is foggy due to the trauma of his captivity. We pray it comes back to him. Any detail he recalls might be crucial. We wait for the results of his tests. We wait for our experts to suck every bit of information they can out of the recovered scrapped equipment."
Eric hesitates. "And if Slate turns out to have lacunar amnesia, sir?"
Grier's shoulders stiffen. "Then we're back at square one." He turns back to Eric. "Dawn Division has come too far. Slate must know something; that's why they had him under as often as possible."
Eric argues, "If he knew something, why didn't they just kill him instead of lugging him around with them?"
"Why, indeed?" Grier lets the question hang in the air.
Finally, Eric asks, "What should I do, sir?"
"You're assigned to Slate," Grier says firmly. "Be whatever he needs—punching bag, person to hug, buddy to shove around, shoulder to cry on, or anything else. Whatever it takes to help him overcome this memory block." Grier nods to one of the folders on his desk. "You can leaf through his file if you want. He has no family, and I just received confirmation that his partner was killed in action."
"Christ," Eric breathes. He thinks of the look on Slate's face, demanding to know about Kilik. "They were close. I think."
"Sniper partners," Grier affirms with a nod. "No choice but each other's' backs. You want the file?"
Eric considers it, but he feels a little uncomfortable with the prospect. He already has a considerable advantage over Slate as it is. "No, sir. I'll see how I do using the old fashioned way first."
Grier nods his consent and dismisses him. Eric heads back out into the hall, brainstorming. He's essentially been reassigned as a traumatized sniper's nursemaid. Grier has a point, though; the idea that Slate had been forgotten while the Order was destroying the rest of the evidence is far-fetched.
Eric's phone rings, startling him out of his thoughts. "Archer," he answers.
"Mr. Slate is awake, Mr. Archer."
"Perfect, thank you." He hangs up, pleased. He'd thought Slate would be sleeping off his trauma for hours yet. Eric tries to think of something that would be a welcome sight in a hospital. The obvious answer makes him stop in his tracks. Contraband.
He smiles to himself and heads to the cafeteria.
*~*~*
Jason is on his third canteen of water when Archer shows up with cheeseburgers. "Oh my God," he sighs. "A man after my own heart."
Archer chuckles, setting the plastic tray on the table next to Jason's bed. There are four beautiful burgers on it, piled high with lettuce, cheese, and tomatoes. They smell like home—backyard barbecues and simpler times.
"No soda," Archer says, sounding apologetic. "I'm already pushing it with the junk food. You're still recovering."
"If they want me to recover, this is the best incentive." Jason reaches out and grabs one. He has to hold it together with both hands, and even then some rogue lettuce escapes once he takes a huge bite. He hasn't eaten real food in two months; it's almost a sensory overload. The juice from the beef, the crisp of the lettuce, and the crunch of the tomato wrench an appreciative moan from his throat.
"Good?" Archer asks. He's sitting next to Jason's bed, watching with a twinkle in his eye.
Jason swallows. "You have no idea." He finishes the burger in two more bites, then reaches for a second. There's more ketchup on this one—it makes him want a basket of fries. He makes quick work of it and then manages to finish off a third.
"Feel better?" Archer asks once he's leaned back.
Jason makes an agreeable sound, rubbing his belly. "There's nothing junk food can't fix," he jokes.
Archer hesitates, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "Is there anything else you want right now? A real shower? Shave?"
Jason stares at him. The food he's just inhaled rumbles in his gut. "What are you softening me up for?" he asks pointedly.
Archer has the grace to look contrite. It doesn't last long; soon, his expression turns grave. "Slate, I just spoke to my superior."
Jason knows what's coming. He wishes he didn't—he wishes it wasn't, but he knows. He resists the urge to crumple into a ball. "Kilik?" His voice comes out very small.
"… I'm sorry, Jason."
Whatever else Archer says, Jason doesn't hear over the rush of blood to his head. He hadn't known it was possible to feel so many emotions at once. Horror mixes with guilt, stirring together with helplessness and desolation. Rage spikes briefly, ferocious anger piercing the fog, and something clatters to the floor—his blood is pumping in his ears—
"Slate!"
And then Archer is there, strong hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into the thin hospital gown. Jason goes from feeling everything to nothing. He's cold, shaking. Somehow, he's pushed himself out of bed and knocked everything over in the process.
"I—" It doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. "I—wasn't at his funeral." That's not it—that's not the most important part, but it's all that comes out of his mouth.
Archer gets him back into bed. Jason feels numb. Archer settles him against the pillow but doesn't go far.
Eventually, Jason finds his voice. "It wasn't Magenta."
The room is silent. Jason can hear Archer inhale deeply through his nose. "No."
Jason's fingers tangle in the sheet. "Who was it?"
Archer hesitates, visibly backtracking. "Slate—"
"Tell me who it was."
"I will," Archer promises. "I'll tell you everything you want to know, so long as I have the answers. But not now."
Jason glares up at him. "Why not now?"
Archer lifts his hands in a placating gesture. "I don't want to overwhelm you. The last couple of months have been hell. We'll wait until you're stronger."
"I'm not a fucking baby," Jason spits venomously.
"Jesus Christ." Archer rolls his eyes. "Can we drop the front line bravado for a second? You were drugged out of your wits—for weeks. Have you considered the possible ramifications of that? You just had your first solid meal in months. You can barely stand up." He gestures wildly with his hands. "Who even knows what they got up to while you were under? Do you remember?" he asks pointedly.
Jason's lip curls. "That's fucking low,
Archer."
"Well, maybe you should fucking take my advice." Archer puts a hand on his shoulder. Jason flinches, but Archer doesn't react. "Look, we're waiting on tests to come back. They'll be able to tell us if those bastards did something to you that isn't apparent. In the meantime, we need to get you back on your feet. To do that, we have to take it slow."
Jason looks at the needle in his wrist. He shivers. "You an expert?"
Archer gives him a reassuring squeeze. "I'm a Spec Ops warrant officer. You're not my first head case," he says warmly.
Jason nods, still staring at the needle. He thinks of Kilik's cocky grin and juvenile sense of humor. It makes his heart hurt. "Archer, please… I need to know who killed my partner. If you want me back on my feet, I need to know why Kilik died."
There's silence while Archer thinks it over. Finally, he squeezes the back of Jason's neck. "All right, but I reserve the right to end the conversation if I feel like you can't handle it."
Jason nods, realizing that's the best he's going to get. To his surprise, Archer turns to leave. "Where are you going?"
"We'll kill two birds with one stone." Archer gestures at him. "Let's get you cleaned up and looking like a marine again. Right now, you look like a POW."
Jason rubs a hand across the scratchy beard growth. When he looks back up, Archer has disappeared. Jason leans back and closes his eyes. He tries not to think about Kilik's lust for life and fails.
*~*~*
"Shouldn't a nurse be doing this?" Jason wonders. He's sitting on a plastic chair. It's clinging to his skin, reminding him that he isn't wearing any underwear.
"What, I'm no good?" Archer asks, draping a towel around Jason's neck like a bib.
"I didn't say that." Jason glances around. Between Archer's departure and return, orderlies had appeared to clean up the mess Jason had made with his tantrum. They'd also brought basins of water and some grooming supplies. He looks back at Archer. "But don't you have more important things to be doing?"
Archer fixes him with a level stare. "I don't think so," he says sincerely. He drops a razor into the basin.
Jason lowers his gaze, unsure how he should feel about that. Archer doesn't even know him. "Thanks."