The Treason of War. Chapter Six.

The Treason of War. Chapter Six.

“No, Fyre!” he hissed. “Aleta doesn’t have one minute…where are the guards that are usually posted at her door--?”

Fyre rolled her eyes. “It’s Sunday, you idiot.”

“SO YOU LET THEM TAKE OFF FROM THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB IN THEIR FUCKIN’ CAREER--?”

She clapped her hand over his mouth. “Shut up. After three weeks straight, they were ready to protest. Now be quiet.” The woman slid a gun out of her bag and pushed him to the side. “I’m a better shot than you. Get out of the way.”

Logan scrambled a couple of feet away, still trying to stay close by but staying out of her line of fire-- he wasn’t stupid enough to doubt her. Fyre held the gun in both hands, arms extended in front of her in-line with her eyesight. He could hear the blood roar in his ears, panic and adrenaline infusing painfully in his veins, and against his second nature he winced when he heard her pull the trigger and the gentle thud of the bullet that (hopefully) hit its mark. She fired again, for good measure.

A short, pained curse confirmed it and Fyre immediately took to standing, still holding the gun. “Put your hands above your head and don’t move. I’m Group Commander Andersen of the Phoenix-Grail--”

“I know who you are, Fyre,” the younger woman hissed, not turning around. “But the question is: Do you know who I am?” She gave a short laugh and launched herself over Aleta’s bed, using it as a step stool, and jumped out the open window. Logan immediately pushed past Fyre and sprinted for the window, looking down; a small crowd had gathered around an empty black cloak that had fallen from the sky. The man swore loudly, banging his fist on the white wall.

Gone…

“We need to transfer her to Headquarters,” he mumbled, almost incoherently. “It’s not safe here…”

“I’ve already called the Corps,” she informed him, checking Aleta’s vitals. “But I don’t know, Logan-- that woman…sounded like she knew me. She’s obviously a mole. I don’t want to admit it, but the man from the video might not be lying.”

“That may or may not be the case. But I still think she would be safer at HQ. No one but ourselves should be allowed in.” Logan sat, thoughtful, on the windowsill. “And once I check myself out of this place, I can take my place as next-in-command.” He held up a hand. “No offense. I heard you were doing great.”

Fyre rolled her eyes. “None taken. By the way…your clothes are in my bag over there.”

“Thanks.”

Logan sighed and snatched up the whole bag, retreating into the small bathroom in the corner and quietly shutting the door. Slowly, tiredly, he leaned forward until his head the mirror. For a moment he stood there, resting his forehead against the cool surface, gazing into the reflective glass. A ghaunt and bedraggled yet familiar face stared back at him; its brows were drawn in and overly-concerned expression and the bags around its eyes stood out prominently, like hollows in snow. He looked a lot worse than the last time he examined himself closely, during his last mission in the Northern Forests-- the time spent at the hospital made sure of that. As soon as he got home he would be sure to get a decent night’s sleep, maybe a home-cooked breakfast. One thing was for sure: he couldn’t be leading the Corps looking like this.

I’d best start running through inquiries, too. If Fyre’s right, which she usually is, we need to weed out this mole before even more shit hits the fan.

And as the stress finally reached his brain instead of just his body, Logan began to hit his head against the mirror. Several times.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

There was a knock on the door. “Logan? Are you okay in there?”

He paused just long enough to mutter, “Never better” before continuing.

Thud.

He heard a sigh of exasperation that faded as Fyre moved away from the door. Logan knew it wasn’t that she didn’t care, it was that she was beginning to learn that ignoring him was the best way to make him stil. She was right. With one last THUD that was just shy of shattering the mirror, he instead pressed his back against the wall and slid to the floor.

He had to get himself together. If not for the sake of the Corps, or even Aleta, then at least for his own goddamned sanity.

Logan took a deep breath (a temporary fix for his small mental breakdown), and began to get changed.

===

He left the bathroom a few minutes later, still exhausted but much less than before. Giving his hair one last quick comb through, Logan nodded at the emergency team that had arrived and was now being directed by Fyre’s barking orders. He spied his sister in the group and she gave him a shy wave, mouthing, Look! I finally got on the PGMES. He couldn’t help but feel a bit proud; River had been applying for a spot on the Medical Emergency Squad since she had graduated from boot camp. Fighting had never been her thing, really, and she was better-suited for the medical squad anyway: she almost always had first aid supplies on her, and. He gave her an offhanded smile and she beamed like a spotlight.

“Zalene! Pay attention!”

“Sir, yes sir!” River exclaimed, wincing, eyes turning ahead.

Logan chuckled. “Fyre, I’m heading home, now.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Get some sleep.”

“Will do, chief.” He gave her a mock salute. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

===

It’s…dark.

The young woman opened her eyes, staring at the tiled ceiling with a dazed expression that could barely be seen at that time of night. She opened her mouth to take a deep breath and call out for someone, but the expansion of her lungs stretched her tender, healing skin and only the faintest gasp was heard. Or, at least, would have been heard had the silence not snatched it away first.

Where am I? This isn’t the hospital… And then it struck her: …I know this place.

Aleta barely managed to turn her head to look around, the skin of her neck tightening as she did so. She winced slightly.

Why does this place seem so familiar?

The room seemed slightly more modern than the hospital; beeping monitors flashed on LCD screens, reinforced shutters covered the closed window off to her right, and the banister of her bed was chrome and not plain steel. She couldn’t even smell the Lysol. Aleta took as deep a breath as her restricted lungs would allow-- it smelled like home.

Headquarters?

She managed a small smile and pushed herself into an upright sitting position, taking advantage of the placement of the pillows behind her. Her body felt stiff and her movements robotic (probably due to the full-body cast that she was wrapped in), but the room was comfortably warm and the air felt good on the skin that was exposed. She was home. Sure, she felt like she had been pieced together by a five-year-old with a blunt tapestry needle and homespun yarn, but that was beside the point.

How long had she been out? What had happened? The thoughts banged on the threshold of her consciousness but Aleta kept them at bay. All that mattered at the moment was calming herself down and getting her bearings straight. She looked at the clock on the wall. 3:12. Aleta sighed and sunk back down on the bed.

Questions could wait until morning.