The Treason of War. (( chapter three: the mistakes we make.

The Treason of War. (( chapter three: the mistakes we make.

SEPTEMBER 24, 2074 - 06:52

When Aleta awoke at her desk later that morning, a phone in her hand and the dialtone blaring an inch from her ear, she knew that Logan hadn’t yet reported in. Call it a feeling, call it common sense -- the exhaustion that she felt just at the thought of it dug deep and hard into the core of her stomach, tearing her diaphragm into shreds. Her arms were stiff from being inanimate for hours; still, she rotated around in her chair so that she could reach to open the curtains behind her and let in the faintest pastel line of pink and gold on the City’s horizon. It was uncomfortably cold in the office. The craving for coffee curled, catlike and not-so-docile, at the base of her throat.

“Logan… where in the world can you be?”

With a sigh, the woman pushed herself to standing and locked her office door, before searching out within one of the closets for her spare uniform. Hopefully there was one that wasn’t soaked through with cold sweat from countless night terrors caused by the chronic habit of falling asleep at her desk. The frigid air swam around her arms and bare shoulders as soon as she slipped off her coat and exposed them, searching out a hanger amongst the sea of black inside the cabinet on the far wall. But these simple actions soothed only the surface of her uneasiness.

You always overreact, Aleta scolded herself, tugging on another starched jacket to replace the old one. But Logan hasn’t checked in, yet, and it’s been more thank three hours already --

“Aleta!”

Aleta jumped at the abrupt mention of her name, emanating from her computer. She buttoned the last button on her uniform with hasty, fumbling fingers, and whipped around her desk to greet Logan’s stupidly grinning face with her scowl. “Zalene!” she snapped. “Status report! Where are you?”

“Now, now, Aleta… no need to get your panties in a twist. Why so formal? It’s just the two of us.” Logan shrugged, the air of carelessness in his tone irritating the Corps commander all the more. “As for where I am, well, you can see that yourself.” He upwards, to where he knew the top of her screen was. The video conference window stated: LOCATION - PHOENIX-GRAILLE CORPS MOUTAIN OUTPOST. Aleta fell back, exasperated, into her chair.

“Christ, Logan! You’ve nearly given everyone at HQ a fucking heart attack! How could you let something like this happen?”

“Something like what, Aleta? There weren’t any casualties. Sure, a few scrapes here and there, but that’s normal for an all-out fire fight, isn’t it? At least no one’s dead.”

“’At least no one’s dead?’” she parroted, blood rising again. “Logan! Do you hear yourself? Passing this off as if it were nothing -- the Council will have your ass on a plate when you get back home! Not to mention how much shit they’re going to throw at me in the meantime about how I never keep a close enough watch on my subordinates because I trust them too much… do you feel like having that power revoked, Logan?”

“Aleta…”

“Maybe next time you should sit in for the next Corps-Council meeting instead of sending Fyre to do your duties for you. Then maybe you would appreciate weaving in and out of the lines just a bit less.”

“I do appreciate it, Aleta! You know I don’t do this on purpose. This was out of my hands.”

“I’m starting to doubt that.”

“You think that I’m purposefully putting other people’s lives at risk?”

“Purposefully or not, that’s what you’re doing.”

There was a crack in Logan’s smile; for a moment, the usual sparkle in his expression faltered, but not for long. Aleta was fairly sure that it was merely her eyes seeing things that weren’t there in the first place. Again.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We had planned loosely for something like this happening, but not to such a large degree. There were many more than we had expected, and the sheer numbers overwhelmed us. It won’t happen again. CMO has already sent reinforcements to CNFO, so my people and I will be returning shortly via helicopter, perhaps by tomorrow.” He looked her straight in the eye, demeanor cool. “Is this acceptable?”

“Why you little…” She stood, half-snarling. “Go to Hell, Logan.”

“Aleta, wait -- ” He released a frustrated sigh. “What do you want me to do? Wait, just -- just… happy fucking birthday, okay?”

Her fingers paused, just above the keyboard. “What did you say?”

“I just wanted to say happy birthday!”

Aleta sighed, the blood pounding adamantly onwards and making her head spin.

“Good bye, Logan. Get some rest.”



SEPTEMBER 24, 2074 - 17:18

Aleta hadn’t forgotten her birthday. Of course she hadn’t. It just wasn’t one of those days that you forget, or pass along like it was nothing.

Of course she hadn’t forgotten her birthday.

That’s why, as the sun was already setting, the Corps commander still sat at her desk, looking over supply lists. A small part of herself scolded her for not taking up the numerous offers to go out and do something; it was the younger part, the piece of herself that still acted her age. She half-wanted to listen to it, find a good group of relatively trustworthy almost-friends to drink with, and forget about writing up reports or going through the latest Corps Academy files. But then again, that younger part was also the one that believed “drinking” involved downing enough shots until you couldn’t even spell “sober”.

It seemed like such a small matter, now that she looked at it. Aleta wouldn’t admit to anyone that she had forgotten that today was her birthday but did it really matter? She wasn’t intending on celebrating in the first place, and would have been completely content if the fact had slipped her mind altogether.

Her twenty-fifth birthday. Suddenly, the young woman didn’t feel as if she was so terribly young anymore. It was like running a marathon and suddenly hitting a wall halfway through, and the last thirteen miles abruptly turned into a thousand, and there was no way she could make it to the end. Ever.

This wasn’t the first time, either. Aleta couldn’t count on her fingers the number of nights consumed with work and studying and strategic planning, the hours upon incessant hours of sleep-deprivation caused by worry or stress. It wasn’t that she couldn’t perform her duties -- oh no. If there was one thing that Aleta Claire was adamant about, that was doing a job to the best of her abilities.

But that didn’t stop her from being exhausted afterwards. Logan had once insisted that perhaps she did her job too well. And though she protested vehemently to being what he referred to as a “work-aholic”, Aleta supposed that he did have a point. Somewhere. He always did, and no one was ever really happy about it, not even Logan himself.

Aleta pounded her fist on the table and scowled. Just the thought of Logan at the moment made her furious and frustrated. Not to mention the fact that her thoughts were now going around in circles…

Just finish these lists and go home, she told herself. Just a little bit more, then you can go home and rest.

A few seconds later, with a sweep of her arm to close the folder, that changed to:

Whatever. Just go home.

---

“I don’t know, Zalene…”

“Please, Fyre? It’s her birthday. She needs to get out,” Logan pleaded on the screen. “I’ve caused enough damage already, and she needs this more than anything. You of all people should know that.”

Fyre stopped pacing her office and gave him a pitiful smile. “All right. Where do you suppose I take her, anyway?”

“Catch-22. I wanted to take her there myself, but…”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Logan flashed her a grin. “We’ve gone there before, on my twenty-first birthday. Been meaning to take her back again.”

The red-haired woman raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Zalene, she was…”

“Fifteen? Yeah. I know. I’m sure she remembers, too.”

“I don’t know.”

“Please. Just try.”



SEPTEMBER 24, 2074 - 17:27

Knock-knock.

Aleta stopped stuffing a manila folder into a bag and looked up wearily, not as startled as she meant to be. “Come in.”

“Ma’am?”

Fyre opened the door, her tall form shadowed in the dim lights. Most of them were already off, the Corps commander ready to leave. “Permission to speak freely?”

Aleta waved her off. “Permission granted.”

“It’s your birthday, Aleta. Go out, for once.”

Aleta groaned, shoving yet another folder into her shoulder bag. “Not you, too,” she muttered. “I don’t care if it’s my birthday. I just want to go home, maybe get some rest.”

She had once been pretty. During her childhood years and her time at the Academy, Logan’s detentions and punishments were mostly due to the fact that serious physical harm usually came to the boys who came too close to her, or spoke with her for longer than was necessary. They never gave Logan’s name out specifically, but her Uncle Fallon had known. Aleta was sure that, secretly, her uncle had a soft spot for Logan -- but if he did, it wasn’t very noticeable.

As time went on, Aleta found herself exchanging beauty for the hard-earned, hard-won callouses that came with experience. Sure, she looked nice enough during social functions; it wasn’t so bad that make-up was at a total loss. But she’d stopped caring. In her current position, there was hardly the time or the energy to be spent on things that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. If it didn’t save lives, it was of little value. Now, the one thing that was most valuable was sleep.

“There’s nothing to celebrate, Fyre. You should go home, too. Isn’t Toren waiting for you -- ?”

“Aleta, let’s go to Catch-22.”

Fyre saw all of the color visibly flush from away from Aleta’s face, leaving only a cold paleness and dusky, half-open lips. She took a step closer, chanced a hand on her commander’s arm.

“Come on, Aleta.”

“All right.”

The words came quick and hard. Fyre had never felt so at a loss despite the abrupt success. It was as if Aleta’s consent only made the situation worse.

“All right, Fyre,” she repeated. “Let’s go.”