Wastelands (Act One, Chapter Two)

[thehonorablebat]

 

Little grey men and a hotel room in an undisclosed country kept him up at night.

Bradford wished the base had internet access. The shut off of communication only played up the anxiety and fear gripping everyone trapped inside. It didn’t help they were underground. The only time anyone saw the sun was on mission.The scientists and the engineers were already getting squirrely. Like submarine personnel after long deployments. None of these people had training to work in a confined space.

Someone was going to crack.

Bradford had that thought standing in the back of the Officer’s Mess. He watched everyone trip over each other to gather around the TV that switched itself on.

The news shouldn’t have been such a spectacle, but it was all they had. The only communication coming into the base. You had to make an appointment to make a single, five minute, monitored phone call. And the were lucky to have even that. The Commander had to fight tooth and nail for that small concession.

He rubbed his eyes and walked out without bothering to take a tray.

–

The door opened.

Bradford took another long pull from the whiskey bottle.

The Commander walked in with his hand at the small of his back, under his jacket. No doubt where he hid his sidearm.

Weir spotted him and the whiskey. He took his hand off his gun, but didn’t relax.

“Do you often break into your commanding officer’s office to drink booze?” He put the desk between them.

“Only when aliens invade.” Bradford rubbed his eyes.

Weir’s face softened.

“You shouldn’t drink alone.”

“Can’t ask any of the staff,” Bradford said. “Can’t let them see me like this.”

Weir took a seat.

“The psychologist is arriving next week.”

“Why aren’t they here now?” Bradford asked.

“The Council didn’t think it a priority,” Weir said.

No, of course not.

“I might break something,” Bradford said.

“Not the electronics. Anything else is fair game.” Weir found a pack of gum among his papers.

Bradford covered his face, laughing.

“I don’t want to see a shrink, anyway. I’m okay, I just…need a minute.” He pulled his hands away. “Aliens! Fuck. I can’t believe–fuck! I thought for sure they couldn’t be–seemed like such nonsense…”

“You weren’t a Star Trek kid, huh?” Weir popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

“No, I was a knight and magic kind of kid. Lord of the Rings and Dungeons and Dragons,” Bradford said.

“And here I was taking you for a football player.”

“I did that too. Almost got a scholarship for it, but I loved those Saturday nights where I got to pretend I was a Fighter.” Bradford smiled. “You know, I always insisted the caveman would win.”

Weir smiled.

“How’d you figure that?”

“It just seemed right,” Bradford said. “What about you? Caveman or astronaut?”

“Depends on what the other person said.” Weir shrugged. “ I liked to argue.”

He could believe that. From what little he heard from Weir’s meetings with the Council, he made arguing into its own kind of sport. Shame the Council held all the cards.

The fact Weir tried anyway wasn’t lost on him.

“Did you believe? In aliens?” Bradford screwed the top back on the whiskey bottle. The company more soothing than the drink.

Weir nodded.

“Yeah. Yes, I believed.”

–

Cape Cod became the latest abduction site in an ever growing list

Or so they told Bradford.

He was there. In mission control. But only with two hours of sleep in him. He must have done alright. No complaints were filed. The Commander didn’t comment.

Still…

He knew what his problem was, and it wasn’t the aliens. Well, it wasn’t entirely about the aliens.

He’d been doing fine! He’d been over Operation: Green Box for six months!

Then the Commander began implying the council wouldn’t be of help to them. That’s what set him off.

It reminded him too much of…

Central squeezed his eyes shut tight.

They’d just left them there…

Seems like he hadn’t bought their excuses as much as he thought. He wished he had. For his own peace of mind. Maybe then the thought of being abandoned again wouldn’t keep him up at night.

–

Yesterday, if you asked John Bradford what he’d be doing the next day, his answer would have ranged anywhere between: in a budget crisis meeting with the commander to helping oversee an op.

He would not have said: “Walking in on Dr. Vahlen trying to beat the Commander within an inch of his life with her clipboard.”

Bradford stepped into the lab just as Weir took the first blow across his forearm without flinching. Bradford stepped forward, but Weir shook his head at him.

“What’s going on here?” he said instead. “Dr. Vahlen?”

Vahlen spun, fixing her cold stare on him. No one in the room blamed him for the backstep he took. She pointed at Weir with a shaking hand.

“That…that…”

“Bastard?” Weir supplied.

She shouted something in German that sounded much less flattering.

“I had the alien substance we collected destroyed,” Weir said.

Vahlen threw up her hands.

“We hadn’t even had time to study them. What with the alien containment–and–and the–alien alloys–”

“I made my decision, doctor. You had best continue your work or I will find someone who will.” Weir stalked out of the room. The scientists quick to get out of his way.

Bradford took in Vahlen still shaking in rage.

“I’ll speak with him, doctor,” he said. Apparently smoothing over staff relations was part of his job description.

“Doesn’t he understand?” she asked. “My work is all that will save us.”

Bradford thought it’s be a group effort, but kept his peace.

Vahlen ran a hand down her face.

“He’s just as bad as the politicians who refuse to give us the resources we need.”

Bradford managed not cringe.

“I’m going to talk to him. Just…keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll see what I can do.”

Vahlen lowered her hand, smiling a little.

“Thank you.”

He left, catching up to Weir in the empty officer’s break room. He poured what looked like a fourth sugar packet into his coffee.

“Do you need ice, Commander?” Bradford asked.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Do you have enough sugar?” he couldn’t help but ask as the commander tore open another packet.

Weir laughed.

“I don’t drink anything that wouldn’t paralyze a small child.” He tossed the wrappers in the trash, turning around to lean against the table. “I’m sorry I upset her.”

“Maybe you should tell her that.” Bradford grabbed his own mug. He took the last of the coffee in the pot and set about to make more.

“When she’s calmed down.” Weir sighed. “Not that my apology will mean much. I’m not changing my mind.”

“Why? What’s so bad about Dr. Vahlen studying the stuff? What makes it different from the alloys or the flight computers?” Bradford hit the button to turn the coffee maker on. He yawned.

“Preliminary tests indicate the substance has high mutation capabilities,” Weir said.

“And?” Bradford reached passed him for the sugar.

“And I have more than the war to consider.” He faced Bradford, startling him with how close they were.

This time Bradford didn’t move back. Weir had such dark eyes…shit. No. Bad.

“Suppose the theories are correct and the aliens have the capability to mutate or genetically engineer things beyond the laws of nature. Suppose we got our hands on it. There would be those who would insist on using it on our people.”

Bradford swallowed.

“You really think the council would–”

“I don’t want to find out.”

And Bradford understood. Suddenly. Completely.

They were alone, but he wasn’t alone.

Weir’s intensity shifted.

He’d always been such a sucker for tall and brown eyed.

Bradford kissed him.

And knew he made a mistake immediately. It took longer for Weir to catch up.

They broke apart a minute later. They did not speak. Did not look at one another.

Weir took in a deep breath and walked out, forgetting his coffee.

Bradford wavered there. The exhaustion of the last five days lifting to leave him so horribly clear headed.

“Oh god, this is worse than the aliens.”

–

This, Bradford thought, was what happened when you’re finally over the collapse of a three year long relationship, only to suddenly have your life turned upside down. Add to that a lack of sleep, and the other person giving off what his brain interpreted as interested signals…

Weir didn’t stop the kiss. He did.

Bradford could have slapped himself for that thought.

“He’s your commanding officer,”  Bradford said into his hands. “You don’t even know him.”

“What? Strange men don’t do it for you?”

Bradford almost jumped off his cot. He must really be out of it if he hadn’t heard his door open.

Weir closed it behind him.

“I destroyed the security footage. So you don’t have to worry about that.” Weir gave him an appraising look. “When was the last time you slept?”

Bradford sighed.

“Two days ago. Cape Town dragged me out of bed.”

“It’s a little early to be going to pieces.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am not the only on this base falling apart at the implications of hostile intelligent life other than our own.” Central clasped his hands together, staring down at them. “I know the aliens aren’t going to give us enough time to get used to it. I just…I’ll lock my shit down, Commander. I swear. No more nonsense from me.”

Weir frowned.

“How did you get this position?” he asked. Not accusing, just curious.

Central didn’t know if he trusted it, but figured Weir at least deserved the benefit of the doubt.

“Men came to my door telling me there was a matter of national security. Next thing I know I’m on a chopper out here.” He shrugged.

“They must have chosen you for a reason,” Weir said.

“Well it wasn’t to fall apart.” Central straightened up. “I’m going to get some sleep. Then tomorrow…I’ll be steady.”

“So…” Weir tilted his head, small smile making an appearance. “Does that mean you don’t want another kiss?”

Yes.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Central said aloud, face flushing. He swore internally.

Weir tilted his head.

“Let me know if that’s still the case in the morning. Get some sleep, Central.”

–

He did not dream that night. Not of Green Box and not of the aliens. He woke remembering the kiss. Remembering he wasn’t alone.

Central went on duty, feeling more clear headed than he had in days. If the Commander, Shen, and Vahlen had his back, then they needed to know he had theirs.

He found Weir overseeing Mission Control. The room dead silent. The technicians had their heads bowed like little kids who’d just had a chastising.

“Was Brooks playing Civ again?” He asked.

The man in question hunched his shoulders.

“These fine individuals–” Weir swept his hand to indicated the room–”Decided to use the hologlobe to play Battleship and thought I wouldn’t notice.”

Central pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Would you like to take a crack at them?” Weir asked.

The sad, puppy dog looks twenty people just sent his way made him shake his head.

“Then I’m sure they will be pleased to hear I am leaving them in your care.” Weir nodded to him in parting.

“Oh, wait!” Bradford said.

Weir paused, brows raised.

“Are you available after lunch? There’s…things we need to discuss.”

Weir’s expression did not change.

“I’m available for lunch. The Council has me afterwards for only god knows how long.”

“Okay, lunch.”

“I’ll have it sent up to my office,” Weir said.

Bradford nodded his ascent. He watched Weir depart, not able to shake the feeling he just set up a date. It wasn’t, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

–

His superiors often complimented Bradford dedication to duty and his loyalty. A reputation he culminated on his first day in the Navy, following him all the way to the DIA.

Even when his work in the later strained it to the breaking point at times.

His superiors usually had a good read on him. Knew better than to assign him something too distasteful. At least not often enough that it should wear on him. It did, anyway, of course. Hard for a man like Bradford to hear about his coworkers beating or water boarding prisoners and not have it wear on him.

He never should have gone into intelligence. He knew that. But he had a talent for the work, and the pay was better…

“Think of the future, John!”

Well he ended up doing that a lot in that hotel room. Wondering when the enemy agents would finally catch up to him.

It’s one thing to know intellectually that you are expendable, and if you became a burden, ties would be severed faster than you can blink. It’s another thing to have it happen.

They’d been sent into hostile territory to meet with an informant. They sent Bradford for his charm.

“You’re a boyscout, John. People can tell!”

As much as that rubbed him the wrong way, it did usually work. It’s why his superiors kept sending him to sweet talk people. The good cop to everyone else’ bad cop.

Bradford knew something was wrong the second they arrived. He almost called the whole thing off, but…

His superiors had made it clear how much rode on this. How much they were spending to get them into the area. Much less out again. The least they could do was get what they came for.

There was a fine line between dedication and stupidity. He found that out that day.

At least they were disguised.

The whole thing had turned into a firefight. Jacobs didn’t make it. The rest of them scattered to the wind.

Changing disguises and holding up in a crappy hotel room happened in a blur.

He did nothing but think as he waited for his handler to make contact. The thoughts bleaker as it became more and more clear they washed their hands of him.

And why not? Probably served him right. Intelligence work was dirty by design. The whole system rotting, shambling demon at this point. It didn’t matter if you were good at it. You were still working for a demon.

He did get out. On his own power. With only one other from the original group.

Bradford expected a court martial. Some other punishment for daring to come back when he’d been a perfect scapegoat. He’d underestimated their need to keep the whole thing silent.

A promotion that was nothing more than a bribe and felt like it, left him dazed. They’d given him time off. Also a bribe. He wondered which psychologist suggested it as the best way to deal with him.

John Bradford was still loyal. Still dedicated. But something had changed. He wasn’t sure what it was until he kissed Weir and realized he wouldn’t mind doing it again.

The Council could and would discipline them if they found out, but just who the hell was the Council?

–

Central watched Weir set his new budget proposal aside.

“See to it.” Weir took a sip of water, noting Bradford continued stare. “What? I approved it.”

“You didn’t even look at it,” Central said.

“I trust you.”

That's nice, but not altogether productive.

“Then can I ask you something? Central asked. “Off the record.”

“Of course.”   Weir cut into his steak with some effort. It could pass for shoe leather.

“The Council. They aren’t the UN. Not exactly. I’ve got contacts in the UN. Some of them managed to get back to me before I got shipped down here.” None of them had even heard of XCOM until Bradford started asking.

Weir laughed.

“It’s probably a good thing I check my office for bugs on a daily basis.”

“Have you found any?” He set his fork down. Not hungry anymore.

“A few.”

That was potentially worrying, but Weir didn’t look surprised or alarmed.

Bradford still had a strong need to take apart the lamp on the desk.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he asked instead. He had to trust in Weir’s paranoia.

“I wasn’t aware you asked one,” Weir said.

“Who or what is the Council overseeing this project?” He wanted specific. Fine. He couldn’t really blame him, though. In this you couldn’t be too careful.

“A certain subgroup of the UN. Individuals with enough money and power to make Alexander the Great blush.” Weir worked on chewing a piece of steak.

“If you say the ‘Illuminati’, I might flip this table,” Bradford said.

Weir shook his head, swallowing before he spoke.

“I’m sure they could be interpreted that way, but that’s not how they see themselves. And from what I know of them, they aren’t even interested in a ‘new world order’. They just want power and to continue doing what they’re doing.”

“And XCOM?” The million dollar question.

“Depends.” Weir smiled. The small, gentle one that reached his eyes.

“On what?” Bradford asked.

“Us. Vahlen, Shen. The Council may be funding us and giving us what little authorization to operate that we have, but we’re the ones doing the work. What we decide to do will mean more than anything the Council intends for us.”

Well, when he put it like that…

“I’m with you,” Bradford said. How could he not be?

“Does that mean you trust me?” Weir’s smile turned sardonic.

“No.” He trusted him in some things, but…he knew a fellow intelligence officer when he saw one.

“Smart man,” Weir laughed.

“But I think I’d like to have lunch with you again.” Bradford picked up his fork again.

Ah, there was that smile again.

“To discuss the budget?” Weir asked.

Bradford grinned.

“We’ll see.”

–

They didn’t have lunch again. Too much to do. They ended up skipping lunch so often the doctor narrowed his eyes at the pair of them if they entered anywhere in his line of sight.

But they did manage dinner.

On the third of which found Bradford reading through the latest intel reports on the floor in front of Weir’s flimsy bunk. The Last Crusade played on Weir’s computer. At some point he’d leaned against Weir, too settled to move now that he’d noticed.

Weir didn’t seem to mind, eyes focused on his own tablet. Bradford could see muted drone footage from Cape Town playing, slowed down. He rewound and skipped around parts.

Bradford reached over to rub a tense shoulder.

Weir turned his head, eyes taking a second longer to break from the screen.

Bradford kissed him.

Weir broke it.

“You know–”

“I know.”

Weir didn’t have to tell him the consequences. He knew them. He knew there were prisons for people in their position who broke regs. Secret, dark places, no one ever heard of.

He knew of all the way this could be used to blackmail them.

He knew.

But you take happiness where you can, because people in their position…chances were good their lives could be destroyed tomorrow anyway.

He liked Weir’s eyes. His smile. The way his brow furrowed as he analyzed every possible angle in ways Bradford never would have considered. He liked that Weir fought a war with his back to a wall against a powerful enemy.

And he wasn’t just talking about the aliens.

Whether or not what Weir said about the Council was true–and Bradford had his own sources discretely looking into–they weren’t giving them the help they desperately needed to do their job.

Bradford kissed him again. This time Weir didn’t pull away.

–

“Name?”

“O’Reilly, sir. Callsign: Rabbit.” The young woman gave him a pearly grin from under her baseball cap.

“You’re eighteen?” Weir inspected her boots, choosing to overlook the hat. He already cursed up a blue streak about the lax uniform policy to Bradford–trying a nice bourbon he found in the commander’s drink cabinet– back in the privacy of his quarters. He wasn’t about to continue in front of the men.

“Yes, sir!” Rabbit said.

Weir hummed and continued down the line.

“Name?”

“Cruz.”

Bradford glanced back at O’Reilly. She had lowered her head, shielding her face from his view. Didn’t matter. He saw what Weir no doubt saw.

If she was eighteen, he’d eat her hat.

“Commander to mission control. Central Officer to mission control. Commander to mission control. Central Officer to mission control.”

Weir handed back the knife he was inspecting.

“That’s our song.” He smile widened at Bradford.

–

Pride swelled in Bradford’s chest as the UFO went down. Not so tough. Almost enough to make him think they stood a chance.

Weir watched the crash, expression never changing. He nodded to Central in parting. Leaving for his office, no doubt.

The Commander didn’t run ops in the chaos that mission control became during ops. Central couldn’t blame him. Already people were running to and fro and shouting at each other for information. Central, loudest of all.

“The telemetry data, Brooks!” Central glanced at the timer on the hologlobe. The squad would arrive in ten minutes.

“There’s interference with the satellite!”

Roberts leaned around his console to speak.

“Something leaking from the UFO might be causing it.”

“You won’t cut through it,” the Commander said over comm. “Have an interceptor fly over and take pictures. Not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Yes sir,” Central said. He opened another channel. “Patterson! Get to your bird!”

“I’m on it, sir,” Patterson said.

“Oh, and pilot?” Weir started.

“Yes, Commander?”

“There’s distinct possibility the UFO will interfere with your equipment. You may have to fly blind over the site.”

“Understood, sir. I can handle it.”

“Good. Central?”

“Commander?”

“I’m going dark. Only the senior staff is allowed to talk to me while the mission is ongoing.”

As usual.

“Yes sir.”

–

He never heard the Commander giving orders, and the he never replied to the Senior Staff when they advised him. Odd, but Central couldn’t argue the results.

The squad stepped off the Skyranger with the biggest smiles on their faces. Central predicted he’d find the bar depleted in the morning. That would be fine, they deserved it, if not for the budget. Recreation might be the first thing they axed if the satellite program needed more money funneled into it.

Central knocked on the officer door. It took a full minute for the Commander to respond. Central walked in to find Weir screwing the cap back on an ibuprofen bottle.

“The Council sends their congratulations on the successful recovery of our first UFO.”

Weir snorted.

Central’s lips twitched, but chose not to comment.

“Patterson says he lost five minutes when he flew over the site.”

Weir waved him off.

“Patterson’s fine. Though…next time send a different pilot.”

“You knew,” Bradford said.

Weir hummed.

“Commander–”

“Central,” The Commander interrupted. “I was chosen as the Commander of XCOM not because I’m the best at commanding troops or the best at strategy in the world. I was chosen for my expertise on extraterrestrial and unexplained phenomena.”

“You’re a UFO hunter?” He tried to keep the incredulity down, but didn’t think he succeeded.

“A government sanctioned UFO hunter. That shouldn’t be surprising. You must have heard about Sign, Grudge, and Bluebook.”

Central nodded, conceding. It had turned out to be true, anyway.

“Most of the abductions and UFO stories you heard about were fake. But there were things you didn’t hear about. Make no mistake, this invasion didn’t come entirely out of left field.”

“It’s all still kind of hard to take in,” Central said. “Even weeks later. This still feels like a dream.”

Weir’s face softened.

“Take it a little at a time. Don’t overwhelm yourself.”

“Do we have time for that?” he asked.

“For now,” Weir said. “The aliens are only in the scouting phase. I’d give it another month before the situation gets pressing.”

It wasn’t already pressing?

Bradford looked at the XCOM flag in the corner.

“In your professional opinion…do you think we can win? Truthfully?”

“Of course, Central Officer.”

Such an easy dismissal. Had to be bullshit.

Weir rattled the pill bottle. Sounded like only a few remained. He set on top of a stack of papers from Engineering.

“Want to celebrate?” he smiled.

Bradford grabbed a whiskey from the drink cabinet, and followed Weir into his quarters.

Weir opened a box of cupcakes, grinning like a little kid.

“Where did you get those?” Bradford laughed.

“I know a guy, and I’m the Commander.” Weir picked a cupcake from the box. “You would be surprised about what I can get smuggled in here under the radar.”

No, he really wouldn’t be.

Bradford smiled, unscrewing the bottle in his hands. He joined Weir on the spot of floor in front of the bunk.

Weir offered him a cupcake.

He declined in favor of kissing him, tasting the chocolate frosting on his lips.