Wastelands (Act One, Chapter Four)

[thehonorablebat]

 

IDing all the bodies picked up from the mission took longer than they expected. At the end of it, Central knew he should go back to his quarters, but his feet took him right to Weir’s.

No one answered when he knocked.

Central looked up and down the hall, then tried the door.

Locked, of course. This was Weir.

He left the door with the same black, clawing feeling in his gut he had while sitting in that hotel room, not able to do anything while his team were god knows where.

He just wanted to help.

Central got to the elevator. He should take the opportunity to sleep while he still had it.

He punched in the floor for the brig.

The guards let him in without question. He got there in time to see them preparing the prisoner to transport. Weir was right. The council did move fast.

The man looked drugged. His eyes half lidded and mumbling.

Central got a little closer to listen.

“Twinkle, twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are…”

--

One abduction site cleared and a UFO lost later, found Central back in Weir’s office for the first time in two days.  

“The UFO we shot down was a test. An acceptable loss to determine our capabilities,” Weir said. He went over Vahlen’s latest report. His frown grew deeper, the more he read.

That black clawing feeling in his gut had yet to leave, and those words didn’t make it better. Bradford wanted to lie down. Not to think. He did enough of that. Not even focusing on the numbers helped. They were just as bleak. If not more so.

If Weir came to lie down with him, he didn’t know if he’d kick him out of bed or not. As comforting as he found being wrapped up in his arms felt, Weir’s recent attitude left him adrift.

Weir wanted to protect him, so he distanced himself. Central could see that just fine. It was flattering if not a little insulting.

He told Weir as much after about half a glass of whiskey.

“I think it’d be a good idea for you to cut back,” Weir said, eyeing the glass.

“I’m not drunk.” Bradford slammed it on the table. “Don’t dismiss what I said just because I’ve had a bit to drink.”

Weir didn’t jump, but he did lean away.

Whatever anger Bradford was feeling drained away. He ran a hand over his head.

“I’m not a child. I don’t appreciate having decisions made for me.”

“I’m concerned the situation and the lingering ghost of Green Box are influencing you to act in ways you wouldn’t normally.” Weir couldn’t quite look him in the eye when he said that.

The anger came back for a second wind. He wanted to be blunt? Fine.

“And I’m concerned about all the goddamn secrets you’re keeping. What did you do to that prisoner?”

Weir tensed.

“Yes I saw him before they took him away to god knows where. Whatever you did scrambled his damned brain. What did you do?” The words were out, but did he really want to know? A memory of his old coworkers talking about waterboarding like they were discussing the weather haunted the back of his mind.

“He isn’t as hurt as you think he is.” Weir had yet to set the report down, his eyes still glued to it.

Bradford grinded his teeth.

“Oh, that’s comforting.”

“If you want me to tell you things, you aren’t doing a very good job of convincing me to,” Weir said.

If Bradford were thinking more clearly he would have recognized the doubling down. The intentional push. But he had been drinking and he was upset.

Bradford stood, the chair scraping against the floor. Weir tensed impossibly further, the report forgotten in favor of watching his movements.

“You’re an asshole, Commander.”

He swept out the door to his quarters. Where he curled up on his bunk, and failed to sleep for four hours before the next emergency dragged him out of bed.

He’d love for the ground to just open him up and swallow him whole.

But he had a job to do.

--

It was the creepiest thing Bradford had ever seen in his life.

They were bad just seeing them on a screen. They always made them double take to make sure they were targets and not civilians. Just human enough one glance wouldn’t do it.

Up close they were even worse.

It stared at him. One side of its body slouched, its head canted to the side. Its every movement an exaggerated caricature of humanity.

Bradford glared at it.

‘I am not afraid of you.’

The thing lifted one side of it’s lips into a facsimile of grin or perhaps a leer. He couldn’t tell.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” Vahlen stood at his shoulder, looking at the alien.

“Not the word I would use, doctor.” Standing next to Vahlen gawking made him think of a zoo.

Or one of the old Freak Shows.

Bradford turned away. It was bad enough what they were going to do to it.

Empathy for the invaders. Who would have known?

‘You’re a boy scout, John.’

He’d rather they just killed the thing.

“How are you planning on interrogating it?” He asked. “We don’t exactly speak it’s language.”

Vahlen cast the thing one more look before following Bradford around to the screens displaying all the info the scanners took. He didn’t understand a thing on them, but the scientists seemed thrilled.

“I am certain it understands us,” Vahlen said. “But that’s not very helpful. We’ve developed a way to look into its mind.”

Bradford’s head snapped around to stare at her like she had grown two heads.

“What?” That sounded…

“Incredible isn’t it? The Commander says the designs came from the Council.” Vahlen brought up the blueprint on her tablet, showing him. More gibberish.

“You sound skeptical,” Bradford said.

“I believe him when he says they came from the Council. What I have trouble believing is that they have had these designs just sitting around. How did they develop these things. Why? Why haven’t used them before now? Or have they?” She turned her tablet back around.

“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person, doctor.” He wanted very badly to be out of this room.

“Asking? Oh no, musing aloud. I know you’re just as in the dark as I am.” Vahlen looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you suppose the Commander would tell you anything? You’re on better terms with him than I.”

Were they? He resisted a wince.

“I could try, but I can’t promise anything,” he said.

“Of course.” She smiled beautifully at him. “Thank you.”

--

If Weir was surprised to see him appear with a tray containing two plates, he didn’t show it. He quietly finished his notes and cleared some room for him to set the tray down.

They started on their food in silence. Weir glancing at him every so often.

When Bradford finished his pasta, he set his fork down and said: “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Weir said.

“I shouldn’t have called you an asshole.” It was unprofessional for one thing. And in light of...whatever they were, it plain didn’t feel right.

Weir smiled.

“I’ve been called a lot worse.”

“Doesn’t make it okay for me to say it,” Bradford said.

“I think we made a mistake.” Weir set down his silverware. “I don’t think-”

“If you want to break it off, fine,” Bradford rushed in. “But know I care about you. It’s too late to stop that. And I will do anything to help the people I care about. Regardless of whether or not I end up in your bunk or mine at the end of a long day.” And the days kept getting longer. They didn’t have time for these kinds of arguments. He needed to know one way or another. Right now.

‘Make up your mind, Will.’

Weir stared down at his plate. He blinked several times, taking in deep breaths.

“Hey,” Bradford said gently. “It’s...

Weir lifted his hand. A blue light made his empty glass float in the air.

Bradford stared at it. It was…

Kind of pretty, actually.

He dragged his eyes away from the cup to Weir. A glow had settled in his eyes.

Oh.