i remember marching

The first order of business is most definitely the desire to get out of his dirty work clothes and into a shower - the same goes for her as far as her flightsuit goes. Dinner will come later, probably. And possibly a raid on the cabinet in their small kitchen that holds the liquor, if the conversation topic proves it necessary.

But first: shower.

He unlocks the door to their apartment upstairs and holds it open for her, lights coming on as she walks through.

"Was it just me, or tonight did the bar seem a little...off, to you?" he asks, closing the door behind them and locking it.

When he steps through the door from Milliways, he's expecting to find the interior of his tent, which is why his head is ducked. His rucksack is over his shoulder - he'd thought it might be a good idea to bring some certain items from the Bar through in case things went wrong with his room - but when he suddenly runs his face smack into a rack of metal shelving, he yelps with surprise and confusion.

(Also? That is going to leave a bruise.)

Carl glances around at the room he's found himself in, realizes he's not in his tent (and therefore probably not in Africa, either) and immediately steps back with one hand poised to grab the doorknob back to the Bar.

Except the doorknob isn't there either.



Just where the hell is he, and why is he in what appears to be a storage closet?


+++


He spends two minutes quickly mapping out the room, while digging out his sidearm and stashing it at the small of his back where it'll be hidden safely in his concealed-carry holster. He's glanced at some labels on shipping crates and all it tells him is the department the items (whatever may be in the crates - he doesn't check) are intended for.

Science. R&D. Technical.

So he's...in a lab. Maybe.

Wherever he is, he can't stay in this storage closet forever. He tries his cell phone - no service, but it figures.

He hears footsteps outside of the door (hallway? offices?) and freezes, but relaxes once they pass.

Obviously he is going to need to get out of here and figure out where the hell he is. Carl shifts his bag on his shoulder and walks towards the door, waiting until there is relative quiet before he opens it and walks out like he's belonged here this entire time.

It's a hallway. Slick walls and smooth floors, signs posted near the doors. All right, he can manage this. He starts off in the direction he hears voices - lots of voices - figuring that at least then, he can try to blend into a crowd (hopefully) and figure out what the heck the Bar has gotten himself into.

He rounds the corner and finds himself staring at a huge open room, full of hundreds of people that appear to be packing (and unpacking) various boxes, bags, and crates. The tech is definitely nothing he's ever seen before, and a lot of them seem to be carrying what looks like gas masks at their sides.

One of the larger crates is lazer-stamped with three letters on the side: RDA



And then it clicks.



He's on Pandora. (Probably, anyway.)



"...shit."


He has got to find Trudy.

This year, the rolling green lawns at Arlington haven't been paved over with asphalt; the rows upon rows of white marble headstones haven't been bulldozed to build hundreds of columbariums in their stead.

(He's grateful for that.)

With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, he walks along the main roadway and ignores the quiet conversation of a group of tourists who are consulting a map near the visitor's center. He doesn't have far to walk to make it to the section he knows Harris is buried in, and he definitely doesn't need to consult a map.

Section 57 -- past the war dead of Iraq and Afghanistan in 60 and 61 -- is close to the main entrance. The rows of headstones still stretch neatly across the grass, but here the solid carpet of green is broken by the occasional discolored patches of freshly cut sod and upturned earth.

Staff Sergeant Timothy Harris, aged twenty-four, (promoted in rank posthumously after being killed in action), is sitting on the ground beside his headstone. His field jacket is draped lightly over the marble slab and a lit cigarette is resting at the corner of his mouth. When Carl approaches, the younger man smiles.

"Afternoon, Captain."

Carl swallows past a lump in his throat as he moves closer, and sits in the grass that covers the foot of Harris' grave.

(What he doesn't say: Afternoon, Staff Sergeant. How are you?, because the kid is dead and buried at twenty-four, never married with no children, shot and killed in some dusty courtyard in Beirut, his body shipped home in the back of a cargo plane in a flag-draped casket.)

He nods his head. "Afternoon, Staff Sergeant."

"Want a light?"

Carl shakes his head at the offer -- he hasn't smoked since that day in Lebanon when everything went to hell, because every time the glow of a cigarette flares he's reminded of the smell of burning skin and screaming.




They sit quietly for awhile in silence. Carl watches a bird hop from headstone to headstone a few rows over, while Harris smokes without a word, the thin wisps of grey curling up into the cloudless October sky.



It's the dead man who breaks the silence first, with a question.

"Did you get him?"

(Not did we get him, because he got shot before they made it to the building, his blood soaked body having to be pulled back to safety after the sniper plastered his brains across the sandstone pavers.)



"No, I didn't."

(Because it wasn't Harris' fault that the stairwell was guarded by a bastard with a cache of grenades, or his fault that the commander back on base decided to pull the plug. It hadn't gone to shit -- completely anyway -- at the moment in which the kid was struck down and killed.)



"Damn."




Harris lights yet another cigarette as the sun tracks slowly across the sky, rays broken and scattered by the bronze leaves of a nearby Pin oak. The golden glow that the late-day light gives the young soldier's skin makes him look like he's alive, and Carl appreciates that.

They both look up as a young woman and an even younger child -- likely her daughter, from the way she holds the girl's hand -- pass by a few rows over. Carl nods his head at the pair; the little one waves and flashes them both a bright smile before they continue on.




"Mom didn't see you, did she."

"She never does. The kid's cute though," Harris smiles, and for a moment Carl realizes just how young the man really was. "They come to see her dad at least once at month. He's only been gone a year or two."

"Afghanistan?"

"Yeah."

"That's shit," Carl says, looking down at the grass.

"No," Harris shakes his head. "That's life."




It's nearing five o'clock (and Carl knows he'll have to be going soon, though he knows that the captain's bars stitched into the collar of his field jacket will earn him a little more time if security starts to round up the last of the still-straggling visitors) when Carl glances up at sight of movement in the corner of his vision field.

Harris is brushing grass off of one knee. "Guess it's time for you to go, huh?"

"Just about," Carl says softly. He bites the inside of his cheek to ward off the pinpricks of heat that suddenly threaten at the back of his eyes. He clears his throat as he stands, looking over the vast expanse of gravesites that surround them. "Hey, Staff Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You...you're okay?"

Without even hearing him move closer, Carl feels the presence of the younger man at his shoulder. They're both staring at the obscured headstone, the digital pattern of desert camo oddly out of place against the clean lines of white marble and the lush green carpet that surrounds it.

"I'm fine," Harris promises him. "Besides, I've got plenty of company. Thorton's just up the way, there," the kid nods his head to an area just a few yards over to their right. "It's not like I'm lonely or anything."




"That's good," Carl finally says, after a moment's pause. "And, you know, Harris?"



There's no reply, and when Carl turns to glance at the headstone, both the young Army Ranger and his field jacket are gone, leaving only the cold marble slab to stand in silence.

He bows his head, then turns to walk up the hill, headed for the road.



Crossing the parking lot, he tips his head to the woman and her daughter he saw earlier as he passes their car -- as he turns his collar up against the chill, they pull out onto the road.

Their car backfires, twice, as they round the bend and drive out of sight.


He's on the ground before he realizes what's actually happened.




"Hey man," someone calls from a few yards away as he's picking himself up off the asphalt. "Are you all right?"

Carl nods. "Yeah...yeah. Just stumbled, s'all. Thanks."

The concerned citizen gives him one more once-over, then nods and climbs into his car.



Swallowing hard, he tastes a bitter tang of copper against his tongue -- must have cut his mouth when he hit the deck -- and heads out towards the Metro station, willing his heart to calm down.


(One shot to the leg. One shot to the head. He stopped moving, then.)

He's got the bag of burgers and fries in one hand, and a six-pack of cold beers in the other as they ascend the staircase towards the rooms. Thankfully, his room hasn't moved (or if it has, Bar has been kind enough to put it back where it was when he left) and everything seems to be in order as they step inside.

Carl places everything down on the small dining table and then glances at Trudy.

"I think they'll keep long enough for me to jump into the shower and rinse this grit off. Do you mind if I grab one real quick? Though if you're starvin', I can wait."

And when he says real quick, he means it. He is a professional at military-style showers.

Carl's got both hands free as he and Trudy make their way upstairs -- Bar 'helpfully' gave them a napkin telling them not to bother with the bottle of scotch or the glasses because she'd have them upstairs waiting -- and he's actually rather grateful for this small detail when they reach the door that will lead them to room 165.


Why is that, exactly?


Because it enables him to slide his hands to his girlfriend's hips as she moves to unlock the door, his lips falling to the back of her neck as his fingertips press lightly against the exposed skin at her waist.

"Didn't think I'd make it up here 'fore jumpin' you, t'be honest."

It had taken a bit of work on his end -- thankfully, he had contacts in high places in London that had been able to get him what he needed in regards to Trudy's identification and passport visas, because flying into Edinburgh would likely have been very interesting had someone wanted to know how Trudy got from the United States to England in the first place -- but they're in Scotland, finally.

It's been years since he's been here.

He's not sure if it's still home, but the moment he steps off the plane and into the terminal and spots the bi-lingual signs -- Fàilte gu Dùn Èideann, Welcome To Edinburgh -- he smiles.

There's no need for baggage reclaim with their backpacks and duffel bags, but they'll have to get a vehicle.

"Car hire s'down this way, if they haven't moved it since I've been here last."

He offers her his free hand, just because he can -- and because he knows she won't let him carry her bag.

[two & a half weeks after this]

He can't remember how he got to this bar, but he supposes it doesn't matter, in the long run.

(It's not Milliways.)

The sunburn he got on his first two days in the country has faded to an actual tan -- much to his surprise -- and he hasn't bothered shaving in a day or two, leaving a rough stubble peppering his chin and cheeks.

He's cradling a cold Corona between his palms, eyes focused on the wooden countertop of the bar. Behind him, a stereo is pumping out a stream of Latin hits, spurring the drunk tourists to dance and holler. There's a group of sorority girls on break and a bachelorette party, competing with a stag night and what he's pretty sure is a bunch of football players from California.

The crowd is thick enough that he has to elbow his way through the crush to get from the counter to the doorway; the few minutes it takes to make it outside is enough to finish the beer and start his lungs closing from the 'lack' of oxygen he feels. It's almost sundown.

He heads for the beach.

(One advantage to wearing combat boots is the lack of sand infiltration.)





He walks along the packed sand, ignoring the water that splashes against the leather -- there's a reason he still shines the damn things a few times a week, other than the comfort that the habit and routine brings him -- and he's ignoring the remaining crowds.

It's hard to feel like he's not being followed until well after sunset, when most everyone has retreated back to their hotels and the bars, to the dancefloor and the lounge, to the never-ending party that is Cancun.

He sits a short distance from the water.



(It starts with the rumble and crash of the waves, and then he hears the hiss -- foam against the sand -- and it spirals from there.)

He can't hear a damn thing.

Rothke and Miller are on the ground.
Bleeding.
Miller's missing his helmet.

(And half his skull.)

He can't hear a damn thing, just a hiss.
Someone is screaming at him.

Captain--
Miller's missing half his skull.
Rothke isn't moving.

Captain, you alright--
Miller needs to get his helmet back on.

Benton--
Helmet.

(Where the fuck is Miller's helmet?)

Captain, we've gotta--
Just a hiss, crashing all around him.

(Where the fuck is Miller's skull?)

He can't hear a damn thing.

He can't hear a damn thing.

The palms of his hands are pressed hard against the sides of his head, covering his ears (from the grenade) and his forehead is pressed against his knees, he's too close to the goddamn stairwell and there's too much noise--

(The ocean in front of him blurs into darkness and he can't feel his legs until a wave laps against his ankles and shocks him into awareness.



He yells.



Out of fear.)




He practically runs the few miles back to his hotel room, checking every shadowed doorway and fire escape, listening to the sounds of the late-night crowds moving through the beachfront town, of drunks laughing and singing, of sirens wailing, the pulse and breath of the night.

His hands are shaking as he packs his bag.

His fingers curl around a prescription bottle.

(The painkillers they gave him on the flight home from Germany.)

He does not want to sleep, anytime soon.

(The painkillers get stuffed into the bottom of the rucksack.)





He leaves a tip for the maid on the dresser and ducks out of the hotel room.






(It'll be another three weeks before he'll find a door back to Milliways.)

His room (it's not like he's got it on a lease or anything, but he's been living in it for long enough that it's starting to pick up hints of his habits) is only a few floor up and a bit down the hall, and inside it's like most other rooms here at Milliways.

Bed on one side, couch and coffee table, chair, TV on one wall and a desk with chair against the other. A solid black crate sits at the end of his bed (locked, because even if this is Milliways he doesn't want anyone getting into his cache) and there are clothes in the dresser and closet, a bathroom through one door.

Carl drops onto the couch and places the bottle on the coffee table, then leans down to pull up his jeans so that he can work open the laces on the well-worn combat boots that he's rarely seen without.

(And if he has to pull the knife from the boot-sheath first, well that's how it goes.)

Their exit from the bar opens into the sunlight; Carl slips on his sunglasses and holds the door for her, as they step out of what she'll soon realize is an information building at a rest stop along the highway. It's relatively quiet (a weekday morning isn't the busiest time for travel) with a few cars parked in the lot, a semi-truck or two further down, a family with kids letting everyone stretch their legs.

He's got a backpack over one shoulder, but he holds his hand out for hers, if she'll let him take it.

(There's a feeling he's getting -- that she might not, but he'll offer anyway.)

He waited until it was morning in 'bar time' to open the door, just to try to line things up on the outside. It will make it easier to take it all in, he hopes.

The area is densely wooded, trees a vivid green this time of year, and the North Carolina sky is blue and clear. Just like he promised.

"Want me to get that?"