GWOT 2 - Drama

[drewkitty]

GWOT 2 - Drama

Following my usual routine, I typically got back to my quarters about the same time Brooke got off shift. We would sometimes get a snack from the clubroom; sometimes chat for a minute; but more often collapse next to each other exhausted.

When I found myself sorting my E-mail for the third time, I realized I was stalling. And with only one shower per week and just the one washcloth in between, I was right to stall. Even though I'd sacrificed baby wipes to the cause.

And she was a supersmeller.

Some people have sensitive noses. I don't. My nose, even before it was broken, was the equivalent of a black and white security camera from the mid 1980s.

Brooke's nose had pan, tilt, zoom and autofocus.

I dreaded the ten minute walk (3 minute sprint - I'd timed it) from Security Control to the barracks in A1. When I reached the door, Brooke was at our shared desk, glancing at her much smaller E-mail load.

Brooke wasn't stupid. Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared.

Then she smiled and closed the door.

"Who?"

This wasn't the reaction I expected. Cheerful, attentive. Pleased.

It also wasn't the question I expected.

She may have the nose, but I have the ears.

And this was the first time we'd closed the door in the evening. I could literally hear the echoes of the whispers of the gossip starting.

"Not Betty. Please tell me it wasn't Betty."

I shook my head.

"Worse than Betty. But not Sharon."

Another pause.

"Janine? Not any of the medical staff. Besides, I think that cunt would rather cut you up for steaks and chops."

Then she saw the look on my face. She started to get really, really angry.

That was not a look I wanted to see on her face, directed at me. The kind of look you get before you find yourself pinwheeling through the air, looking back at your body through the eyes of your severed head in the eight to ten seconds it takes your brain to run out of oxygenated blood.

Then it cleared.

"No. That's not like you."

Brooke could do organizational math. I wouldn't fool around with a Employee or a guard. My judgment would be questionable fooling around with a contractor or Employee supervisor. The Client managers were mostly unattractive, already dated up, or too terrified of me to go there. That didn't leave many options.

Nonconsensual didn't take those calculations into account. Brooke might cry after she rigged a horrible accident for me, but not before.

And Brooke, as my self appointed bodyguard, had direct access to my scheduler. She moused over to it and looked at my day's meetings.

"Holy. Shit. Really?"

I nodded.

"That's aiming high. I didn't think you were Air Force."

Then for the second time that day, a woman said those words that can mean everything, or nothing, or something in between.

"I'm sorry, [Echo 18]." Pause. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Slowly, I made my mouth form words.

"Don't know if I can."

"Well, you'd better. I got your back. What happened?"

She touched my arm. It steadied me. Then she helped me sit down on the pallet we used for a bed.

I told her. Not the mechanics. Not the words. But as blunt as a baseball bat, as sharp as a knife, and as naked as the day I was born.

"She locked the door. She wanted to fuck. She made out with me. Then she got cold feet. So I topped her."

Blink. Blink.

And from my body language and tone, she could tell that I was miserable about it.

"Because you had to."

"Yeah."

"I'll fucking kill her. No, not really. Let me guess, she's a sub."

"Ballistic," I started to joke, suddenly turned green, found a wastebasket and threw up.

I spat out the undigested half of my dinner, rinsed my mouth with my water bottle, and held up a hand.

"Not her. Just realized something."

I reached over and unplugged the computer from power. The monitor went blank.

"[Oliver Stone]. Submarine. Ballistic missile attack profile. Depressed trajectory shot."

"Um, I'm a grunt. What the hell?"

"Something he tried to tell me before I 86'd him. And it just clicked."

She ran the words together. She wasn't a sailor, but she knew how to call for fire. So she could figure out 'depressed trajectory shot' ... it just took a minute.

Her rage was incandescent.

"Those. Mother. Fuckers."

"Yeah."

The propaganda news had been full of the grisly details of the successful Chinese attack on the cities of the American Midwest.

We had time to see the missiles coming. They'd lit off radars from Utah to West Virginia.

But San Francisco hadn't had any warning. Nuclear buttfuck. Ninety seconds later, another a little further south.

One of the commentators had said something about 'depressed trajectory' and there'd been a sudden cut away. We'd lived under censorship for several months, we knew what that meant.

No, the Chinese had not nuked The City.

We'd done it to our selves. No possible doubt.

I pulled the computer back in.

Brooke tensed slightly, then gave me a huge hug. I relaxed into it.

"You have the worst case of dom drop I've ever seen," she said quietly. "Makes sense, though, you've been topping 3300 people for half a year and making us like it."

I blinked, then couldn't help it.

I roared with laughter.

Then she opened the door suddenly, and three guards fell through it. Balancing against it, straining to listen.

"Listening at the door! You're all on report! Go, get lost!"

Too many emotions, too much rush.

She caught it. She didn't say anything else. She literally wrapped me in a blanket and put me to bed.

Then she curled up at my feet.

In a day of shocks, that shocked me a little.

We'd been sleeping side by side. You know, like normal people.

But none of this shit was normal any more.

And she was between me and the door. That was the point.

Tonight, anyone who wanted to get to me would have to get through her.