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| Scene Title | Sorry |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It's not an apology, and yet, it is. |
| Date | March 23—July 11, 2021 |
The Bastion
NYC Safe Zone
March 23rd
5:26 pm
In spite of everything else going on, the delivery services of the world are always the real VIPs.
The Bastion's dining area is bathed in the smell of food; the culprit is a bag from a Mexican cafe not two blocks down. It's a commonplace enough event, that silent aroma spinning out from the kitchenette. When Huruma buys she trends towards getting more than she needs; there are no shortage of grazers with the Hounds. Today is no different. It's a small price to pay.
It is by no means a feast, but Huruma takes care to unpack the extras and lay them out on the countertop; limited time only, before it goes to the fridge.
The humming of a song seems to take precedence over an attempt at actually calling in anyone else; Huruma has patterns of comings and goings filed away in her head, the data works well enough.
It’s quieter in the Bastion than anyone has been used to. A SCOUT dispatch team is out on call for a domestic disturbance involving an Expressive, Rue left yesterday for a mission Avi didn’t even brief Huruma on. Avi’s presence has been a light one as well, partly due to the debacle of Rue being sent off on a mission even he knows scant little about. When his presence darkens one of the doorways to the dining room, it’s with a heavy conscience that Huruma can feel the weight of.
“That’s a lot of food for two,” he jokes. The Harkness’ are still around today, at least. But the jokes are only skin deep. Down below, Avi is a knot of worry and uncertainty.
"It is the curse of my indecision." Huruma's response comes lightly, although the unbroken thunderstorm that Avi's squeezed into the door is one she views with caution. Not for any traditional sense of danger, simply a concern for its source and origin.
The tall woman leans her hip against the counter, one hand popping the lid on a container of tamales. "…Can you eat?" is a far cry from asking are you hungry, and Huruma has distinguished the two.
“We’ll find out together.” Avi answers, stepping out of the doorway with the exhausted forward momentum of a man who isn’t certain how to stop anymore. He comes to lean against the counter near Huruma, only giving the food a passing glance.
“I’m sorry,” is a newer word in Avi’s vocabulary. “About the Lancaster thing,” he has to specify. “CIA, or maybe someone higher up, pulled her for an overseas op. I didn’t get told shit. I pulled a few favors and the most I know is she was wheels down in Israel about an hour ago.” He glances down at the food. “I should’ve pushed back, asked for more time, and consulted with you.”
The I’m sorry is because he didn’t, and for the first time in his life, he does truly feel sorry about bucking the system.
Minds can keep on racing, but at least your feet won't hurt as much. Huruma watches him out of the corner of her eye, idly plating something for herself and only lifting her chin when he speaks. As foreign as verbalizing remorse might seem, normalizing it has been a slow ascent. What helps is mutual usage.
"Then perhaps I owe you an apology, because I already knew… some of this." Huruma's voice remains level as she lowers her pitch, deliberate in pace. "I was with her the other day." is the lone explanation she offers, refraining from more personal details so freely. "Pushing would not have gotten you much further, I expect."
Avi sits down at the kitchen island across from Huruma, deflating a little with a tired sigh he only reserves for select company. “S’alright,” he mumbles, raking one hand through his graying hair. There’s an honest fatigue in him that few but Huruma are allowed to see. She can see all the physical and psychological check engine lights coming on one-by-one as Avi mulls over things in stoic silence.
You can heal his body, but he’s still getting on in years. One of these days it’s all going to catch up to him. Huruma knows that, Avi knows that.
“What’d she have to say?” Avi finally asks, looking down at his hands as he folds them in front of himself.
At least this time he hasn't intentionally wasted what he's gotten back. Something she can, in fact, relate to. And yet- - she isn't so far behind him, despite attempts to push it out of her mind. Moments of silence like so, finds it creeping.
"She wanted to see someone before she left. CIA operation. She had not said where." Huruma cuts a small piece from her food, set on eating something even if her desire isn't entirely there. "Have you not seen her in person?" Something about the question strikes as apprehensive. She did slip something in his calendar, but that was all she was asked for. Whether or not they met up, that was all them.
Something else in the air drives her to an addition. Huruma whistleblowing is rare as it is, much less when it is something she does not have to share; voice tinged with a moment of achy consideration, Huruma tiptoes around her words. "…She did ask after you. Wanted to see you. She misses us. This. Having us behind her. I let her know we'd never gone."
“We talked,” is Avi’s way of saying it didn’t go well. “I was just curious how yours went as opposed to mine.” As opposed to poorly. “Sounds like we said the same things, just… in different ways.”
Avi sits forward and rests his head in his hands, scrubbing the heels of his palms against his forehead. “Sooner or later,” he changes the topic, “Uncle Sam’s going to stop letting us run around in the back yard with a knife.” He drags his hands down his face, looking up to Huruma. “This space we’re operating in is narrowing. The further the country moves away from the war, the more people look at our operation as a reminder of worse times.”
Scoffing at the notion, Avi folds his hands in his lap. But then the indignance fades and his shoulders slack. “Sooner or later we’re going to have to choose a leash, or fuck off into the woods for good.”
“We will always say the same things differently, and it is better that way.” Huruma takes her good time in addressing him, using the chain of response allow her time to forge a better one for those bigger issues. Feeding herself seems to assist in this, her eyes nonetheless focused across the counter.
“Planned obsolescence is the nature of finding peace.” Same thing. Different ways. A sigh moves through her, steadily from one end of the lungs to the other; her features soften somewhat as it comes, a weary yet resolute expression. “But the reality is, there will always be a need. All the same I have no wish to become the dog behind the barn. Reactivity is very American, so perhaps a proactive approach is in our best interests.”
“More for the sake of those we have under our charge than just ourselves, hm?”
Huruma does not do a lot of commiserating on the topic of stopping, but knowing that there will be a need for the specialists they work with feels different, somehow.
Avi’s sole reaction is a drawn-out grumble hidden behind his hands as he continues to slouch forward like a melting snowman. He stares down at the table in silence for a moment, then looks up at Huruma with a more purposeful and less distant expression in his eyes.
“If this wasn’t an option—a necessity—what would you be doing with your life?” Avi asks. It’s the most personal question he’s asked her in months.
Not the first time she's fielded the question, nor the last; it definitely feels as if Avi's asked her this before, but in different circumstances and a different state of mind. A long time ago. But now, in this case, the change she notes first is that furrowing feeling pushing itself around before deciding to root outwards rather than curling inwards. Huruma's expression is one of deliberation and quick consideration, quietly gauging just how much new weight he's putting to his words. On the outside, her stillness is as present as ever.
"I could not rightly say." This answer is mostly truthful, yet always a fallback. A scapegoat, in a fashion. Her most common non-answer that she bookends with a parroted line, likely to his frustration. "This is just… what I've done."
"I suppose these days… the teaching, lessons, speaking… it is not unfulfilling." Progress. Small. But it's there.
Avi nods, deeply invested in his examination of the tabletop rather than meeting Huruma’s eyes. Sighing, he rakes a hand through his hair and looks up at her. His expression is unguarded, just as his emotions are to her. She feels the doubt in himself, the hopelessness, and the uncertainty. That is, after all, the crux of his question. He wanted to see if she had answers he didn’t. Because if Wolfhound did go away…
…he doesn’t know what he’d do.
Two Months Later
The Bastion
Shooting Range
May 8th
4:12 pm
Avi unloads a second magazine into a ballistic gel dummy at the far end of the shooting range. Fragments of orange gel are scattered across the ground along with plastic bone shards. He sets his handgun down on the bench in front of him, taking off his ear protection with a frustrated sigh.
Sometimes you shoot something to hone your skills. Sometimes you shoot something because it feels good. Today it’s one of each.
Staccato steps down the corridor are a declaration of Huruma's presence. Slinking around in silence may be customary- - but it is certainly not the be-all. Especially intentional are the days where she commands the attention of others. Height, poise, and that severity of sound does wonders for bureaucratic nonsense.
"Why must I always allow you to convince me into attending your meetings," It is not a question, it's Huruma prepped to give him a hard time when she enters hearing distance. Dressed for the part in a dark skirt and satin shirt, Huruma comes to a stop against the doorframe into the shooting range. Her arms cross in front of her core, low voice still holding onto a lightness. "Not intruding on your placebo, am I?"
“Nah,” Avi’s sighs. “I’m spent anyway.” He motions to the gun with a nod, then turns to face Huruma, awkwardly handling his ear protection since he’d forgotten to set it down. There’s a shadow in his features, though. A worry, much like Huruma’s, about being invited to meetings.
“My kid’s making my mistakes.” Avi says. It isn’t surprising, given all they’ve talked about Emily. But it seems like it’s weighing more heavily on him today than it should. It’s a mixture of pride and fear. “She’s…” He looks at the ear protection in his hands, wrings the hard plastic. His gaze wanders everywhere but to Huruma. “She’s exactly how I’d wanted her to grow up.” He’s scared.
The kick and powder of a weapon can be enough to change a mood or simply cement it, as most things do. Stress pushed outward more often than not, but in this case it only seems to have lingered- - at least it appears that way. Huruma lacks some context, though not all. She watches his hands as they manipulate the headgear absently, ears tuned to his words.
"Mistakes are always relative." Huruma's reply is almost intended as wordplay. She does not see the same mistakes that he does, and possibly never will. Emily isn't her daughter, and she expects it to be vastly different. She hums quietly, a thoughtful sound deep in her throat. "And your hopes changed?" He did use a past tense. Huruma doesn't point out his inner conflict in as many words. "As much as they can, I suppose…"
“I don’t fucking know,” Avi grumbles, finally hanging the ear protection on a hook. “I pushed her out of the nest a little. Put in a good word for her with some old contacts. She… got up to the kind of shit I used to. Fucking—” Avi leans his head against the wall next to the hook, as if he just wanted to hang his entire brain up too. “Fucking came back twisted up.”
Avi sighs, rolling his forehead against the wall, then turns fully around and slouches against it. “She saw some fucked up shit in the UK, this that’s going to roll downhill at us.” He adds with a gesture around himself. Huruma can feel the real emotion behind all of this, though. It isn’t frustration, or anger, or even fear. It’s something deeper, swimming under the surface of his emotions like a shark. It’s resentment.
“We didn’t finish the job.” Avi says, staring up at the ceiling. “And we might have to.”
The kind of thing that Avi used to do is adjacent, and yet a world gone by all the same. It's not quite the same world for those people now. Huruma tips her head as he speaks, arms loosening some in their fold, fingers drumming against her elbow. She cannot seem to hide her own brand of concern, brow knit and mouth a firm line. Twisted up, hm?
While she doesn't adopt the same posture, Huruma angles over to lean into the wall beside him.
"If someone deserves a finish… it could not happen to someone better, I think." Huruma mutters quietly, personal experiences with The Crown surfacing for a moment or two. Bitterness of her own which lingers. "I am sorry that she got wrapped up in what I assume to be war crimes."
"…If we did have to, what then?"
Avi steadies himself with a sigh. “Might honestly buy us some time, professionally.” He leans away from the wall, pacing the gun range floor. “The new administration’s got the DCMA back up and running. Just got off a call with them this morning.” He shakes his head. “There’s pressure coming down from the President to reign in all PMC activity within the US. Close down shops or force them out of the country.”
With a slow shake of his head, Avi looks down at the floor. “We make people nervous. Wolfhound’s a reminder of what used to be. I had a couple of off-the-books chats with contacts at the DoD and they’re saying we’re going to have two options. Disband or integrate.” He looks up at Huruma. “If the war pops off again, all of that would be paused. If you asked me a month ago, I’d say it’s time for us to hang up our hats and retire…” He shakes his head, squaring his attention down at his feet again. “But now?”
Avi sighs, and Huruma can feel the stress leave him at the prospect of a war igniting. That he understands. It’s peace that’s confusing.
“Now I don’t know,” Avi says.
“No trouble having people like us in the Middle East, but God forbid we keep court here.” She doesn’t really need to tell him this- - but it bears repeating, even with a grumble. Huruma breathes out through her nose in annoyance. “For what it is worth, I would rather not start over again- - but I probably would.”
War is comfortable even if she could get used to peace, given enough time. The overseas pot is about boiling over, and theirs may well have just been set to the simmer she expected. Not her first civil war.
“Always a need.” Despite the familiarity, she feels as if she can identify parts of that resentment. Her senses settle in to inspect the lingering emotions. “We could always take a permanent ocean cruise.”
“Trust me,” Avi says with a rueful laugh, “I’ve considered it.”
But only considered.
Two Months Later
The Bastion
Huruma’s Office
July 10th
7:03 am
It’s no surprise that Avi is waiting for Huruma in her office. She can feel his tension and anxiety from outside the building. It’s also why he’s made himself at home, looming by one of her office windows with two fingers of neat whiskey at the start of office hours. But Avi’s isn’t the only emotional profile Huruma picked up this morning. The Bastion is buzzing with activity, and none of it is happening on the books.
Avi has been maneuvering around Huruma for a few days now. Setting something up that he’s intentionally been cutting her out of for what she has put together is plausible deniability. Now, though, he has to cut her in. Whatever slice of this is for Huruma feels as bad as Avi does inside. The fear, the anxiety, the regret. She’s felt it before.
In people who think they’re going to die.
The less that Huruma knows, the more she naturally wants to- - this isn't a one man show. Still, there remains a degree of trust when it comes to off-the-books operations; it's a frustrating line to dance on, enough of one that when she finally does breach the door to her office it is with a small sigh of relief- - purely for his sake- - that she needn't go hunting him down this morning. Good, she's done waiting.
Coffee in one hand finds a perch on her desk as she considers the miasma around him; she pinpoints each emotion with care, like a butterfly on a board.
"I am no priest, but I will take your confession."
Avi can’t help but laugh at that. And it’s exactly what he needed this morning. “You have the day off,” isn’t an observation but an instruction. “And I’m taking… a couple weeks sabbatical.” He sounds genuinely uncertain of the time frame. “So’s Francis.” He adds, taking a sip from his whiskey.
There’s a long silence that hangs in the air between thoughts, one Huruma has become familiar with. She can feel the weight of the words coming before they’re spoken. The fear in them, the uncertainty, the regret.
“Obviously you’re running the show while I’m gone.” Avi explains. “But uh,” he dithers, looking down into his glass. “But it might get extended. My time off. Possibly indefinitely.” His eyes meet hers finally, and the fear clicks into place.
Whatever this is, Avi is afraid he might not come back.
Ever.
"I thought it might." While it is only a truth she's come to see more clearly in the last few minutes, it is still one that has. Once, it wouldn't have been so surprising. But in a relative peacetime it just hits different- - even if she can puzzle certain reasons for all of this together.
Plausible deniability is too troublesome for her to Deal with today, and so is the cloying slog of his fear.
Huruma's features pinch in a more flat-Mouthed expression, displeasure more evident. At the risk of assessing herself in a trite way, She isn't angry, precisely, she is disappointed. '"Are you going to explain, or do I need to pry it out? Is it because you know I would insist on going with you?"
Forget the government, or whatever else lies in official hands.
“All of the above.” Avi admits, unable to look Huruma in the eyes. “There’s something I’ve gotta do, something you can’t know anything about right now.” Which means it’s so below-board that even a whiff of it would be hazardous to one’s health.
“In case I don’t come back from vacation, there’s some stuff you need to know now.” Avi stares out the tower window to the street below. “I told you a couple months ago, we’re at an inflection point with the company. I’ve… been trying to forestall a decision for a while. Fuck, even having to talk about a decision. But with the the new administration getting their bearings, the Praeger way of things… it’s not going to be the way it goes anymore.”
Raymond Praeger had been one of the most liberal presidents in history. Many would say too liberal. It wasn’t merely protections he offered to Expressives, wasn’t merely freedom and dignity, but it was amnesty for past crimes. Everyone who fought for the winning side got a clean slate, with strings attached.
Don’t cause more problems, and those strings won’t get pulled.
From the way Avi’s talking, it sounds like those strings are more taut than ever.
“I’ve had a few more calls with the DoD. Chiefs of staff. Vice President even came and paid me a personal fucking visit.” Avi exhales a slow sigh, turning away from the window. “Long and short of it is we have to make a choice. The US is trying to pull its shit together. The days of the wild west, they’re coming to an end. We’re the cowboys that are going out of vogue.”
Avi walks over to Huruma’s desk, sitting on the corner of it. “They want us to either step in line or disband. The former looks like becoming an official peace-keeping arm with oversight and red tape. The other… “retirement.”” She can feel the air quotes around that. “Caveat on the latter is, if we do anything extra-judicial, we’re getting choked by the long dick of the law again.”
No more wild west. The world is changing.
Insistence that she can't yet know is just one more nerve and he knows it; she may come back around to that, being that Avi continues onto other matters before she can protest again. It usually works in his favor, and it's not nearly the only thing he is deft at putting off.
Huruma has always known the leash gets tighter the further they stray down their timeline, and hearing it does little to quell concerns she may not be able to do enough to stop the cinch at the end. Her expression hesitates in the space before dour, just at the precipice of gloom she can already sense.
"We knew it was coming," Huruma breathes somewhat sharply from her nose, displeasure evident. "And apparently they have chosen the best time." She's not him when it comes to connections, frenemies, history. They would have even less of a reason to trust her if Avi doesn't stick around. "I have never felt comfortable as a pet, and I like abandoning people I was supposed to look after even less."
"So neither of us would like to make this choice, I expect- -" She toes the line of offended, eyes narrowing. "And it should not be a decision I need to make alone, yet somehow you manage to put it on me all the same."
“Hypothetically.” Avi says with as much sarcasm as he can muster.
He doesn’t let the shit-eating grin last for long, though. “The system knows me, knows what to expect. Knows my training. While they might be less likely to trust you, you’re also not a dyed-in-the-wool fed like I am. I’ve got tricks, but they know them all by now. Nobody’s been keeping an eye on you like they do me.”
“But here’s the thing,” Avi deflates a little. “If this whole operation stays above-board, I can’t imagine anyone else I would trust more to tackle it than you. In, y’know, my absence.” He spreads his hands in a see I still care about me sort of way. “But, if it doesn’t. Stay above board, I mean. I also know you can disappear into the fucking shadows and take everyone with you, if it comes to that.”
No suggestion of retirement. No suggestion of disbanding. Just in or out of the light.
The panning of old dog, old tricks seems to at least mollify some attitude, because nothing else quite hits like a passive compliment or two. It all goes into an invisible account, meticulous as ever.
"It's true." Huruma agrees, lips curving in a dry little smile. "And I would not trust anyone more than me, either." There's always a reason he says such things, and that's because they are the truth- - dishonesty tends to wilt in this relationship- - least because one of them can literally smell it out.
"It does not mean I prefer it." Huruma crosses her arms loosely, a stubborn note in a reassuringly common conversation. Being able to pick and choose which world-altering battles you fight- - and with whatever means- - is her sort of comfortable. All of which makes her words unintentionally teenaged.
"Comfortable is better when I get to do what I want."
“Yeah,” Avi says with a downward cast of his head, rubbing one hand at the back of his neck. “But right now, you absolutely aren’t getting what you want.” His expression shifts, half-joking as he shrugs with a sad-sack quality as he looks at her to say, “Sorry.”
But Avi likes zinger-endings, even limp ones like that. This would be where he turns heel and leaves Huruma with the mess he’s handed her to think about. And he tries, too. To leave. Turning for the door like he always does, except this might just be the last time.
It is only when he moves to go that part of this feels familiar, and not at all in the way she would like it to be. This time it's somehow truly nervous, impressed on her. This time it is all cold rocks in the pit of the stomach, sudden and unwelcome. This time Avi doesn't get to leave like he always does. He feels the strength of Huruma's hand at his wrist before getting wheeled around into a firm embrace.
Avi has all the postural grace of a housecat being hoisted up in both hands. If he could have his arms and legs straight out to the side, he would. Warmth and affection are not something he is accustomed to, and hasn’t been for much of his life. While he struggles to process the experience, Huruma can nonetheless feel a sense of relief in him, in assuming that maybe this is how farewells are supposed to go. After a moment the stiffness relents, even if he returns the hug with all the natural grace of a scarecrow.
That, at least, is something. Progress.
One Day Later
Just outside of Prague
Czechia
July 11th
2021
Blood weeps through bandages. Alarms beep. Inertia causes Avi Epstein’s guts to feel like they’re about to take flight of their own accord. His vision is blurry, feels someone’s hand in his own. Francis Harkness kneels at his side, yelling something Avi can’t hear toward the cockpit of the Tlanuwa. He realizes in that moment he’s staring up at the crew cabin ceiling. Feels the movement of the aircraft, hazily remembers where he is.
Life moves forward, as fast as an experimental fighter jet. But he feels like he was somewhere and somewhen else a few moments ago. The Bastion, or maybe it was his old safehouse in Peru. Like he could be anywhere.
Everyone is yelling, something is happening and he can’t get up to help. To motivate. To try.
He mumbles something, but Francis doesn’t hear it over the noise. It’s just one, simple word. Aimed to everyone he has ever known.
“Sorry.”