Code Red

jaques

"Suppose so, yeah. It's actually been eleven years today since Jaques died. I guess it's convenient that I get to speak with my mom," I say, running a hand over my face, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot older than I am.

Tyrese's expression dims, the grin fading. "Yeah, she probably needs to speak with you today more than ever."

Jaques Hendrix. My little brother. Twelve years old. Shot dead in a shopping mall back in '91. A random massacre. Wrong place, wrong time.

And the guilt, the guilt never left. Dropped his little hand in the chaos when I was trying to drag us to safety and the crowd separated us. Saw his little hand covered in blood when I went back to find him. The cops had to drag me out because I was losing my fucking mind. 

He'd hid under a bench. A fucking bench made out of metal poles, and the bastard had shot him right through it. Eight times. 

It's the reason I ended up in this life. The reason I never look back. The reason I can't walk into a public place without mapping the exits in under five seconds.

Everyone in this place has a story. Mine just happens to start with a dead little brother and a family who never moved past it.

--

I'm next in line, waiting for Jed to finish talking to his sister. We're all queued up outside the soundproof comms room like we're back in goddamn elementary school.

 Alphabetical order, fifteen-minute slots. Nova's right behind me, because of course she is. We're always in each other's orbit, whether we like it or not.

We're standing back-to-back, not saying a word, like the air between us is some kind of neutral zone. The silence sits heavy. Until, surprisingly, she breaks it.

"Who are you calling?" she asks quietly, her voice subdued, her back still turned.

I glance over my shoulder at her. She's fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, eyes on the floor. There's no venom in her tone for once.

"My mom," I say. "You?"

"Don't really have a choice apart from my dad," she murmurs, exhaling slow, pinching the back of her neck like it aches.

Something about the gesture makes me feel like shit. I don't know why. Maybe because I know a little too well what it's like to not have options.

Jed finally exits the room, looking way too smug for someone who probably just talked about football stats and backyard BBQs. He pats me on the shoulder like he's passing on some sort of torch. 

I walk past him into the room, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

The burner phone is there, waiting on the desk like it's judging me. I take a breath. Then I sit. Pull out the sticky note I scrawled with half-truths, lies, really. Fake time zones. Fake drills. Fake base name. I check the time. 1:40 p.m.

I dial.

The line clicks. Rings. Then: "Hello?"

Thank fuck.

"Hi Mom. It's me."

A beat of silence, and then her voice spills through the speaker, soft and warm. "Sweetheart? Oh, son, I feel like I haven't heard your voice in forever. How is military camp?"

Camp. That's the lie. Queensland. Basic drills. Nothing about the kind of blood we wash off our hands.

"It's good, Mom. Seven-forty a.m. here. Up early for training," I say with a confidence that doesn't feel earned.