On Second Thought

  Six years ago he sat in this exact same chair, only wearing a crisp, immaculate dress uniform, his shoes buffed to a smooth glaze not unlike that of an 8 ball. He was a brand new recruit, nervously reporting for duty for the first time. Now he sits here, leaning back in the chair in his wrinkled fatigues and well worn Duboiu runners, he didn't even pack his dress uniform. His first squadmates gave him his code name; Bucket.

  He taps a Red Label out of the foil cigarette pack, pulling out his worn chrome lighter that's engraved with the image of a simple wooden bucket. With the flick of his wrist he flips it open and strikes it. His smoke lit, he flicks his wrist with a flare, and a sharp clink closes the lighter, tucking it back in his shirt pocket. Taking a long, deep drag he winces from the sharp pain in his side.

  The waiting room outside the Colonels office hasn't changed much in six years. It has the same worn down grimy rug, the clear lacquer on the dry wooden chairs still flakes off on your hands, the decrepit painting of some wooden sailing ship with a corroded plaque that reads 'Bluenose II' still rests in its place. Walls of rough timber give off a slight musty smell, it reminds him of barn wood, only no rank cow dung odor. The musty smell isn't as potent as cow dung, but it's just as unappealing, in its own way.

  He thinks back to the farm. The exhausting labor, the smell of hay. The beatings. Yeah, fuck fathers farm.

  Playing 'Specters and Net Lords' with Alice and Kenny was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark childhood. Father would go away on business a few times a year for a week or so; it turns out his 'business' was some woman he had on the side. It gave everyone on the farm a chance to breathe, even mother was more cheerful. It gave them a chance to play, to be children. To be more than unpaid labor.

  Bucket and Kenny would layer on safety goggles, wet suits and hockey padding; pretending they were ghostshades, a kinetic jell layer and echo-suit. Alice never geared up, but she had her role in the play. Bucket was always the Specter. Always. Kenny was the Host and Alice the Net Lord.

  Alice controlled the game, Kenny being the Host she had complete say in what he did. Just like the real Net Lords, kept alive in their stasis tanks controlling the Host body inside the echo-suit. Only Kenny had conscious thought; the Hosts were grown in vats and were discarded before they ever became conscious. Alice would order Kenny to attack Bucket and they would spar with broken hockey sticks. Sometimes Alice would order Kenny to do silly things, jump up and down like a monkey, dance with her, another time he was ordered to jump in the pond.

  It all ended the day Kenny accidentally hit Bucket under his safety goggles, leaving a large gash on his cheek. Alice scrambled to the first aid kit, her and Bucket started to work on a story they were going to tell mother as to how he got injured.

  “That's quite the tale you spun there Alice.” Fathers voice boomed; he was standing in the doorway to the barn. The children all froze. He had arrived home early. The sound of the howling frigid wind whistling through the barn boards, a wooden shutter clatters, the cold numbs his sense of smell. It all seemed so oppressive now, with fathers presence. Maybe he was drunk enough to mumble and let it go. “Let me see, boy.” Maybe not.

  Bucket looks down. But then something changes in him. He's not going to keep doing this. He raises his chin up and looks father right in the eye as he walks over to him. Father looks at him with almost a sense of pride, then his face contorts into a disgusted grimace. “Why couldn't you be mine?” He mumbles as he grabs him by the hair and yanks his head back so he can get a closer look at the cut. “Alice, get the iodine.” She meekly walks over and hands the small brown plastic bottle to him. He shakes the iodine on the cut. It burns, a bit is splashed in his eye, but Bucket refuses to cry out from the caustic burn in his eye, he refuses to scream. Father stops, he looks at Bucket with a rising, volcanic rage. He goes to grab Bucket again and Bucket shoves him away. An enormous, maniacal smile appears on his face—he has his excuse to discipline now. “Alice, go wait in your room.”

  “Father, please, we promise not to play anymore.” She pleads, a look of desperation in her face.

  “Go.” Alice looks at Bucket, tears welling in her eyes as she walks away. Kenny tries to skulk away. “Where are you going? You stay here Kenny, you need to see what I have to do to your brother when you act up.” Father picks up one of the broken hockey sticks. “It's a simple choice boy; take off all that crap and your shirt, put your hands against the wall or fight me on it and Kenny will be the one with his hands against the wall.” Without hesitation, Bucket removes the wetsuit, hockey padding and takes off his shirt. The icy cold of winter drifting through the barn bites at his flesh.

  The imaginary echo-suit didn't protect him that day, but at least the cold numbed some of the pain. By the third strike Bucket starts to laugh. On the fourth strike the stick snapped in two, Bucket laughs even harder. This will be over some day, Bucket realized at that point it won't be forever. Father didn't say a word after that, he just turned and walked away. There were more beatings as time went on, but Bucket never cried out during them again. He looks over and sees Kenny sobbing.

  “It's OK Kenny, it's just bruises, it's not your fault.” Bucket says as Kenny latches on to him, his arms wrapped around his legs, sobbing. It wasn't just bruises; he had 2 broken ribs, and father refused to let him go to the doctor. Bucket put some glue on the scar and kept it bandaged. He still pauses each day when he looks in the mirror while shaving; others rely on him to do his duty.

  The game was so innocent—until it wasn't.

  How long has he been waiting in this old, musty waiting room? Shifting his position on the firm wooden chair, he winces at the sharp pain in his ribs.

  Now he's back to secretly assess the readiness of the Specters. He hates this assignment, it seems like they sent him here to be a rat. Why do they need an outsider to report on the Specters? At a glance, they're fine. The only issue lately has been the Specter fatalities in the field. But that could be just a bit of terrible luck.

  Where the hell is the Colonel? Serving here under her was his first assignment. Her file sure was interesting, he had to dig deep to see the psych training she had close to 20 years ago, that as well as her seeming to have a lot of sway in this part of the world. Is her having him wait so long a sort of game? Why is she just sitting in her office making him wait?

  The outside door to the offices opens, the Colonel walks in. He forgot how tall she was, she looks almost the same, only a few strands of grey hair mixed in with the black, she's wearing a white cotton buttoned up shirt, brown slacks, her hair done up some. He only ever recalls her hair in a pony tail.

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  She looks over at him, puzzled, then she seems to figure it out. “Ooohhh, I'm sorry, I thought you would stop by in the morning. I was out with a friend, I just came back to get something from my office before I head off for the night.” She walks over to him and grabs his hand, shaking it heartily before he can salute. “Oh right, haha, salute soldier!” He smiles and salutes. She seems to be a bit tipsy. The key word being ‘seems’. “I’m Colonel Forester.” She looks at him puzzled again.

  “I’m Sargent Bucket. Are you OK?” He asks.

  “Yeah, I'm just... oh shit, Red Labels. But I don't smoke; give me one.” She says. Bucket taps one out and hands it to her, she greedily takes it, her long delicate fingers seem to dance with the cigarette as she places it to her lips. He offers her a light, she takes a deep drag and coughs as she exhales. “Thanks... um... Leech? Laser?”

  “Close, those are my squadmates. I'm Bucket.” He just told her his name, what is she up to?

  She narrows her cool blue eyes, “Right, the Nightfall agent that isn't officially Nightfall here on some ratty mission. Oh, I probably shouldn't have said that. Sorry if I seem a bit tipsy.” She unlocks the office door and they head in, “Please, have a seat.” She settles in behind the desk as he sits in front.

  The room has the same bare wood plank walls as the waiting room, the faint smell of tobacco lingers. Surveillance monitors cover one of the walls, showing all the public places of the harbour and military quarters. The pullout loveseat is new, there is a small trunk with a couple of children's toys around it on top a colourful foam playmate.

  “Are you sure yo...”

  “Bucket! Yes, from sometime ago, now I remember. Yes, most unfortunate about the code name, the lactose intolerance thing and the tree stand you were stuck in for 36 hours.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You look, different.” She says, squinting at him.

  “You honestly look the same.”

  “You're too kind. So, I don't really feel like dancing around whether or not you're Nightfall. I know you are.” She says, rapping her fingers on the desk, she has the smile of a drunken fool, but the eyes seasoned detective.

  “Wait, what is Nightfall?” he asks. She shakes her head.

  “Do you trust me?” She asks. Her expression changes drastically, she went from a relaxed look to serious, peering at him like she's trying to figure him out.

  He stands, hands on her desk he leans over looking down at her as he speaks. “Now that we've chatted, no.”

  She stands, their eyes meet at an even level, squinting she stares at him, whatever game she was playing he's not falling for it. “Why don't you trust me? I am your Colonial after all, you served under me previously.”

  “You're lying to me. You come in late, implying you were on a bad date, smelling of booze, acting like you're tipsy. But the booze isn't on your breath, you also have a slight stain on the left side of your leg, likely where the smell of booze is coming from. The stain is, as I said, on the side of your leg, a spill would be on top of your thigh or knee. All you've said is a combination of truths and fishing statements, casting a wide net until I give you something to focus on. I was your top performing Specter for the two years I was here. There is no way a Colonel of your caliber would not remember me.”

  “Well, you think very highly of yourself.” She looks uneasy for the first time. “I don't trust you. Maybe if you wore your medal and weren't trying to hide who you were, I would.” She says with a sly demeanor.

  Still gazing at one another he pauses. She’s wily, fishing, but more subtle now. But he’ll play along for a bit, “What medal?”

  “Pft, please. The man who saved the Countess was stabbed in the ribs, spent two weeks in the Royal Infirmary. You're favoring your side and have a bit of blood seeping through your shirt. You should probably get that looked at.” She says with a growing look of sureness she walks around her desk, looping behind him. He goes to turn but at that moment she takes a large stride to his other side, he instinctively switches to turn the opposite ways. He affords himself a slight smile; she made him turn the other way, she knew an agent would instinctively move to have someone behind them out of their blind spot. This is her ballroom, her dance.

  “Is that all supposed to impress me?” He says.

  “I don't really care.” She says with an amused grin, crossing her arms, “But if you're going to be here we need some sort of trust between us. Otherwise I'm going to petition for you to go back to the mainland.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Lets start with the truth about how you infiltrated the Rebels and we'll go from there.”

  “Why do you want to know about that?”

  “I already know of it, but you telling me in your own words will tell me a lot about who you are.” She takes another drag, letting out a long, smooth stream of smoke.

  “Do I have your word you won't speak of transferring me if I am truthful with you on this matter?”

  “Based on this topic, you have my word.”

  “I went undercover. I became their friend, their comrade, I ate Sunday dinner with their families. Over the last year I worked my way up their ranks. The Spring Festival was going on, Elaine Countess Del Monte was attending. They wanted to strike, to show no one is untouchable, even the Royals. Vic and I were in the clocktower, I had rigged his sniper rifle to explode when he fired.”

  “Then what?” She asks.

  “Then he took aim at the Countess and fired. The gun exploded in his face, shrapnel cut up his neck, he was losing blood fast. He turned to me, asked me to move closer so he could speak his final words. I moved closer, as he was dying he said 'Fuck you' and stabbed me.”

  “Why didn't you arrest him before he shot?”

  “He was in too deep. If they took him in they would have also taken in his family to get him to talk. I..." he pauses, looking at her she has a sympathetic look in her eyes, the look throws him off, but he continues ", I couldn't be party to that happening. There was no right call. I did my duty, and betrayed people that I made believe were my friends.”

  “That assignment really bothered you, didn't it?” He takes a deep breath, reminding himself of her psych training, he needs to be on guard with her. She has a sympathetic look though, is this part of the game? Or is it genuine?

  “Does it matter? I did my duty.”

  “Of course it matters, I can see it in your face. You let him say his peace, but part of you knew he had a knife, right?” He just nods his head. She's in his head, he's not going to say the thoughts that went through his mind over this, that part of him feels he deserved to be stabbed for the betrayal. Somehow it feels like he doesn't have to tell her, that she knows. “I've dealt with your Commander before. For close to 20 years Underwood has been a thorn in my side. You may work under him, but you're not one of his men, I can see that.”

  Opening a desk drawer she pulls out a first aid kit. “You're bleeding through your shirt, if you're not going to get it fixed at least let me redo the pulled stitch. I can't have my Specters bleeding out in my office.”

  He unbuttons his shirt, there is a blood soaked patch on his bleached white undershirt. He peels his undershirt off, it sticks slightly to the wound, then tosses the balled up garment into the waste basket. She looks over his chest, it's riddled with scars.

  “You've seen a lot, haven't you?” She says as she pulls off the bandage and starts cleaning the wound, carefully removing the pulled stitch she starts to put a new stitch in.

  She's close and distracted, his hand in his pocket he hits the button on his scanner and starts to copy her portable communicator. He needs her access codes to do his mission. He feels a knot in the pit of his stomach, all he can think is 'rat'. But he has a duty to perform. The scanner's range is less than 1 metre and he doesn't know if he'll get an opportunity to be this close to her again.

  “Yeah, no different than any other Specter.”

  “You're not 'any other Specter.' I really was on a date you know, it had been five years. Turns out he was a windbag that spent the whole time telling me how to raise my son.” Her long surgical fingers gently press a fresh bandage to his wound.

  They peer into each other's eyes; he finally sees her being truthful, her look softens, it's tender. She runs her hands along his chest up to his shoulders. Whatever secrets she has there is at least one truth he sees in her eyes at that moment.

  “I'm not a good man.” He says, as he wraps his arms around her and holds her close.

  She whispers in his ear, “You're not as bad a man as you think.”