Project: Cayro

Prologue: Beginning of the End

1st Lieutenant Clark:

July 01, 2012

06:00 EST

Langley Air Force Base Medical Lab

Langley VA.

"It's time," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, as I looked over at Zaraki. He sat beside his daughter's medical gurney, his hand wrapped around her tiny one, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. The worried furrow in his brow seemed permanently etched, a reflection of the turmoil churning within him. The little girl was already deep in a coma, teetering on the edge of life as we prepared for the procedure that might either save her or steal her away forever.

"Uncle Andy!" a small, bright voice chimed from the other side of the gurney.

"Cayro, what are you doing here? You should be in your bed, waiting," I said gently, forcing a patient tone into my voice despite the lump forming in my throat.

"I was looking for Daddy. I wanted to tell him goodnight, but I found Tabbi instead. Is she going to be fixed too?" the little boy asked, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush. My heart clenched painfully at his innocent question, the answer lodged somewhere deep, where I dared not reach.

"Yes, buddy, Tabbi is going to be fixed just like you," I managed to say, extending my hand to him. "Come on, let's go find your father."

I led him out of the private room, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a heavy stone. I escorted Cayro back to his gurney and lifted him onto it, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm going to find your dad and tell him you want to see him, okay?"

"Okay, Uncle Andy. See you when I wake up," he replied, a cheerful smile lighting up his face, completely unaware of the dark cloud looming over him.

"See you when you wake up, buddy," I replied, my voice strained. Walking away from him felt like leaving a piece of my soul behind.

I found Cayro's father standing by the observation window overlooking the operating room, his back rigid, his posture a clear sign of the burden he carried. I grabbed the stack of medical records off the counter, flipping through them as I slowly approached.

"Lieutenant Clark, are they ready?" Captain Jacob Bracton's voice was sharp, devoid of warmth, a stark contrast to the man I once called my friend. He wasn't here as the man I knew; he was here as the cold, calculating commander he had become. My gut twisted at the grim reality of what was about to unfold.

"All charts, except the two in my hand, have been reviewed and cleared, Sir," I reported, lifting the two remaining charts to show him. The names, black against the manila folders, seemed to glow ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"Get them reviewed. We're starting within the hour," Captain Bracton ordered, his tone brooking no argument as he turned back to the window.

"Your son wants to see you," I ventured quietly, hoping to break through the icy exterior.

"I don't have time to see him," he replied, his words as cold as steel. I clenched my teeth, fighting back the urge to argue.

"Sir," I began again, my voice tentative, "considering the recent loss of your wife, is this really the right decision? You could potentially lose—"

"Lieutenant," he cut me off, his voice a low, menacing growl. "If I wanted commentary from the goddamn peanut gallery, I'd ask the janitor. You're not paid to question my decisions. Do your job."

Swallowing the retort that burned at the back of my throat, I snapped to attention and gathered the files. This was not the man I remembered from our years of friendship, and though I could understand the strain on his mental state, it was still heartbreaking to witness. A year's time wasn't enough to heal from losing your wife. I would know... The memory of my own loss surged forward, unbidden—the crash, the sheet covering Bracton's wife as she was wheeled away, the frantic efforts of the EMTs to save my wife and unborn child, the dark stain of blood on the pavement. They tell you therapy helps after trauma, but no amount of therapy prepares you for the way these memories replay every time you pause to take a breath.