Disclaimer: I don't own JAG or the characters from the show. My car is 7 years old and my trailer 32—I don't think either of them is worth much, so please don't sue me for letting my imagination run away with me.
A/N: I am still working on Secrets and Sacrifices, but for some reason this idea popped into my head and will just not give me any peace. To top it off, the first story I started is also attempting to gain my attention, so I seem to be writing three stories simultaneously (the first one isn't posted anywhere yet, but if it doesn't drop back into relative obscurity in the next few days, I'll be adding it to my list). I will attempt to not make any posting promises I cannot keep, and will try to update on as regular a basis as I can, but my job as a manager in retail sometimes sucks all the energy out of me. As always, feedback is much appreciated—it helps to restore that lost energy. I'm the only beta reader on this, so any and all mistakes are mine.
Anything through A Girl's Best Friend is fair game…anything after is another universe.
Honor's Loss 1/?
January 1, 2009
Secure facility, just outside Washington, DC
It is a small, semi-divide space featuring an eating area, a sleeping area and a tiny—and only vaguely private—bathroom. Soft light shines from fixtures set in the high ceiling, offering the only illumination available. The cold and solid gray walls completely enclose three sides of the room; the upper portion of the forth wall appears to be a very large mirror. The furnishings consist only of a small table and chair—both bolted securely to the floor—and a narrow bed that can be folded against the wall to which it attached to make space in the small confines.
A figure sleeps upon the bed, the obviously masculine frame almost too large for it. He faces the wall with his back to the mirror, drawing the meager bit of privacy the position affords around him. He decided long ago that if he ignores the people he knows are behind the mirror, he can retain what little bit of dignity he has left.
The day begins exactly as have the 1278 days before it—and much like the 110 days before that. The soft snick of the unseen door opening wakes the man instantly, his body going from the relaxed tension of sleep to the rigid attention of complete alertness. The man rolls out of the bed to his feet as the door is opened fully to allow the entrance of three people.
The first, a woman in her mid-fifties, begins to set the tray she is carrying on the table when a voice behind her growls, "Stop where you are," accompanied by the sound of two weapons being brought to the ready position. She lets go of the tray and darts out of the room, not at all caring what happens to the contents of the tray—for the first time since she began this job, the man inhabiting the little room has not remained standing at the side of the bed. She's heard the stories, and as seriously as she takes her job, her sense of self-preservation wins over her sense of duty.
The man stops in his tracks, the threat he hears behind the words stopping him before he even realizes he's now staring down the barrels of two semi-automatic weapons. He stands frozen in place, afraid to even move away from the threat in front of him. Full blown panic arises and he crumples to the floor, curling up in a ball and repeating "don't hurt me" over and over again. This day is no longer just like all the rest.
…So do I trash it or keep going?