It was rare he got out of the facility before curfew. Prism didn’t shutter up for the night the minute the rest of the population scurried behind closed doors, or at least were supposed to. It was like a beehive, people constantly buzzing in an out, a hive of activity on the inside even as night fell and the rest of the city start to go still. Most nights eight, nine, o’clock would come and go before he swiped out and headed back to the base.

A military liaison had a reason to stick around late when the crap was hitting the fan so violently, but Finn knew he couldn’t get away with poking around twenty-four seven. Eventually someone would question his omnipresence and the last thing he needed was one of them digging into what he was already digging about. His discovering what Prism’s role in all of this really was relied on the good folks at the biotech company believing that all he was doing was greasing the wheels between Joseph Monroe’s merry band of scientists and the military.

Smoke and mirrors. The basis of his whole job.

Finn stared in his rear view mirror as he pulled away from the gate at the front of Prism’s little piece of real estate. The parking lot had started to empty out, vehicles queued behind him to punch out, others already turning left and right in front of him. Folks doing what he’d been reluctant to and grabbing themselves an hour or two outside of the job before they had to go inside and bar the doors, hoping to hell that tomorrow wouldn’t be the morning they woke up sick.

He drove through the city, eyes on the streets, watching people flinch away from one another, hurrying along streets they once would’ve strolled, faces covered by masks, eyes haunted. Lethford hadn’t turned into a war zone yet but it as about as close to it as almost anywhere else he’d been sent to fight.

His hands froze on the wheel, his toe tapping the break gently as he caught a flash of a Prism lanyard around a young guy’s neck. It stood out, at least to a man who spent all day every day studying the things, memorising names and faces to run when he got back to the base, looking for any chink in Prism’s armour. A brown paper bag in hand, the drinker’s walk of shame towards the park.

Finn cursed as a horn honked behind him started up. He goosed the pedal, got moving again until he could pull in to the curb down the block from the park entrance. A Prism employee with a drinking problem might just be enough of a chink for him to start to break open. He grabbed his own ID from the glove compartment, clipped it to the waistband of his jeans rather than hanging it from a lanyard around his neck. Easy enough to conceal with the wall of his jacket. Glancing in both directions he slipped out of the car.

The park moved at a slower pace to the street outside, like this little oasis of green allowed folks some taste of normality they couldn’t get in the stores, choked by masks, terrified by the sight of empty toilet paper shelves. He saw the guy settle on a bench off the path, grabbing a beer from the bag he’d carried, flipping the lid off and taking a long draught. Considering what he might’ve seen in those sterile labs or in the data scrolling twenty four hours a day through Prism’s computer system a drink might not’ve felt like the worst way in the world to drown the misery.

Glancing around, keeping his pace slow, Finn ambled in the direction of the bench. Keeping his distance from others, making sure the guy didn’t see him til he was dropping down on the other end of the bench. The veneer of a smile appeared then, mouth deep only, dark eyes dropping pointedly to the ID laying against the guy’s chest before a careless brush of his own hand revealed his own badge at his hip. ”Feels necessary after a day like that huh?” He stretched his legs out, tipping his head to the beer. ”Kinda wish I’d thought ahead the same way. Guess I didn’t expect there to be any left on the shelves. Toilet paper, pasta, beer, the holy trilogy of pandemics.” There was a thin thread of humour to his voice, a kick to the corner of his mouth. Like any of them would do anything for you when the virus chewed up your respiratory system instead of your ass or your stomach.

Tagged: Thomas Moore * Word Count: 784

During summer he imagined the park full of little groups. People hanging out, drinking cold beer and maybe barbecuing up a few brats and burgers, happy families making that picture postcard vista that would’ve left him watching them like a visitor to a zoo. It’d never been anything he’d done growing up, going from Alec’s rough care to the open arms of the military with no break for the Peyton Place life in between.

Now, it might’ve been busy but nothing about the scene was perfect. People dodging away from one another, the dutiful escaping the boldly rebellious, those apathetic, seemingly like his fellow Prism employee. Watching the world going to shit around them, maybe far too aware of the truth of the situation.

Finn studied the guy as he sipped from the bottle, angled his approach to turn the opportunity into something as fake as that Peyton Place feel would’ve been. He jumped, like he’d been caught doing something other than just drinking away a crappy day on the job, maybe startled at the that someone would want to get within a dozen feet of him. Wanting to stop that startlement he was quick to point out the connection between them, gesturing at the guy’s ID before flashing his. Finn snorted a breath out through his nose as he flipped his coat closed over it again. ”Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” he promised dryly. Dark eyes slipped over people walking past, catching sight of the guy tucking his ID back in his pocket. He wasn’t here to police him, although he imagined it’d gone through the guy’s head.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, tearing his gaze away from the passers by to indicate the beer that sat on the bench between them. It had to have become a black market favourite by now with everybody either drowning their sorrows or doing their best to kill the virus from within by steeping themselves in booze. Finn propped an elbow on the back of the bench, snorting as the guy revealed he had in fact slipped someone a few bucks extra to get his hands on them. ”Sal sounds like he’s a guy worth getting to know. There’s gotta be good business in that stuff right now.” He made a low sound of agreement in his throat as the guy said it was worth it. Maybe. If you didn’t want to remain clear headed.

Finn knew he couldn’t afford to muddy his own too much. This wasn’t a job that ended when he punched out of Prism. It was 24/7 until this either ended one way or another or his superiors finally figured they had what they needed and pulled him back out. One dark brow arced as the beers were offered. ”I’m definitely not gonna say no,” he crooned, picking carefully through the neck of the bag to extract a bottle for himself. Finn twisted the top off, lifting it to take a sip as the guy turned his attention back to the people moving around them, completely unaware of what was going on. ”They don’t want to know,” he admitted, his voice low. ”You start thinking how miniscule your chances of surviving this are and you panic. It’s easier to bury your head in the sand until last minute.” And by then it was too late, you were choking, desperately trying to pull in oxygen but by then your system just wasn’t capable of it anymore.

Finn breathed out through his nose, almost lifted his hand to wipe the foam from away from his lips before he stopped himself. He considered the question for a moment before taking another sip. ”Customer liaison,” he said dryly. ”I’m military, on assignment to the company. Call me a go-fer between them and my people. You?” Dark eyes squinted, as though he hadn’t seen for himself on the guy’s ID.

Tagged: Thomas Moore * Word Count: 652