Paragon Center, Dr. Downes Waiting Room – Two Weeks After Olympus
The waiting room outside Downs’s office smelled normal. That was the problem. Fresh coffee brewed sometime in the last twenty minutes. Lemon cleaner on the tile floors. Somebody’s cinnamon gum. Cheap printer toner from the receptionist desk. Human scents layered over each other in soft overlapping waves—stress, exhaustion, stale cologne, perfume, antiseptic soap, nervous sweat. All normal. All civilized. And every single one of them scraped across Brett’s nerves like sandpaper because none of it matched the scent memory burned into his head from Tempest Point two weeks ago. Smoke. Pulverized concrete. Burning electrical insulation. Blood. Saltwater. Fear. Amelia falling. He sat motionless in the corner chair with one boot crossed over the other knee, coffee untouched in his hand while his tongue brushed once against the back of his teeth to taste the air again. Safe. Calm. Controlled. The Paragon Center kept trying to smell like the world still made sense. Somewhere behind the office door he heard the quiet scratch of Downs’s pencil moving steadily across paper, maddeningly calm. Brett focused on that sound instead of the memory of sulfur and divine ash that memory said should still be clinging faintly to his own skin ever since they’d clawed their way back from Hades.
The couch in Downs’s office creaked softly beneath his weight as Brett lowered himself onto it, shoulders tense beneath the dark green dress shirt and deep brown slacks, brown oxfords, the only thing that changed was the colors, for his arrival as Oliver Smith. The room carried the same scents it always had—cedar shelves, old books, coffee, wool, graphite from the doctor’s endless pencils—but today he could taste every individual layer with painful clarity. Shawna’s unique scents; her hair dye, soap, cigarettes, whiskey, and clover; lingered faintly beneath newer scents, probably from an earlier appointment. Anxiety soaked deep into the fabric of the couch itself from years of confessions and breakdowns. Even Downs smelled exactly the same as always, which somehow bothered him more than if the damn Scotsman had smelled afraid. Nothing in the room reflected the fact that Tempest Point was rubble now. That Amelia had plummeted from above the point of the Washington Monument hard enough to crater stone and pavement and somehow survived. That Hades himself had looked at the Anderson brothers and said their souls weren’t clean enough for him to bargain for. Brett rested his elbows on his knees, fingers clasped together while the skin along his forearms prickled beneath the sleeves like another molt threatening to split free. Behind the calm blue eyes tracking him from the desk, he had the sudden ugly feeling that Downs already knew exactly which scent memory he was trying hardest not to taste.
Downs settled into his chair slowly, one leg crossing over the other as the pencil tapped once against the edge of the notebook balanced in his lap. “Well then,” the Scot said quietly, blue eyes studying Brett over the top of the page, “ya managed ta survive the destruction of Tempest Point, a trip through the underworld itself, an apparent divine revelation regarding the state of yer family’s souls, and somehow still made it ta yer appointment on time. I’d call that progress.”
Brett snorted softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the rain-speckled windows overlooking the Center grounds. “Suppose Amelia would say bein’ punctual builds character.”
“Aye, I imagine she would.” A faint scratch of pencil. “And how is Amelia?”
The answer came immediately this time. “Better.” His shoulders loosened just slightly beneath the dark green shirt. “Or at least tryin’ ta be. Livy too.” He rubbed absently at the heel of one palm. “Oliver’s place helps. Towers are quieter than Tempest Point was. Less ghosts.”
Downs nodded once at that but didn’t immediately chase the word. “And yerself?”
A shrug. “Still breathin’. Mostly avoidin’ throwin’ people through walls.” The corner of Brett’s mouth twitched faintly. “Figure that’s probably another step in the healthy direction.”
“Mm.” More pencil scratching. “And yet despite all of that, ye called and specifically requested an additional session this week. Usually means there’s somethin’ rattlin’ around in that head of yers besides anger.”
Brett was quiet for several moments, fingers flexing together slowly before finally speaking. “Been thinkin’ about takin’ Amelia somewhere.”
Downs’s eyebrow rose slightly. “Somewhere?”
“Costa Rica.” The answer came softer now, less defensive. “Not just luxury resort bullshit either. Some of it, maybe. She deserves that now.” He leaned back slightly against the couch. “But not only that. Wanted ta mix it together. Nice hotels a few nights, beach villas, drinks with tiny umbrellas, all the rich tourist crap she never really got when we were younger.” A faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Then disappear for a few days between it all. Rent a truck. Drive inland. Waterfalls. Jungle trails. Camp somewhere nobody else is around. Just us.”
The pencil stopped moving.
“Tell me about the original trip.”
A long silence followed before Brett finally exhaled through his nose. “We were twenty-three. Didn’t have money for fancy shit back then. We were still both SASR, but she was on TDY to Townsville and had been for months, checking up on their medics. Borrowed this old Land Cruiser outside Townsville that sounded like it was actively dyin’ every time ya changed gears.” A quieter smile now. “Ten days drivin’ north. Port Douglas. Daintree. Cape Tribulation. Mostly camped because it was cheaper. Ate terrible roadside food. Hiked half the rainforest soaked in sweat while Amelia bitched about every mosquito in Queensland.”
Downs’s eyes flicked upward briefly from the notebook but he stayed silent.
“She loved the waterfalls though,” Brett continued more softly. “Anywhere isolated where nobody else was around. She’d drag me halfway off trail because she heard water somewhere.” A brief laugh escaped him. “One time she damn near got us lost because she decided a creek ‘looked prettier this direction.’” His gaze drifted toward the office windows. “Then the last weekend we rented this tiny beach cottage north of Cape Trib. Tin roof. One room. Barely electricity. Ocean right outside the windows.”
“And now?”
Brett’s fingers tightened together once before relaxing again. “Now I got money.” His tone carried almost quiet disgust at the fact. “Enough ta give her the things she deserved back then. Nice places. Good wine. Real vacations instead of sleeping in a bloody tent because we couldn’t afford another hotel.” He swallowed once. “But if it’s only luxury…then it’s not us either.”
Downs nodded slowly. “So ye aren’t trying ta recreate the trip.”
Brett was quiet for several seconds before answering.
“No.” His voice lowered. “I’m tryin’ ta recreate the feeling before we lost everythin’.”
The room settled into silence for a few moments beyond the soft tapping of rain against the windows. Brett sat forward slightly on the couch, forearms resting against his knees, dark green button-up sleeves rolled neatly to the middle of his forearms despite the hour. Deep brown slacks, polished oxfords, clean shave—the uniform of Oliver Smith, Chief of Security. The disguise had long since become muscle memory inside the Paragon Center. Even now, with Tempest Point reduced to rubble and half the Alliance emotionally shredded, he still couldn’t entirely let go of the habit of looking controlled.
“And Olivia?” Downs finally asked gently.
The shift in Brett was immediate.
His shoulders tightened subtly beneath the tailored shirt and his jaw flexed once before he answered. “That’s the problem, innit?”
“Mm.”
Brett rubbed slowly at the heel of his palm. “I wanted a few years first.” His voice stayed calm, but only barely. “Just a few bloody years where she got ta be normal. Surf. School. Sneak beers at parties. Complain about curfews. Maybe hate me for bein’ overprotective instead of…” A humorless breath escaped him. “Instead she gets dragged into this life almost immediately.”
Downs remained silent, waiting.
“She’d barely gotten here from Australia before Bryce took her on a fuckin’ patrol.” The anger sharpened now, controlled but hot beneath the surface. “Didn’t even know I was her father yet. Didn’t even know what the Alliance really was. Then suddenly she’s runnin’ rooftops and chasin’ metahuman crimes because Bryce saw somethin’ in her.”
“And ye disagree with him?”
Brett laughed quietly, bitter around the edges. “No. That’s the worst part.” He stared toward the rain beyond the office windows. “She’s got the instincts for it. Smart. Brave. Too brave.” His fingers tightened together once. “An’ once somebody starts thinkin’ it’s their responsibility ta save people…”
His expression darkened.
“…they start sacrificin’ pieces of themselves without even realizin’ it.”
Downs watched him carefully. “The same as ye?”
Brett shook his head slowly.
“No. Mine was protectin’ people.” His voice dropped lower now, rougher around the edges. “Olivia…she wants ta save people.” He swallowed once. “That was Bridgette too.” A pause. “I’ve seen where that road goes.”
Silence filled the office for several long seconds after that.
“She still believes there’s enough time,” Brett finally said, eyes distant now. “Enough time ta save everybody. Enough time ta stop the bad things before they happen.” His jaw tightened. “I just wanted a little while longer before the world taught her otherwise.”
Brett shook his head slowly.
“No. Mine was protectin’ people.” His voice dropped lower now, rougher around the edges. “Or at least that’s what I told myself.” His eyes stayed fixed on the rain beyond the office windows. “Protect Brant. Protect Bryce. Give them motorcycles.” A faint humorless smile touched his mouth. “Then later it became protect the team. Protect Amelia. Protect Olivia.”
He rubbed slowly at his jaw before continuing.
“But part of it was escapin’ too.” The admission came quieter. “Wanted out of Port Hedland. Out of my father’s drunken shadow. Out of the feeling that everybody around me was drownin’ and somebody had ta become useful enough ta hold the damn thing together.”
His fingers flexed once against each other.
“Army gave me purpose. Structure.” Brett stared toward the rain. “Thought if I became useful enough…I could push my brothers onto safer roads than mine.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “Brant becomes some university genius. Bryce becomes a cop or racer or whatever the hell he wanted. Nice boring lives.”
Downs remained silent.
“Instead Brant followed me first.” Brett’s jaw tightened. “Then Bryce followed both of us in his own way.” His eyes darkened slightly. “And the worst part?” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “They remember me encouragin’ it.”
The scratching pencil stopped.
Brett stared at the floor between his shoes now.
“They remember me talkin’ them into the military.” Brett’s voice flattened slightly. “Talkin’ them into Eyes Open. Selling it like duty. Purpose. Patriotism.”
His jaw tightened.
“Problem is…I don’t remember any of it.”
Silence settled across the office.
“I remember trying ta keep em away from all this.” His eyes lowered briefly toward his hands. “But Eyes Open was already inside my head by then, wasn’t it?”
A faint humorless breath escaped him.
“So maybe the version they remember was real too.”
Silence settled heavily across the office.
“And now Olivia looks at all of us like this life means somethin’.” Brett finally looked back up toward Downs. “Like sacrifice turns people inta heroes instead of casualties.”
A long pause followed.
“Bridgette believed that too.”
Brett’s jaw tightened hard enough that the muscle fluttered once beneath the skin before he finally leaned back against the couch again. For several long seconds he just stared toward the rain trailing down the windows of the office, fingers loosely clasped together between his knees.
Then quietly:
“Can I ask ya somethin’, Doc?”
Downs’s pencil shifted once above the notebook. “Ye usually do regardless.”
A faint breath of laughter escaped Brett, gone almost immediately.
“Have ya ever seen the exact moment in somebody’s eyes when they realize intent doesn’t matter anymore?”
The younger man stayed silent.
“Not just the first time they kill somebody. Everybody talks about that one.” Brett’s eyes remained distant now, fixed somewhere years away from the office. “I mean the moment after…when they realize what they meant ta do stopped matterin’ the second somebody died.”
The scratching pencil had completely stopped.
Brett swallowed once before continuing.
“Kid’s young. Angry. Scared. Somebody important ta him’s gettin’ hurt.” His fingers tightened together slowly. “So he steps in. Doesn’t even want ta kill the bastard. That’s the important part. Wants ta stop him. Protect somebody, just save someone he cares about.” A bitter twitch crossed his mouth. “But hand ta hand doesn’t work like the movies. Nobody actually knows exactly how momentum’s gonna shift second ta second.”
Downs watched him carefully now.
“So the fight moves half an inch different than expected.” Brett’s voice lowered further. “The other bloke slips. Weight shifts wrong. Maybe the kid reacts faster than he realizes.” He looked down at his hands. “And suddenly the spike goes through the attacker’s throat instead of his shoulder.”
Silence.
“He probably tells himself it was an accident at first.” Brett’s expression had gone strangely still now. “Then he sees the eyes.” A pause. “That’s the part people never talk about. The realization.” His jaw flexed once. “Because the second somebody dies lookin’ at you like that, intent stops matterin’. Doesn’t matter what ya meant ta do. Doesn’t matter if ya were protecting somebody. Doesn’t matter if ya were terrified.” His gaze finally lifted toward Downs. “All that matters is they’re dead and you’re the reason.”
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Then quieter still:
“Have ya ever watched the innocence die in somebody’s eyes in real time?” His throat tightened slightly around the words. “Not because they wanted ta become a killer. Not because they were evil. Just because for one second the world moved wrong and afterward they understood they could never really be who they were ten seconds earlier.”
The office stayed silent.
Brett’s eyes drifted away again toward the dark glass.
“That’s the moment I keep thinkin’ about with Olivia.” A long pause followed before he continued. “Because I watched it happen with Bryce.” His voice lowered even further. “An’ afterward he tried ta act normal, but you could see it. The moment he understood the world wasn’t fixable anymore. That some lines, once crossed, stay crossed whether ya meant ta cross them or not.”
Kupang, West Timor (Indonesian Timor) – June 2013
The memory hit him hard after that.
Not all at once.
Rain first.
Humidity.
Diesel fuel.
Blood.
The little rental house in Kupang smelling like wet jungle and harbor salt while the ceiling fan pushed hot air through the room. Rotting leaves. Mud. Fish oil from the docks. The whole city smelled alive in a way Australia never quite had.
Brett sat half-awake on the battered couch beneath the open window, one boot still on, pistol resting loose against his thigh while exhaustion dragged at him hard enough his eyes kept slipping shut between breaths. Twenty-nine years old and already functioning on years of broken sleep and operational reflexes.
Across the small house Bryce finally seemed asleep.
At least for now.
The kid looked seventeen until you watched him too long.
Then you noticed:
Reflexes that moved too fast. Strength that came out wrong. The way injuries healed. How his pupils widened like an animal tracking movement. The fever sweats that came and went without warning.
Some mornings Bryce could barely hold down water. Other times he cracked doorframes accidentally because he forgot his own strength for half a second.
Eyes Open had done something ugly to him.
Something military. Something familiar.
Brett understood enough classified projects to know none of this was accidental, but every memory he had tied to Eyes Open still felt clean inside his own head. Necessary missions. Important targets. Work that mattered. Even now he remembered briefings, extraction plans, operational objectives.
That was the part that made him sick.
The fan creaked overhead.
Rainwater dripped somewhere outside.
Then silence.
Brett’s eyes snapped open instantly.
The house smelled wrong.
He sat upright slowly, pulse already accelerating as his tongue brushed once against the back of his teeth.
Bryce wasn’t inside anymore.
“Bloody hell…”
No struggle. No panic scent. Just Bryce’s trail drifting outside beneath the wet harbor air.
Probably needed air.
Probably tired of feeling trapped.
Probably tired of being sick.
Still…
His senses kept working automatically.
Humidity.
Rust.
Cooking oil.
Fish guts near the docks.
Then finally—
Bryce.
Adrenaline.
Fear.
Blood.
Brett stood instantly.
The front door opened before he reached it.
Bryce stepped inside breathing hard, soaked in sweat and rainwater despite the heat, pupils blown wide enough Brett could barely see the color of his eyes anymore.
“I fucked up.”
Every muscle in Brett’s body tightened simultaneously.
The words mattered less than Bryce’s scent.
Fear.
Shock.
Copper.
Gun oil.
Fresh blood.
“How bad?”
Bryce swallowed hard. “I stopped some blokes hurtin’ a woman near the docks.” His breathing stayed uneven. “I didn’t mean ta—”
“Did anyone see ya?”
A pause.
That hesitation told him enough.
Brett moved immediately.
“Pack.”
Weapons. Passports. Cash. Medical supplies. Maps. Ammunition.
Move.
Prioritize.
Leave nothing critical.
Brett’s hands worked automatically through the cramped rental house while his senses mapped the night beyond the walls in widening circles.
Motorbike two streets over.
Drunk dockworkers somewhere near the harbor.
An electrical transformer humming unevenly through the rain-soaked air.
Bryce stuffing supplies into the second pack too fast in the back room.
Then—
movement.
Subtle enough most people would’ve missed it beneath the storm.
A faint metallic scrape somewhere high above the house.
Weight settling onto corrugated roofing.
Almost silent.
Almost.
Brett froze instantly.
Not rain.
Not branches.
Boots.
Very controlled boots.
Another sound followed seconds later—soft impacts farther overhead and down the block, distant enough they blended almost perfectly into the wind rolling in from the harbor. Fast insertion. Rappelling maybe. Or teams moving rooftop-to-rooftop farther down the block.
Then came the slower sounds underneath all of it.
Stair movement.
Disciplined.
Measured.
Multiple operators advancing upward through the building below them.
Brett’s pulse slowed instead of rising.
Training.
His senses worked harder automatically now.
Australian suppressor grease.
Military lubricants.
Wet tactical fabric.
And underneath that—
Indonesian tobacco.
Vehicle fuel.
Outer perimeter teams.
Too coordinated for local police.
Too quiet for militia.
His stomach dropped.
Eyes Open hadn’t sent a snatch squad.
They’d sent a full recovery operation.
“Bryce.”
The kid appeared immediately from the back room carrying the half-zipped packs, still breathing too fast, eyes wide from adrenaline and fear.
Brett shoved one of the bags into his chest hard enough to steady him.
“Vehicle. Now.” His voice stayed low and flat. “Jeep only. If I’m not there in two minutes, ya drive.”
“What about you?”
The roof creaked softly overhead.
Another team settling into firing positions.
The stairwell below them went quiet.
That was worse.
Brett’s eyes flicked once toward the ceiling.
Then toward the door.
Calculating.
Entry points.
Sight lines.
Kill funnels.
Retreat routes.
The first breach hit before he answered.
The front door exploded inward.
Three operators flooded the room almost simultaneously.
Fast.
Professional.
Capture posture.
Brett moved before the debris finished falling.
The first operator barely managed to raise his rifle before Brett hit him hard enough to drive both of them sideways through plaster. Bone cracked beneath the impact. Brett ripped the rifle free and smashed the stock down across the man’s throat.
Second operator.
Knife.
Left side.
Brett caught the wrist, twisted until tendons tore, then buried the blade upward beneath the jaw in one brutal motion.
Suppressed gunfire shredded the room.
A round tore through Brett’s side and hot blood immediately soaked through the shirt.
Didn’t matter.
Capture orders.
That was their mistake.
They hesitated.
He didn’t.
Another operator came through the rear doorway while a fourth covered angles from outside.
Too many.
Too coordinated.
Brett dropped low and crossed the room almost animal-fast before slamming shoulder-first into the third operator hard enough to drive him backward across the kitchen table. Wood exploded beneath them. Brett grabbed the man’s head and smashed it once against concrete hard enough the body stopped moving instantly.
“MOVE!” Brett roared toward Bryce.
Outside now:
radio chatter
vehicle doors
perimeter tightening
More teams converging.
The surviving operators immediately started falling back once the breach collapsed into chaos.
Professionals.
Good ones too.
They understood the mission was broken.
Brett heard one shouting coordinates outside and knew instantly what came next.
Thermals.
Roadblocks.
Aircraft.
Dogs.
The whole damn machine.
He grabbed a fallen rifle and sprinted into the rain.
Two operators were already retreating toward the alley while another provided cover farther back near the vehicles.
Brett hit the nearest from behind hard enough to drive him face-first into concrete. The second turned to fire—
—and Brett slammed the captured rifle sideways into the man’s knee before ripping away the pistol and shooting him twice through center mass.
The third operator kept moving.
Smart.
Then Brett smelled it.
Rear angle.
Elevated breathing.
Gun oil.
Last shooter.
Behind him.
Too late.
Brett started turning just as the muzzle flashed.
Then something moved past him.
Fast.
A dark shape whipping through rainwater and yellow streetlight.
The spike punched through the operator’s throat with a wet cracking sound.
The shot fired wild into the night sky.
For one frozen second nobody moved.
Australian flag patch soaked dark with rain and blood.
The operator stumbled backward against the alley wall choking violently as blood poured through his fingers around the spike lodged deep in his throat. His rifle slipped uselessly from his hands.
And Brett watched it happen.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Something worse.
The exact second Bryce understood intent didn’t matter anymore.
Rain hammered softly against concrete and rusted metal while the soldier slowly slid downward against the wall.
Bryce stared at him without blinking.
“I…”
The word died in his throat.
The operator tried once to breathe and failed.
Then he stopped moving entirely.
Brett’s senses still worked the night automatically—more movement two streets over, engines starting, distant radios—but all of it suddenly felt far away beneath the sound of Bryce breathing.
Because he knew that look.
He’d seen it before in mirrors.
The moment somebody realizes the world can’t be put back the way it was ten seconds earlier.
Bryce finally looked up at him then.
Not panicked.
Not hysterical.
Just…quiet in a way seventeen-year-olds should never be quiet.
And Brett felt something inside himself break a little further because he already knew exactly what came next.
The kid would keep moving.
Keep functioning.
Keep pretending.
But the innocence wasn’t coming back.
Downs’ Office – Post Olympus
Downs stayed quiet long enough Brett thought the Scot might simply let the silence end the session.
Then finally:
“Ye know the dangerous part about men like ye, Brett?”
A faint exhale through Brett’s nose. “There’s quite a few options there, Doc.”
“That after enough violence, ye start confusing innocence with worth.”
The room went still again.
Downs leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers resting loosely across the closed notebook in his lap.
“Ye speak about innocence like it’s the thing ye’re trying ta preserve in Olivia.” His voice stayed calm and measured. “But innocence was never the best part of Bryce. Or Brant. Or Amelia. And it won’t be the best part of Olivia either.”
Brett’s jaw tightened slightly.
“She’s going ta lose illusions eventually. Everyone does.” Downs shrugged faintly. “Especially in your world.” A pause. “That does not mean she loses kindness. Or decency. Or the ability ta love people properly.”
Brett looked away toward the rain again.
Downs watched him quietly for another moment before continuing.
“Ye can’t raise her ta remain untouched by violence, Brett. That possibility ended the moment she was born inta your life.” His eyes softened slightly then. “But ye can decide whether she faces those moments alone…or with someone beside her who understands what they cost.”
Silence settled across the office.
Then more quietly:
A pause followed before Downs spoke again.
“Did ye ever learn who he saved?”
Brett’s eyes drifted toward the rain beyond the windows.
“Local woman.” His jaw tightened faintly. “Early twenties maybe. Dock worker according ta the police report I eventually found.” A longer pause. “Broken ribs. Fractured jaw. Bad concussion.” His fingers flexed once against each other. “Whatever those bastards planned ta do ta her…Bryce stopped it.”
Silence settled briefly across the office.
Then quieter:
“He still apologized afterward.”
“And what did ye tell him?”
“That he saved my life.” The answer came immediately. “Because he did.”
Downs studied him quietly for several long seconds before finally speaking again.
“Because from what I’ve observed…Bryce survived that night with his humanity largely intact for one reason.” A faint nod toward Brett. “He wasn’t abandoned ta it afterward.”
The room went still again.
Brett stared toward the rain beyond the windows for several long seconds before answering.
“I know.” The words came tired instead of defensive. “I’m not stupid enough ta think I can keep her innocent forever.” His jaw flexed slightly. “I just wanted it ta happen at twenty-five instead of fifteen.”
The Scot stayed silent.
Brett rubbed slowly at the scar along his ribs again, eyes distant now.
“Mine ended at seventeen.” The words came flat and matter-of-fact. “Look where it got me.”
Silence settled heavily across the office.
“Bryce’s…” Brett swallowed once. “That was fear. Chaos. Wrong place, wrong second.”
His gaze lowered toward his hands.
“Mine was different.” A faint humorless smile crossed his mouth. “Intentional.”
Silence lingered briefly before he continued.
“Army teaches ya ta live with violence. Special forces teaches ya ta become efficient at it.” His jaw tightened faintly. “Eyes Open forced me ta keep movin’ afterward, no matter what I may have thought.”
Downs watched him quietly without interrupting.
Brett leaned back slowly into the couch, exhaustion settling visibly into his shoulders now.
“So when I look at Olivia…” His eyes drifted back toward the rain beyond the windows. “I’m not afraid she’ll get hurt.” A faint shake of his head. “Everybody gets hurt eventually.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m afraid she’ll start adaptin’ ta it too young. Because once somebody gets good at violence…” His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “The world starts finding uses for em.”
The room stayed quiet after that except for the rain tapping softly against the glass.
Then quieter still:
“Truth is…sometimes ya don’t even have ta be the one who kills somebody.” His eyes stayed fixed outside now, distant and tired. “Urban fights. Bad angles. Redirected rounds. Grenade fragments. Some terrified soldier squeezes the trigger half a second too early an’ suddenly a kid three rooms over dies because everybody involved made one wrong movement.” He swallowed once. “Intent stops meanin’ much after enough of that.”
The office remained silent.
“I think that’s the real moment innocence dies.” Brett finally said. “Not when somebody becomes violent.” His eyes lowered toward his hands again. “When they realize violence doesn’t actually care if they’re good people.”
Downs remained quiet for several long seconds after that.
Rain drifted softly against the windows behind Brett while the Scot studied him with the same careful expression he always wore whenever he was deciding whether honesty would help more than comfort.
Finally:
“Then perhaps the goal isna ta keep her innocent.”
Brett’s eyes lifted slightly.
Downs leaned back faintly in his chair.
“Perhaps the goal is ta make certain she never becomes comfortable with violence merely because she’s capable of it.”
The room went still again.
“Because that”—a small gesture toward Brett with the notebook still resting loosely in his lap—“is the difference I worry about least with Olivia.”
Brett frowned slightly. “Meaning?”
A faint shrug.
“I’ve met men who enjoyed becoming useful ta violent systems.” Downs’s voice stayed calm. “Men who adapted so completely they stopped mournin’ what violence cost them.” His eyes held Brett’s steadily now. “Ye are not one of them.”
Silence settled heavily between them.
Brett looked away first.
Downs closed the notebook at last.
“The fact ye still lose sleep over what violence did ta Bryce at seventeen…” A slight pause. “Means some important part of ye never fully surrendered ta it either.”
The rain continued softly outside.
Then the calm Scot stood slowly, signaling the session’s end.
“Teach Olivia restraint. Teach her compassion. Teach her how ta walk away when she can.” A faint, tired smile touched the corner of his mouth. “And perhaps stop assumin’ the only thing she inherited from ye is the violence.”
Last Dreams 