The MPs shoved her forward, leading her down the endless corridor. Doors closed behind her with heavy metallic thuds. Each step echoed back at her like the measured beat of a drum announcing a sentence.
Brooklyn's wrists ached against the restraints but it was the cold, metallic floor and the sterile, suffocating air that pressed on her chest.
They stopped at a reinforced steel door. A panel clicked, the lock disengaged and she was pushed inside. The room was stark: whitewashed walls, a table bolted to the floor, three chairs and a camera blinking red in the corner. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Sitting behind the table was Vice Admiral Marcus Harlow, his silver hair perfectly combed, ribbons gleaming on his chest. His eyes were steel, sharp as a hawk's and they studied her like prey.
To his right stood Colonel Evelyn Rourke, a sharp-eyed officer in her forties, auburn hair pulled into a severe bun. Her lips were pressed in a permanent line of judgment.
And in the center, commanding even Pierce's respect, was Lieutenant General Gregory Vance, a man whose reputation for ruthless precision preceded him.
Brooklyn was pushed into the chair, the metal seat cold beneath her. The door shut with a final clang that made her jump. The three officers were silent for a moment, their eyes not leaving her.
Harlow leaned forward, steepling his fingers. His voice was calm, measured but every syllable carried authority.
"Captain Grant." he said, "you've been through an ordeal. We'll give you one chance to explain the discrepancies in the mission report."
Brooklyn's throat tightened. "Discrepancies? I don't..."
"Don't lie to us, Captain." Rourke interrupted sharply. "We have comms and flight logs. "
She tapped her tablet. The screen on the wall flickered to life, showing cockpit audio. Brooklyn froze.
Her voice screamed from the speakers: "I'll finish this myself! They're slowing me down!"
Then James's voice: "Brooklyn! Fall back! Don't do this!"
Gunfire erupted. Her squadron's voices, screams cut short.
Brooklyn's chest heaved. "That… that's not real! I never said those words!"
Harlow's expression didn't change. "The black box confirms these transmissions. The logs confirm your actions. You opened fire on them. Your team never completed that mission cause you killed them. We had to send another squad had to finish the objective this morning. Tell us, Captain... why?"
Brooklyn shook her head violently. "No! I wouldn't! General Pierce paired us with a foreign unit. They were the ones firing at us! They..."
"Captain, there were no other aircraft in the sky. Only you and your squadron. That's what the radar and satellite logs confirm." Lieutenant General Vance said, in a calm tone.
Brooklyn's hands clawed at the table as if trying to grab the truth itself. "That's impossible! They were five of them! Five! You have to call Pierce! He'll tell you!" Her voice pitched higher, frantic, bordering on hysteria.
Harlow leaned forward, his calm voice cutting through her panic. "See, that's exactly what we're talking about, Captain. The traces in your blood, combined with what you're saying and your actions, suggest that you're losing touch with reality."
Brooklyn's breath caught. "No! I'm not... this isn't me... I'm not..."
Rourke leaned in, voice clinical. "We've already shown you traces of combat stimulants in your blood. So we have all the reasons to believe you overdosed during the mission. That's why you… saw things."
Brooklyn's voice rose, desperation creeping in. "But I never touched those things in my entire life! Never!"
Harlow's gaze didn't waver. "We also have that note you wrote to your daughter, Captain. It speaks of personal motives, doesn't it? Perhaps a desire to prove something… or someone? Tell us. Were you thinking only of yourself?"
Brooklyn shook her head frantically. "No! No! That not was… it was for Olivia! It wasn't about me."
Rourke interrupted, cold and precise. "Well, Captain, your note now reads as premeditation, as evidence of personal intent."
Brooklyn's chest tightened, a storm of grief, anger and disbelief crashing through her. " But I didn't do anything! I-I would never had done anything to hurt my squadron."
Vance's voice cut through the haze. "Captain Grant, this is not just a question of protocol. Your decisions resulted in the deaths of your squadron and your husband. Evidence suggests you acted independently, with reckless disregard for orders. Can you explain that?"
Harlow leaned back, voice soft but deliberate. "Perhaps not, Captain. Perhaps everything you think you saw, everything you think you remember, is just… a story your mind is telling you and..."
"Enough!" Vance cut in like a sharp blade.
His then eyes softened almost imperceptibly, though the weight of command never left him. "Captain Grant." he began, his tone measured now, "I want you to understand something. Despite what the evidence suggests, we want to believe you. You've been one of our best pilots and we won't ignore that."
He leaned back slightly, letting the words settle. "Because of the gravity of the situation, the investigation will be conducted by the most senior officers available. You'll be placed under close supervision until it's complete. Only one visitor will be permitted during this time and that will be by prior authorization."
Brooklyn blinked, swallowing hard. "Supervision? One visitor…?"
"Yes." Vance said. "This isn't a punishment, Captain. It's protocol, we have to protect the integrity of the investigation. But know this... we'll also make provisions for you to attend your husband's funeral."
Rourke and Harlow exchanged a glance but remained silent, letting Vance's words stand.
"You'll be dismissed to your quarters shortly." Vance concluded, his voice regaining its usual firmness. "Medical staff and security will escort you. Cooperate and this process will move efficiently. Resist and you only prolong your isolation. Do you understand?"
Brooklyn nodded, her throat tight, a storm raging inside her. She rose slowly, as the MPs moved to escort her. She forced herself to take a deep breath.
And with that, she was escorted to her quarters. They stopped at a steel door and ushered her inside a stripped-down officer's quarters. Bare bed, desk bolted to the wall, a single lamp and nothing else.
The door clanged shut and she heard the unmistakable lock engage from the outside. Moments later, the shuffling of boots confirmed it: two guards had been stationed at her door. She was caged, even if the bars weren't visible.
Brooklyn sat on the edge of the bed, chest still heaving from the interrogation. The silence pressed in on her, suffocating. Finally, she moved to the door and leaned close to the narrow slot.
"Hey." she whispered to the guard. No response. She tried again, firmer this time. "I need you to call someone, Ryan Hale. Tell them he's my designated visitor. He's the only one I want to see."
For a moment, she thought he'd ignore her. Then, without looking at her, the guard muttered, "I'll pass it up the chain."