the sol's most notorious. (kingpins) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-28 14:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | npc: hera |
WHO: The bombing culprits.
WHAT: There's a new, old crew in town.
WHEN: Thursday early evening.
WHERE: Ganymede, industrial sector.
WARNINGS: n/a.
The fires are no longer burning, but it still smells like smoke when the wind turns and blankets the faint scent of char and burnt rubber across the city. It's much nicer than the stench of fish that seems to pervade the streets, seeped into every cobblestone and every dilapidated building, and it's hard for her to understand why anyone would pick this moon colony as their headquarters, given the choice. Someone's nostalgia, no doubt; someone's desire to be the big fish in the small pond. RAC headquarters rises high above the buildings surrounding it and it makes it easy to see, standing stark above the horizon, tenth floor windows black and gutted like a gaping maw. It makes it easy for Beatrix to admire their handiwork as she leans against the edge of the roof and inhales deeply of the old smoke blown her way. Truly: she can't complain about the fishy undercurrent or the shitty warehouse beneath her or the colony itself, because how can she complain when there is sky, and early stars coming out low above her, and the breeze strokes her skin like an old lover, gentle and whispering promises of arson in her ear? Hands clasp the rail next to her. "Shit," the man grimaces, "I thought Ellie was exaggerating, but you really can still smell it. I hate that goddamn burnt plastic smell. It reminds me of when that guy Horker went batshit and lit a bunch of mattress on fire, remember that?" Beatrix smiles. "Let's not talk about prison, honey." "Oh, yeah. That's right." He shuffles his feet, and leans forward finally, resting his elbows down alongside hers. "All in the past now, and so forth." The silence stretches on for a long time but for the wind softly rising and falling, the distant waves, the gulls calling to each other in the soft, royal blue twilight. She listens, and it's all so soothing, like a salve over old wounds. But it stings, too. Grates against her senses. Everything is so very much, out here. Pluto was a void. A hole in the world. Now that they've escaped its inescapable gravity, the opposite is being pulled into the inescapable reality of life. When he speaks again, his voice is low. "I didn't think it was going to work, you know." "You should know me well enough by now." She is reproachful. "How long has it been since I took you under my wing?" "Eleven years," he sighs. "Eleven years, and you still have room to doubt me?" "It's not you." He frowns. "It's just, you know. Shit, everything's more complicated out here, you know? Lots of moving parts, and we're being hunted, and...I mean, you took us straight here, right to Ganymede. A lot of things could go wrong, I thought. Plus, this contact of yours —" "Worked out," she cuts in, smoothly. "Got us inside the building, exactly according to plan. And yes, there are a lot of ways these plans can go wrong. There always are. But I have good instincts. We're right where we should be, right now." Her lips curl up, smoothly. "We've done everyone a favor, destroying the main record room. We hacked a few heads off of the hydra while it was lying asleep, in its own nest. And honestly," she straightens up with a languid roll of her shoulders, "I think we're all going to enjoy going through the crew files, don't you? Such a nice little windfall. I'm sure they're full of so many delicious little secrets." He shakes his head at her, wonderingly. "How do you get so lucky?" "It's not luck, honey," she tells him, voice a rolling purr in her throat as she strokes his wrist with her fingertips. "Good instincts. That's what makes me a captain. You can drift by on dumb luck for a while, but in the end, those are the people who crash and burn. Everyone knows that a real captain makes her own luck." "Whatever you say, boss." He grins. "So what's the plan now? It's been two days. Ellie's downstairs talking about what she wants to blow up next, and if I didn't know any better, Grimes would be making me nervous with all the goddamn knife-sharpening he's been doing lately. And the twins are driving me up the walls playing with the goddamn television. Are we just going to stay here, or do you have something next in that brilliant head of yours?" "We stay here for now." Beatrix tips her head back to look at the sky; she'd recognize those constellations anywhere, though she doesn't know their names. She never bothered to learn; that had always been Reggie's passion, not hers. "We stay here, we read the crew files, and we watch." A shooting star slides low and quick along the horizon, gone before she can point it out, and she smiles, slowly. "Then I think it's time we think about getting ourselves a proper starship. We can hardly be a crew without a ship, after all, can we?" He is looking at her; she can feel the weight of his regard, and hears the sly smirk in his voice. "That sounds like a good plan." Her laughter sounds like broken glass falling from a ten story window: exploding out of her, bright and shiny and dangerous when it breaks. It comes quick and then is gone, leaving the night a little more empty in its absence. "You know I'd follow you anywhere, Bea, right?" She flicks her gaze sidelong at him. "Remember what I told you to call me?" "Right — shit." He grins. "Captain Hera." "Good boy," and she smiles, patting his wrist. She can feel him vibrate beneath her touch, just a little, and attempt to subdue his reaction. To regain control again, in front of her. "Of course you'd follow me anywhere, honey. You know how I feel about betrayal, after all." "We'll be downstairs," he tells her, "when you're ready." "Do be a dear: find the crew files I want for me, will you?" Beatrix smiles. "You know which ones." "I will." And he pulls away, slowly, dragging his hand out from beneath her fingers slowly, like he's afraid that if he moves too fast, she won't let him have them back. Ever. And, idly, she considers that it would not be such a bad thing, if only her little yes man wasn't so useful with both hands. Maybe just a finger… She has, after all, always liked leaving her mark. And the scars she intends to leave this time, she muses as she stares at the black, wounded tenth floor on RAC headquarters fading away into the deepening night, will never heal. |