never_francesca | IC Inbox

Oh, yeah?

[She asks instead of answering, lifting her gaze to meet Franky's.]

Ever go flying at night?

[She nods]

Got lost once, when I was just starting out. Gets dark enough, moonless night, over water - you lose track of everything. Time, up, down and you end up inverted without even knowing it. So you end up going to gain altitude and more than one pilot under the circumstances has ended up in the drink.

I got lucky, moon came out from behind the cloud cover - but surely there's cheaper ways to get the job done. Just lock someone in a dark room long enough, probably.

Yeah.

But for some people, money's no object. And anyway, I have training. Solitary confinement is one of the things they prepared us for in special ops.

[VR simulation torture, though? Not so much.]

Tell me about it.

Still, though. Damned stupid way to go about breaking someone. You'd think chemicals, or something. Surgery. Some sort of mind-control device.

[The hand that isn't holding her drink moves up to touch behind her left ear, prodding lightly at the skin there.]

Oh - they did some of that, too.

[Maybe. They had in some of the simulations, anyway.]

In any event.

[She downs the rest of her drink, moving to pour another.]

I assure you I am real, because I'm not going to let this place drive you 'round the bend. Simple as that. I'll make you that deal, right now - you ever need a calm harbour, I'll make one for you.

[Because Shaw has clearly been through her own personal hells, and nobody deserves to take that much flak unassisted. This is Franky Cook, at her core.]

How's that for fair, eh? Bottoms up.

I mean, I appreciate the sentiment. It would probably work for most people.

[It's not Franky's fault that offers like that tend to just fall into the yawning maw of emptiness inside her.]

Bottom's up, though, I can do.

[And she finishes off her second drink - in record time, on an empty stomach. Mmmmmmm.]

It works for all people.

[she points at her emphatically with her glass in her hand, one finger extended.]

Never, ever fly without a wingman. Or wingwoman, in this case. Bog standard, that.

[And she regards her over her glass.]

What makes you the exception?

I don't really feel things the way other people do.

[She gives a wry, humorless smile, reaching for the bottle yet again.]

Except gratitude for alcohol. I can do that one okay.

Ah, good, basic manners. Can't go feral, can we?"

[Said with a wry look herself, but there's a bit more warmth in it than Shaw's.]

I'm not looking for thanks or good-feeling. It isn't an offer, it's there, real. Because I know somebody who's done knife-work in close quarters when I see them - so have I.

The whole 'go-it-alone' thing isn't a survival tactic. Sure as hell isn't anti-madness, either.

When I first got here, I asked all the counselors to be on my ass.

[So there's that.]

Truth is, I've always been good at alone. I'm guessing you're not so bad at it yourself. Women in the military, right?

Ah, well, if you've got the eggheads you've got everything, then, haven't you?

[Said with more than a little bit of sarcasm.]

And I was, by default. Being first can be a bloody pain. Over China, though, fighting the Japanese? There I was never alone. Not many people I could trust, but combat has a way of telling you who you can and can't very fast.

I have a team. At home.

[At home. Not here.]

The people you could trust - were they in your unit? Close by?

[At home - well, at least she's a little bit past the reality/unreality bit.]

They were. Some lived. Some didn't.

[Wordlessly, Shaw reaches across the table to clink her glass against Franky's - a toast to the absent and the lost.]

[She nods in acknowledgement, draining her last with a satisfied sound.]

Right. That's me seen to.

[She pushes to her feet, giving Shaw a nod.]

I know you've been through the ringer since coming here, and God knows how many before that. But I meant what I said. Headshrinkers are all well and good, but you don't have to suffer. Certainly not alone.

Look me up when you need someone on your wing.

I was gonna invite you to eat.

[Shaw says, looking woozily at the refrigerator and the leftovers within. Still, she won't stop Franky from leaving.]

It's practicality, the headshrinking stuff. Making sure I'm not gonna lose it on anybody.

[Practicality is the easy bit to sort out.]

[Which brings a pause. It's either a formality or exactly that sort of trust. She nods again.]

Probably good to have something to soak up the booze.

And good on you, not going spare. Working on it. It's hard sometimes.

I'm better at that than the whole--

[She flutters a hand vaguely in the air.]

"You don't have to be alone" thing. Never really knew what to do with it.

[Even now, when she has her team at home: people who she trusts, likes, and wants to be with.]

Food's in the fridge; you wanna...?

[She's had a bit more than Franky, and has a feeling she'll be a bit wobbly if she tries to stand up.]

Hope you like pasta.

[She nods, moving towards what this counts as a kitchen.]

Amazed it's so common in the future. It was still rare Italian food, back home.

It's all over the place now. So's, uh-- Chinese, thai. Indian. Bubble tea.

[Not that she can get any of that stuff here, at least not on demand.]

[She reads the instructions on the packet, and after a false start or two, figures out how a microwave works.]

Bloody miracle, really. Certainly beats beans on toast. When I'm from, if one wanted a decent curry, they had to fly to Calcutta.

Where in England are you from?

[She smiles a bit.]

Dad was...oh, pure country gentry. Mom though? London through and through. So I'm a bit of a mutt, really.

[Another black mark she'd had to step over.]

Mm, yeah. Me, too. My dad was American. My mom was from Iran. Made growing up in the Middle East and America kind of awkward sometimes.

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