exsiliumlogs | Breathe in the light, I'll stay here in the shadows

Entry tags:

Breathe in the light, I'll stay here in the shadows

Who: CF and CC
What: Shit gets real
Where: one of the spare, busted up storage rooms of the moon base (i.e.: home)
When: 10/21 whenever-the-space-o'clock pm
Warnings: Talk of change!!!

She's already in by the time the shrill screech of doors being forced along their tracks alerts her to Charlie's presence. It's not uncommon for them to cross paths, but lately, even after the flat and the business and the trip back in time, it's been...difficult. Coping mechanisms and all that. Chloe's spent more time shadowing the footsteps of other conscripts (judging, mostly) while Charlie's been-- shit. She hasn't got a clue what he's been doing. And when their lines cross it's fine-- the literal definition of it and nothing more-- because everything about this place, everything they've left behind is stuck under their skin like glass shards: too irritating to ignore, impossible to dig up.

Perched over in the far corner of their living space that feels more like a mangled tin can than anything resembling a room, Chloe keeps focused on unfolding a sheet of something that looks like thin, finely crinkled aluminum instead of turning about to greet him, tucks the edges of it overtop the flattened out mattress and spare cloth that is their bed.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The difference is that Charlie isn't a complete ass. "Yeah alright, so it is a bit." --So yes, an ass. But not a complete one and that makes some measure of difference in the grand scheme of things. Maybe. Who knows. He's usually not the big-picture, long term planning sort of bloke.

But more and more these days, he finds himself thinking about it - thinking about everything too much, honestly. Which actually probably accounts for at least part of the headaches. "But I don't see a John Lewis anywhere near here either, so we'd best make do."

It's a shit joke, underscored by a scuff of her fingers against her side and hip. "Could do a run for something better, but I--" And here he pauses, carefully considering what's about to come out of his mouth for once in his life. "--I don't know. Seems daft to use the transporter for something like that." Which is ridiculous considering a month ago they'd been in Egypt for the sole purpose of lifting a few of relics for a dragon. Sure, they'd nominally been running work for the Initiative, but that sure as hell hadn't been the real reason for them being there.

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" It might sound like her typical brand of cynicism bleeding through, but the tone's off; jaw relaxed as she rolls back down across the mattress to settle into the crook of his arm, ignoring the loud static hiss let out in the process. "Give it another month or so and they'll have undone all this. Poor bastards down there won't even known the Initiative got them all killed off."

Though she's strongly considering telling them, even if it's too far-fetched to buy.

"Business as usual."

He shifts over slightly to make some more room for her on the crinkly expanse of space blanket, scritching absently at her upper arm like he might a temperamental cat. It's the kind of statement that deserves a delicate touch in return.

So naturally Charlie snorts up at the ceiling without looking at her. "Oh, I don't know. At this rate it's probably more likely the UE'll find us hunkered up here and finish the job."

That Charlie Cutter - such a charmer.

Gross as it may be, it's charming to her ears-- and also somewhat horrifying-- but also charming. Mostly because it's true. Mostly because they're running scared as ever and if this half-functional base isn't a corner, Christ, she doesn't know what is.

"Twenty pounds says a week tops." She breathes into the side of his shoulder, cracking one of the most macabre grins she's ever managed in her life. Charming indeed.

He laughs: sudden and sharp and loud in the cramped space, head tipped back and the line of his mouth easy for what feels like the first time in days. Christ. Charlie offers her his hand. "I'll take two weeks." Because no way in hell is he betting they actually make it off this rock unless it's their corpses being ejected into the darkness of space.

Chloe takes that bet along with his hand, clamping down round the width of his palm, just enough room left for the tips of her fingers to angle themselves into the edge near his wrist. And she goes quiet just after, listening to the echo of his laugh as it fades off into the irritated hum of the ventilation system.

"Shame." Said when she hits the point where her mind starts up again like an engine threatening to go full throttle. "I was just starting to enjoy being alive."

He's not so quick as her to floor the gas; if she's thinking something, it'll take him a little more than that to really get up to her speed. Still, Charlie can appreciate the basic sentiment - the grip of her fingers, the warmth of her palm. he's still smiling as the laugh dies out, though it doesn't last much beyond the huff of air he pulls in to catch his breath. The ceiling in the compartment isn't so low as to be oppressive and it's cluttered enough that their voices don't reverberate back at them, but there's no insulation from the hum of the life support systems. He can feel it there on his back teeth.

"They've made supply lists and put them up on the network - keeping track of what people bring back and that sort of thing." He still has a grip on her hand, arm settled across his belly. "Haven't heard anything more about sorting this UE rover business though."

The rover bit presses out an instinctive twitch, some subconscious reaction to a perceived threat that's served her-- when she bothers to mind it-- well for most of her life thus far. There's no point in it this time around, though, not when they've got the vastness of space pinning them in on all sides. The urge to run might as well be an urge to fix up a triple chocolate esspresso: neither's happening any time soon.

"Yeah, and you won't."

He frees up her hand then, mouth working its way into a frown directed more at the ceiling - at the base, at the transports crowding the vr room, at the endless stream of nonsense on the overtaxed network - than at her. "Suppose we could do something about it," he says, flippant. Like he's not really serious even if part of him really, really is. It certainly feels like they've spent an awfully long time cooped with their wings clipped.

Because she's right. The day's meeting in the VR room was evidence enough of that even if Charlie didn't have a years worth of bonus material lying about to back it up. The Initiative might be actively in shambles, but it hardly had been much better down on the island itself. And now here they were, left without even that much direction or leadership. Hell, the transports had barely managed to wrangle together a police force and even that was a shoddy excuse, held together by spit and an assumption of a general communal moral compass that may or may not actually even exist. To expect anyone to somehow pull a magic rabbit of a hat when the hat didn't exist in the first place seemed like asking for a bloody miracle.

She has to suppress a scoff at that. At the memory of Koltira telling her what exactly he feels she's capable of; the look on his face, serious as anything, like he was ready and willing to drop everything and cut her plans short right then and there.

Provided she had any.

And it's hard to imagine-- to wrap her mind around the thought of picking up the sabotage game where she'd last left off in Tibet-- picking apart the problems that've already shoved them into a neat, rotted little box for the UE to bash in whenever it bloody well feels like, but there's a transporter on the base, and it wouldn't be the first time she's thought of getting her hands on it. Save for the greater good addition.

"What, you and me? Jesus, Charlie, we'd be killing ourselves off that much sooner."

"Yeah, alright. You're not wrong." He wants to laugh at himself - the whole concept is totally mad; they aren't really built for that kind of work. It requires a certain level of playing above the board, which isn't something he really understands much less is any good at.

"Don't suppose you've any bright ideas then?" It's an abrupt kind of backpedaling; a year at this and he know she doesn't like to talk about this sort of thing. He may be dense, but he's not straight out stupid. Anything to do with tangling with the Initiative tends to be asking for trouble and, shockingly enough, he's not keen on a row at this exact moment thank you very much.

Something about the way he says it when he agrees sticks, more than she'd like for it to. Recklessness of that caliber was burned off in the days of her youth like a spent wick: went out fast and never really came back. And Chloe might feign at blindness every now and then, but the truth is-- just as it's always been-- she tallies the score quicker than anyone else. Keeps her out of harm's way, low under the radar, and it serves as a reminder that changing the game doesn't come without a cost. A massive one at that, given the scale of it all.

Risk versus reward. Or possibly stupidity.

"Don't suppose you have a head count on how many crew members the Initiative's keeping on board in all that paperwork you've uncovered." It's casual, how she breathes it out. Like discussing the weather or what was served for lunch. Keeps her from dwelling on the memory of similar conversations she's had in the past.

Does he have a full head count? He doesn't think-- actually, he's not sure he knows the answer to that. Charlie abruptly unwinds his arm from behind the press of her head. Sitting up and leaning across her, he strains to reach his jacket: finger catching in the collar and wrenching it toward him so he can fetch his tablet. He doesn't lie back down once he's got it, instead paging through the documents he has saved to the thing offline.

"Come to think of it... -- well I know for sure there's just the two lads running the transport pad. Spoke to them about it the other day." Except she's not supposed to know about him running about fetching supplies, is she? "They put out a notice that some finagle-y technical bits needed to be readjusted, needed some measurements to input and--" Bollocks. "Also I may've gone off to fetch some kit for the medical bay."

The last part he says with his head already down like he knows he's stepped in it just a tad (though Charlie does shoot her quick sidelong glance before his eyes snap back to the tablet).

"Ah." Hard to read, that. Particularly when it's directed at the ceiling rather than him (she misses the somewhat sheepish glance by a mile, though the shift in movement beneath her is easy enough to catch). He's not wrong to assume that her normal reaction would be nothing short of genuine disapproval, but this time around, predictable's not entirely synonymous to the name Chloe Frazer.

"Bite it this time?"

He makes a small, affronted little noise and whacks her thigh with the back of his hand. "If I did, I wouldn't be here right now. Christ, don't you read anything? The bloody 'magical resurrection machine's" --punctuated by an exaggerated hand gesture-- "down until they can retrofit this garbage heap. So, no. I didn't bite it, thank you."

Said as if he wasn't running about with his head down just every so slightly behind her back. "In any case, I can't imagine there's more than ten Initiative reps up here. Fifteen at the absolute tops."

Excuse you, Middle Pillar: she reads.

Chloe snorts in response to the tap on the thigh, twisting in place to toss a somewhat offended look his way. Sure, most books could do with more in the way of illustration, but she's certainly not daft now is she? "So the elves and witches and dragons and whatever else this place is teeming with just...what, pretend they've forgotten how to bring back the dead?"

Nice as it is to know he didn't die, she picks her conversational topics with care.

Shame he'd been drugged off his nut when that went down; he'd have been so pleased with her.

That though is a more than fair point. "Alright, alright." Charlie throws up a hand; it's an absent sort of surrender. "The point is no, I didn't bloody get myself killed. It went off just fine. There's some of the gear there in that kit, actually." He motions over to the things he dumped on the way in, presumably where that free first aid kit.

"Point is," --he pokes her thigh for emphasis-- "I can probably count the Initiative reps on my hands if you'd like."

"Meaning..." Her hip nudges up against his in the break, giving her a good chance to disregard the static of their disturbed blanket. "We could kick their asses without a problem."

As if it'd be that simple. As if screwing over Harry or Lazarevic or the Order ever went as problem-free as their plans had seemed.

"Now hold on." He sets a hand at her hip: a solid weight. She can wiggle about all she likes, but that hard there is firm and steady and clearly meant to pin a note of seriousness in this conversation if not her to the crappy mattress. "What happened to the bit where we were trying to not be killed sooner rather than later?"

It's not a bad idea in theory: the Initiative's never been a particularly strong presence on the ground, but there's no denying that they're even thinner up here in the base. With a little pressure, he can see how it might be easy to get the upper hand. But what then? "Even if we did kick their asses," and there's a braced tone to his voice that suggests he's not sure of their odds. There's been plenty of unrest among the Transports, but there's a reason no one's gone about staging a mutiny. "What'd be the point? We'd still be here."

Except then they'd be in charge of the whole shit show instead of just playing a bit part. He's not sure if that's better. Not entirely anyway.

"We'd be in control." And while control on a massive scale has never been Chloe's MO, in this case-- having gone for so long feeling nothing short of caged and collared-- a chance to have the steering wheel back in her hands for even a second is one she's willing to take. "You can't tell me that's not worth the risk, considering the alternative."

The alternative, naturally, being 'roll over and die.'

Still, it gives him pause. Charlie carefully folds the tablet up and sets it aside, leveling a frank look in her direction. "We're not talking a careful thing here, mate. What you're talking about is mutiny. Can't imagine a lot of people would be too happy with us."

Which is a thin kind of dissent - flaky enough that she can probably hear it in his voice. Because really, he agrees with her. Nothing good is going to come of them sitting about for the time it takes everyone to get their shit together in a fair, diplomatic process, and if there was ever a time to do something about it, it's now when the Initiative is short staffed and no one's got a clue what they're doing otherwise. He just wants to make sure they're on the same page here.

"Sorry, I must've missed the chapter where we cared what anyone else thought about us." Which comes out light enough, despite the topic: Charlie Cutter isn't tame when he disagrees on just about anything (trivia night at the bar, or the location of Ubar) and if he's not outright butting his head against hers from the get go, Chloe knows well enough that he's not yet stepped away from her side.

"I'm serious here. We do this, we had better do it quick and proper to boot. If we muck this up, we'll be in a bad spot." Which is all true enough. If they try this and get nicked, it'll mean trouble. A whole moon base worth of trouble stacked against them. Not like bad odds have ever done much to convince him not to do something, but he knows it's something she tends to consider. "And--"

He pauses. If they don't manage it, they'll be in trouble. But if they do? What then? There had been a reason he didn't volunteer when he'd spoken to the woman, Kate Kane, on the network. This isn't really his forte now is it? "--If we do this, it can't be just the two of us."

She stops teasing, then. Wedges herself in closer against his side so she can roll over onto hers, a simple enough shift that lends her a clear shot at staring him in the face when she goes all serious about it.

"Well." It's slow, careful. Like she's verbally disarming a ticking bomb with the potential to take the both of them out. "We know the stakes, we know the cost: if you don't like where this is going, all you have to do is say the word."

There's a beat. The ventilation system rattles behind the wall closest to them.

"But considering the sort of nonsense we've pulled off, we both know it's not impossible for a pair like us."

Edited (woops repetition) 2013-10-30 09:05 (UTC)

Impossible? Not even remotely. It's a small place, sure, but god knows the community distracts more easily than an excitable terrier. It wouldn't take much to sidetrack Transports and Initiative works alike for the length of time it'd take them to-- do whatever it is that they could theoretically do. He's not quite willing to follow that line of thought that far. Not quite yet. It's a slow process of changing gears from 'someone ought to do something' to 'we ought to do something' and right now he's stuck somewhere in the middle, grinding the gearbox as he tries to shove it over properly.

He's never been the greatest driver; that's by and large her territory.

"Yeah alright, so say we bash in a few heads and push over the Initiative. What's the plan from there?" It's a real, genuine question - less theoretical and more hedging toward practicality in a significant way.

Breathe in the light, I'll stay here in the shadows

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)