Post by Eira on Feb 13, 2017 20:51:47 GMT -5
Okay, so. Snowing like crazy outside, need to go to the store, and… Eira looks out through the kitchen windows, noting the nearly horizontal snowfall... and maybe I’ll see what I have in the pantry.
Walking across the kitchen she reaches the pantry, in reality a small storage room refitted with shelves. The realtor insisted it’s where the ye-olde-tyme larder was, but Eira hadn’t bothered to check up on the story. It worked well for what it was, canned vegetables next to large clear mason jars full of rice, pastas, cornmeal and the ubiquitous soups. A pleasant jumble of baking supplies, a few boxes of cereal, instant oatmeal, and an entire half-shelf devoted to Ivy’s jarred food.
Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got.
Beans. More beans. Yet more beans. For a change, a few cans of different beans.
The hell do I even have this many cans for?
Organic mushroom bisque.
I gotta cook something with that. We’re never going to just eat it.
Reaching back, Eira starts pulling dusty cans from the rear of the shelf. Tomato soup…?
Tomato soup. Grilled cheese. Let’s do it.
She sets the can on the counter, pulling out the bread and wandering to the fridge for some nice, sharp cheddar. Getting out the milk and butter, she shuts the refrigerator door with her hip, setting the rest of the ingredients on the kitchen island. Eira pulls out a skillet and a small saucepan, glancing at the clock.
“Better go get him.”
Murdoc had voluntarily taken baby detail for the afternoon, and not for the first time. Anyone in PCW who thought it had just been an act was sorely mistaken - the Unclean Beast is nothing short of besotted with his infant daughter. Reaching his primary study, Eira hears the crackle of the fireplace and the dull glow of his preferred lighting, running a quick hand through her hair before poking her head around the door jamb.
Lounging in one of his many imposing armchairs, feet resting on the ottoman, Murdoc reads with the most important person in the world snuggled into his lap. As she watches, Ivy lets out a sleepy little squeak, Murdoc instinctively tugging her a bit closer without so much as glancing away from his book.
“How long has she been out?”
He stares down at the five month old in his lap, her fluffy, dark curls framing her chubby cheeks.
“Hm. Maybe an hour?”
“We need to wake her up, it’s almost lunch time.”
Murdoc scoops Ivy up into his arms, her head on his shoulder while he rubs her back briskly. “C’mon, sweetheart. Time to wake up.”
A snuffle, a sigh, and she snuggles her head into the side of his neck. Murdoc looks over at Eira helplessly. “Maybe we should let her sleep? She seems so comfortable… and she’s nice and warm...”
Eira crosses her arms, leaning against the door frame with a grin. “She still needs to wake up for lunch, and YOU need to eat as well.”
Grumbling, he rises, still patting at Ivy’s back in a halfhearted attempt to entice his daughter out of dreamland. Eira leads the way to the kitchen, gesturing vaguely towards the table as she goes to the stovetop.
“Have a seat, I’ve got this. Try to wake her up enough to get her in her chair?”
Murdoc glances over at Ivy’s highchair, drumming his fingertips lightly up and down over the baby’s ribs. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s go. It’s lunch time.”
Bustling about, Eira prepares the food, the condensed tomato soup warming up with a can of milk and a pat of butter. In the skillet goes the slices of buttered bread, cheese tucked inside.
“Isn’t that his thing?”
Eira looks over, an involuntary smile curving her lips as Ivy lifts her head and opens her big blue eyes. She’d never wanted children, not once, but since it had happened… she never wanted to give Ivy up.
“Whose thing? What? Which?”
Murdoc nudges his chin towards the stovetop as he buckles the now-wriggling Ivy into her highchair. “The grilled cheese. That’s Nathan’s thing, isn’t it?”
Staring down at the perfectly crisping sandwich in the skillet below, she considers this idea. “I guess it is, isn’t it? I mean, the catering table didn’t really start stocking them til he showed up.” She sighs, pensive.
“What?”
“I don’t know if I can do it anymore.” She slides the first sandwich onto its plate, the second going into the pan.
“Do what?”
“Compete. You’ve seen me the last two shows. I just seem to be getting worse rather than better.”
Murdoc leans back in his chair, regarding her with an amused sort of calm. “You know you’ve said this before, right? You told me you didn’t think you could do it. You told me you’d never get there.” He shrugs. “You told me all this, and you won the World Championship before I did.”
“And? I’ve been gone a year, and I haven’t felt ready either time back in the ring.”
“Amba… you can do this, but you have to be ready. You can’t just jump back into it like you were never gone, you’re not used to it anymore.”
The second sandwich takes up residence on its plate. Bowls of creamy tomato soup join their grilled cheese counterparts, both plates set down on the table with a snap.
“I’ve been training.” Short. Sullen. To the point.
Murdoc dips a corner of grilled cheese into his tomato soup, taking a hearty bite. “You’ve been training, and you’ve been training hard. That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been training but Nathan’s been in there DOING it.”
“So what do I do from here? How am I supposed to beat him when I can’t even tell which version of him it’s going to be? Or his - friends? Harvesters? I can’t even pretend to know what the hell THAT’S all about.”
“Something to do with Seromine, I think. You know, the one that tried to attack you?”
She snorts, remembering that but moreso remembering herself joining forces with one Whitey “The Asshole” Ford.
“Yeah. I know that one.”
Spoon tracing random patterns in her soup, Eira twitches as the phone on the table rings, a phone with a secure and direct line to one place:
The Order.
“Just tell them you’re -”
Eira holds up a cautionary hand as she slides the call open. “Operative 327 reporting.”
Murdoc glowers. “You should have -”
She frowns at him, shaking her head sharply with a finger to her lips. “Timeframe?” *pause* “Yes, sir.”
She ends the call, staring down at the phone in her hand with a curious expression. Her lack of alarm doing little to soothe Murdoc’s ire, she looks over.
“I’m sorry. I have to go. They -”
“There’s always something. It doesn’t matter what at this point.”
Her face falls. “Murdoc, I have to. We’ve talked about this. It’s the only way to make sure they stay away from Ivy.”
“I’LL make sure they stay away from Ivy.”
Looking down at her uneaten lunch, she pushes the plate away and rises. Walking behind the highchair, she drops a kiss on Ivy’s head before trailing a hand along Murdoc’s arm as she leaves the room.
Looks like I have to go out in this shit anyway. Lovely.
Eira exits the parking garage briskly, the unfeigned irritation on her face clearing her path. Walking across the marble floor of the lobby, she heads through the multiple security clearances to the inner complex.
“Guardian.”
She nods once in response to the Soldier’s greeting, heading as instructed to the conference room at the end of the hall. Opening the door, she paused, seeing someone already at the table. He looks up, dark brown eyes pinning her in place in a split-second but unmistakable assessment, an easy smile shifting his expression in an instant.
“I was told to report to conference room c to meet my new supervisor. Is Altman on his way?”
“No, this meeting has nothing to do with Altman."
“Then I’m in the wrong room. Excuse me -” She goes to rise, but he shakes his head.
“Eira? This meeting is with me. You can call me Van - I’ll be your new Handler.”
Eira freezes in her seat, suddenly wary of a setup. “There’s no such rank. There never has been.”
He nods amiably. “Most people don’t know it’s there. Most people don’t get far enough to know it’s there.”
“Far enough?”
“In the Order. There is a certain level of skill and ability an Operative must reach before they are referred to a Handler.”
She leans back, arms crossed. “Okay, so what is it you actually do? If I’m still going to get my orders from Altman, why are you relevant?”
“I’m relevant for many reasons, most of which I don’t mention in mixed, polite, or human company.”
Glaring at his seemingly unflappable manner, she shrugs. “Great, another pencil pusher who thinks they know what being an Operative is like. Do you have some more theoretical exercises you completed that make you an expert?”
Still calm, an unsettling smile creases his features. “I’ve been an Operative for over two decades. If you’ve done it, I probably have too. Now, shall we get down to business? You have a new target in your cover.”
He opens the manilla folder in front of him, paging through the contents. “It looks like you have your own rebellious streak.”
She openly stares at the man in front of her - one of the most unassuming humans she had ever seen up to that point.
“You’re telling me you’re… rebellious?”
A knock on the door quiets them both as Van opens his mouth to speak.
“Yes?”
A head appears, a person leaning over into the room. “Sir? Cleric Jamison asks that you observe more propriety in your classes.”
Van’s eye twitches. “More propriety? You’re interrupting a meeting between myself, a Handler, and my new Operative… and you’re lecturing me about propriety? Was he more specific than that, or is he just trying to get up my -”
“Sir, he says when you need to wake a student up, you can’t tell them to stop giving their desk a blowjob.” The head withdraws, the conference room door closing with a quiet click.
Eira watches him across the table, a questioning brow arched over one eye. He looks down, shuffling papers briefly before meeting her stare head on.
“He was falling asleep, you know, nodding off on the desk. I uh -” he chuckles “- I may have forgotten that my class was being observed.”
She laughs. “Alright. Alright cool, let’s try this. So, what am I doing?”
“First things first, you’re going to kick Nathan’s ass.”
“It’s hardly in my job description to actually win at professional wrestling.”
“No, I just want to see you win because I think you can. No, your job assignment is Seromine.”
She glances down at the paper Van slides her way, her quick eye catching a few words that latch in her interest.
“Seromine, hm? I was already working with -”
“Mr. Ford, yes. You’ll forgive me if I’d rather you have more intel. Intelligence is power.”
Eira studies his face for a long moment, reading experiences, secrets, and warnings in the simple words. “Intelligence is power. Tell me what I need to know.”
Walking across the kitchen she reaches the pantry, in reality a small storage room refitted with shelves. The realtor insisted it’s where the ye-olde-tyme larder was, but Eira hadn’t bothered to check up on the story. It worked well for what it was, canned vegetables next to large clear mason jars full of rice, pastas, cornmeal and the ubiquitous soups. A pleasant jumble of baking supplies, a few boxes of cereal, instant oatmeal, and an entire half-shelf devoted to Ivy’s jarred food.
Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got.
Beans. More beans. Yet more beans. For a change, a few cans of different beans.
The hell do I even have this many cans for?
Organic mushroom bisque.
I gotta cook something with that. We’re never going to just eat it.
Reaching back, Eira starts pulling dusty cans from the rear of the shelf. Tomato soup…?
Tomato soup. Grilled cheese. Let’s do it.
She sets the can on the counter, pulling out the bread and wandering to the fridge for some nice, sharp cheddar. Getting out the milk and butter, she shuts the refrigerator door with her hip, setting the rest of the ingredients on the kitchen island. Eira pulls out a skillet and a small saucepan, glancing at the clock.
“Better go get him.”
Murdoc had voluntarily taken baby detail for the afternoon, and not for the first time. Anyone in PCW who thought it had just been an act was sorely mistaken - the Unclean Beast is nothing short of besotted with his infant daughter. Reaching his primary study, Eira hears the crackle of the fireplace and the dull glow of his preferred lighting, running a quick hand through her hair before poking her head around the door jamb.
Lounging in one of his many imposing armchairs, feet resting on the ottoman, Murdoc reads with the most important person in the world snuggled into his lap. As she watches, Ivy lets out a sleepy little squeak, Murdoc instinctively tugging her a bit closer without so much as glancing away from his book.
“How long has she been out?”
He stares down at the five month old in his lap, her fluffy, dark curls framing her chubby cheeks.
“Hm. Maybe an hour?”
“We need to wake her up, it’s almost lunch time.”
Murdoc scoops Ivy up into his arms, her head on his shoulder while he rubs her back briskly. “C’mon, sweetheart. Time to wake up.”
A snuffle, a sigh, and she snuggles her head into the side of his neck. Murdoc looks over at Eira helplessly. “Maybe we should let her sleep? She seems so comfortable… and she’s nice and warm...”
Eira crosses her arms, leaning against the door frame with a grin. “She still needs to wake up for lunch, and YOU need to eat as well.”
Grumbling, he rises, still patting at Ivy’s back in a halfhearted attempt to entice his daughter out of dreamland. Eira leads the way to the kitchen, gesturing vaguely towards the table as she goes to the stovetop.
“Have a seat, I’ve got this. Try to wake her up enough to get her in her chair?”
Murdoc glances over at Ivy’s highchair, drumming his fingertips lightly up and down over the baby’s ribs. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s go. It’s lunch time.”
Bustling about, Eira prepares the food, the condensed tomato soup warming up with a can of milk and a pat of butter. In the skillet goes the slices of buttered bread, cheese tucked inside.
“Isn’t that his thing?”
Eira looks over, an involuntary smile curving her lips as Ivy lifts her head and opens her big blue eyes. She’d never wanted children, not once, but since it had happened… she never wanted to give Ivy up.
“Whose thing? What? Which?”
Murdoc nudges his chin towards the stovetop as he buckles the now-wriggling Ivy into her highchair. “The grilled cheese. That’s Nathan’s thing, isn’t it?”
Staring down at the perfectly crisping sandwich in the skillet below, she considers this idea. “I guess it is, isn’t it? I mean, the catering table didn’t really start stocking them til he showed up.” She sighs, pensive.
“What?”
“I don’t know if I can do it anymore.” She slides the first sandwich onto its plate, the second going into the pan.
“Do what?”
“Compete. You’ve seen me the last two shows. I just seem to be getting worse rather than better.”
Murdoc leans back in his chair, regarding her with an amused sort of calm. “You know you’ve said this before, right? You told me you didn’t think you could do it. You told me you’d never get there.” He shrugs. “You told me all this, and you won the World Championship before I did.”
“And? I’ve been gone a year, and I haven’t felt ready either time back in the ring.”
“Amba… you can do this, but you have to be ready. You can’t just jump back into it like you were never gone, you’re not used to it anymore.”
The second sandwich takes up residence on its plate. Bowls of creamy tomato soup join their grilled cheese counterparts, both plates set down on the table with a snap.
“I’ve been training.” Short. Sullen. To the point.
Murdoc dips a corner of grilled cheese into his tomato soup, taking a hearty bite. “You’ve been training, and you’ve been training hard. That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been training but Nathan’s been in there DOING it.”
“So what do I do from here? How am I supposed to beat him when I can’t even tell which version of him it’s going to be? Or his - friends? Harvesters? I can’t even pretend to know what the hell THAT’S all about.”
“Something to do with Seromine, I think. You know, the one that tried to attack you?”
She snorts, remembering that but moreso remembering herself joining forces with one Whitey “The Asshole” Ford.
“Yeah. I know that one.”
Spoon tracing random patterns in her soup, Eira twitches as the phone on the table rings, a phone with a secure and direct line to one place:
The Order.
“Just tell them you’re -”
Eira holds up a cautionary hand as she slides the call open. “Operative 327 reporting.”
Murdoc glowers. “You should have -”
She frowns at him, shaking her head sharply with a finger to her lips. “Timeframe?” *pause* “Yes, sir.”
She ends the call, staring down at the phone in her hand with a curious expression. Her lack of alarm doing little to soothe Murdoc’s ire, she looks over.
“I’m sorry. I have to go. They -”
“There’s always something. It doesn’t matter what at this point.”
Her face falls. “Murdoc, I have to. We’ve talked about this. It’s the only way to make sure they stay away from Ivy.”
“I’LL make sure they stay away from Ivy.”
Looking down at her uneaten lunch, she pushes the plate away and rises. Walking behind the highchair, she drops a kiss on Ivy’s head before trailing a hand along Murdoc’s arm as she leaves the room.
Looks like I have to go out in this shit anyway. Lovely.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Eira exits the parking garage briskly, the unfeigned irritation on her face clearing her path. Walking across the marble floor of the lobby, she heads through the multiple security clearances to the inner complex.
“Guardian.”
She nods once in response to the Soldier’s greeting, heading as instructed to the conference room at the end of the hall. Opening the door, she paused, seeing someone already at the table. He looks up, dark brown eyes pinning her in place in a split-second but unmistakable assessment, an easy smile shifting his expression in an instant.
“I was told to report to conference room c to meet my new supervisor. Is Altman on his way?”
“No, this meeting has nothing to do with Altman."
“Then I’m in the wrong room. Excuse me -” She goes to rise, but he shakes his head.
“Eira? This meeting is with me. You can call me Van - I’ll be your new Handler.”
Eira freezes in her seat, suddenly wary of a setup. “There’s no such rank. There never has been.”
He nods amiably. “Most people don’t know it’s there. Most people don’t get far enough to know it’s there.”
“Far enough?”
“In the Order. There is a certain level of skill and ability an Operative must reach before they are referred to a Handler.”
She leans back, arms crossed. “Okay, so what is it you actually do? If I’m still going to get my orders from Altman, why are you relevant?”
“I’m relevant for many reasons, most of which I don’t mention in mixed, polite, or human company.”
Glaring at his seemingly unflappable manner, she shrugs. “Great, another pencil pusher who thinks they know what being an Operative is like. Do you have some more theoretical exercises you completed that make you an expert?”
Still calm, an unsettling smile creases his features. “I’ve been an Operative for over two decades. If you’ve done it, I probably have too. Now, shall we get down to business? You have a new target in your cover.”
He opens the manilla folder in front of him, paging through the contents. “It looks like you have your own rebellious streak.”
She openly stares at the man in front of her - one of the most unassuming humans she had ever seen up to that point.
“You’re telling me you’re… rebellious?”
A knock on the door quiets them both as Van opens his mouth to speak.
“Yes?”
A head appears, a person leaning over into the room. “Sir? Cleric Jamison asks that you observe more propriety in your classes.”
Van’s eye twitches. “More propriety? You’re interrupting a meeting between myself, a Handler, and my new Operative… and you’re lecturing me about propriety? Was he more specific than that, or is he just trying to get up my -”
“Sir, he says when you need to wake a student up, you can’t tell them to stop giving their desk a blowjob.” The head withdraws, the conference room door closing with a quiet click.
Eira watches him across the table, a questioning brow arched over one eye. He looks down, shuffling papers briefly before meeting her stare head on.
“He was falling asleep, you know, nodding off on the desk. I uh -” he chuckles “- I may have forgotten that my class was being observed.”
She laughs. “Alright. Alright cool, let’s try this. So, what am I doing?”
“First things first, you’re going to kick Nathan’s ass.”
“It’s hardly in my job description to actually win at professional wrestling.”
“No, I just want to see you win because I think you can. No, your job assignment is Seromine.”
She glances down at the paper Van slides her way, her quick eye catching a few words that latch in her interest.
“Seromine, hm? I was already working with -”
“Mr. Ford, yes. You’ll forgive me if I’d rather you have more intel. Intelligence is power.”
Eira studies his face for a long moment, reading experiences, secrets, and warnings in the simple words. “Intelligence is power. Tell me what I need to know.”
