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tuskenlancer) wrote2012-10-26 06:11 am
tuskenlancer) wrote2012-10-26 06:11 am
(no subject)
It’s York who gives her the nickname.
“Hey! Connie!”
She keeps walking, wondering idly who he’s calling - she doesn’t know a Connie, but then, she hardly knows anyone’s real name here, just their call signs. He catches up to her, though, and slows down, turning so he’s lightly jogging backwards and giving her a smile.
“Hey Connie, where’re you going so fast?”
She blinks at him, a little thrown, and shakes her head. “Wait, you meant me?” She’s heading to the showers, as it happens. Their training session had ended a few minutes ago, and she’d never been one to stick around and chat afterwards. This is the first time someone’s come after her, though.
He grins, and claps her on the shoulder, almost as if they’re friends. “Less of a mouthful than Connecticut, huh? Hey, we’re all getting together after dinner tonight, yeah? Eight in the lounge?”
“Um...” She stares dumbly for a moment, but he’s still smiling at her, that easy grin that none of them are entirely immune to, and she finally nods, smiling back. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Great! See you then,” and he’s off again, jogging easily down the hall and already going for his next target. “Hey, North! Wait up, man!”
__________
She’d been quiet when she’d joined Freelancer, not shy exactly, but just quiet, unwilling to throw herself right into the middle of things and stake out a spot in the social scene like so many of the others had. She’d preferred to stay on the sidelines at first, watching and waiting, trying to figure out everyone’s relationships, their motivations, who was hiding secrets.
Parties aren’t really her thing, but she’d said okay, and she shows up about a half-hour after eight, peering into the room. It’s loud and crowded, she hadn’t even realized there were so many of them in the program, and the noise is overbearing enough that she’s really considering sneaking right back out again before she’s noticed when York catches sight of her.
“Hey, look, guys, Connie’s here!” He grins, and makes his way across the room, pressing a drink into her hands so that she has to grab it before it spills, giving him a nervous smile. “C’mon in, have a drink. And whatever you do, don’t steal Maine’s favorite seat.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but then Carolina calls from across the room and York looks over, his whole face lighting up. He turns back to her briefly, clapping her on the shoulder. “Good to see you here, Connie,” and he disappears into the crowd again before she can say a word.
She looks around, finding herself surrounded by people who aren’t in her training group, who she doesn’t know, all of them turned away from her and caught up in their own conversations. She makes her way over to the wall, instead, and finds a row of chairs, and Washington sitting in one of them.
He’s in her group, but he’s quiet like her, focused on his work and friendly enough to everyone, but not loudly opinionated or outgoing. He’s always been nice to her, though, and she smiles a little hopefully as she gingerly sits down next to him, careful of her drink.
“Hi.”
Washington looks at her, and smiles back, looking almost surprised that she’d said anything, but he looks pleased, too, and she relaxes a little bit.
“Hey.”
__________
She starts finding him in the mess at lunchtime, sliding her tray onto the table across from him and giving him a cautious smile, content, most of the time, just to sit there quietly, studying their training manuals or just eating silently rather than talking. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t look annoyed with her, either, and she doesn’t feel like she has to think of witty things to say, or work to keep up with the conversation, like she does with some of the others. It’s nothing exciting, but it’s nice, feeling like maybe she’s actually got a friend here. She lets herself relax.
__________
And then the missions start.
Training is one thing, and she’s not bad at it. She’s always been competitive, good at contests and challenges and tests, and the training sessions are just more of the same. She’s not at the very top of the board, but she rises fairly quickly through the ranks, and holds her own in the top ten.
The missions are different. She may be fine in the training room, but once they get into the field it’s a whole different ballgame. The first time a grenade goes off next to her ear, she locks up, holding her gun in a deathgrip and totally deaf to her teammates’ calls, until Maine has to grab her and haul her bodily into the Pelican to head home.
She drops three places in the rankings that day, and is ordered to start seeing the Counselor every week.
After all, a soldier who cracks when she goes into battle is no kind of soldier at all.
__________
If she’s honest with herself, the Counselor creeps her out a little bit.
She’s never really trusted anyone who asks that many questions, or who can stay that calm and emotionless all the time, whether it’s his job or not. The fact that she’s expected to sit there and talk about herself for an hour when she knows nothing about him doesn’t help.
“Do you remember what you were thinking?”
“I told you.” She scowls, kicking her foot against the floor in frustration, hands tight on the front edge of the chair. “I wasn’t thinking anything at all. It all just...stopped. I could hear them but...I couldn’t move.”
“Sir,” he reminds her gently, and she presses her lips into a line, stilling her foot. He makes a note on his datapad and looks back up at her, eyes boring into hers. His voice is still smooth and even, without a single hint of judgment or suspicion or contempt. A simple question.
“Were you afraid, Agent Connecticut?”
She looks straight back at him and swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. The grenade, louder than she’d imagined anything could ever be. Gunshots. Shouting. South getting clipped by a stray bullet and letting out a steady stream of curses, the words clear as a bell through her audio link as she’d stared at the blood pulsing out of the other Freelancer’s arm, at the way she’d shifted her gun to her other hand and kept shooting, pushing through the pain.
The sudden realization that she could die, right there, on a planet she couldn’t even remember the name of, and no one would ever know what had happened to her.
“Yes, sir,” she replies, and her voice is hollow. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else. “I was afraid.”
The Counselor doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He just looks down and makes another mark on his datapad, saying nothing at all.
__________
She starts training harder.
She goes to the gym on her downtime, to the firing range, to the simulation room. Pushing herself, improving her skills, her reaction time, shaving off seconds from the time it takes her to fieldstrip a gun and nanoseconds from ducking an incoming blow.
She watches everyone else, hunched in front of the window looking down into the training room, studying them until she understands their strategies or their lack thereof, the strengths they take for granted, the weaknesses they overlook. She watches the recordings of the missions, and listens to them over and over until she’s got them memorized, until she hears them in her sleep and the sound of grenades no longer makes her jump.
Through it all, she never notices that someone else is watching her.
__________
“I must thank you for joining me, Agent Connecticut.”
She nods, wordlessly, and tries to resist the urge to look at everything, forcing herself to keep her eyes straight forward. She’s never been in the Director’s office before – she doesn’t think any of them have, except maybe Carolina.
“It was very kind of you to fit me into your schedule on such short notice.” He sits down behind his desk, prim and neat with his back straight and his hands folded in front of him, resting on the wood, a crinkle in the skin around his eyes that might almost be a smile. She can’t tell if he’s making fun of her or not.
She nods again, straightening her own posture slightly. “I came as soon as I got the message, sir.”
She’d been in the gym all afternoon, in heated contest with a punching bag, interspersed with running laps whenever she got too tired of thinking – strong left hook, don’t drop your arm, keep your eyes open and don’t give them any opening – and all she could do was thank her lucky stars that she’d showered in the changing room rather than going straight back to her room to collapse, because if she’d come back and seen the message beforehand she couldn’t possibly have justified taking the time to rinse off first.
He keeps his eyes trained on her as she speaks, apparently listening attentively, but when he answers it’s as if she might as well not have said anything at all. Like he’s just humoring her, letting her pretend she’s actually a part of the conversation, waiting for her to finish so he can get on with what’s really important. Like she’s a child, out of her depth and not even knowing it.
He leans back in his chair, casually, and presses the tips of his fingers together, regarding her. “It’s a very busy schedule, isn’t it, Agent Connecticut?” He raises one eyebrow, and glances down, and for the first time she realizes that there’s a computer display embedded in the desk, lines of type she can’t make out marching across it. He reaches down and flicks his finger across it casually, and the display changes to video, to her, training in the gym that afternoon. The Director flicks his finger across the screen again, and the video changes, to her in the library, the firing range, the observation room. Studying, training, watching. Never stopping at all, from the impression the videos give.
The Director twists his fingers, and the screen goes dark as he lifts his hand and leans back again, lacing his fingers together and looking back at her. “I’d be surprised to hear you still have the time for your regular training duties, with all that you have deigned to add to your routine.”
She stiffens, her stomach dropping right out of her, and tries to keep her voice from quivering. “Sir, if I’ve broken some sort of rule –”
He chuckles, shaking his head, dismissing the worry entirely. “Not at all, Agent Connecticut. As a matter of fact, I find myself very – impressed with your initiative.” He cocks his head, studying her, and she has the fleeting impression that she’s a rat in a cage, or maybe a butterfly pinned to a sheet, with no other purpose but to be stared at and contemplated. “Agent Connecticut. Quite a mouthful, is it not?”
“…That’s what York said.” The admission’s out before she can think about it, taken off guard by how similar his choice of words is to York’s, by the fact that he’d commented on something so trivial at all. She smiles a little without realizing it, shrugging her shoulders. “They’re calling me Connie.” She can’t keep the hint of pleasure out of her voice as she says it. In some ways, merely having a nickname at all, being noticed and liked enough by her peers to be worth that much effort, is as much of an accomplishment as anything else she’s done here. It hurts that much more when the Director snorts in something not quite invested enough to be content. It’s more like wholesale dismissal, with just a hint of disappointment.
“A child’s name.”
She doesn’t have a chance to respond, because he’s already moved on, tapping at the display screen on his desk to pull up something she recognizes immediately. It’s the rankings board, this version more detailed than the big one on the wall in the training room, listing everyone’s win/loss ratios and how they’ve scored on various skill tests and evaluations. She has nothing to be ashamed of here, at least, because her training’s been paying off, and she’s probably about as high on the list as she’s ever going to get. She sits up a little straighter, looking at the display with interest, not saying a word.
“Agent Connecticut.” He looks up, grey eyes piercing her like steel, and she swallows, nodding faintly. “There is a mission scheduled for a few days from now. It is a very important mission, and its success is vital to our goals. I have not yet selected a team to complete this mission. Due to your recent rise in the rankings, my computer simulations recommend you as a part of this team.” He stops, still watching her, and she realizes suddenly that her eyes are watering as she strives to keep from blinking. “Can I trust you to be a part of this team, and to ensure that your role in this mission is completed successfully?”
She knows why he’s asking her specifically, knows that he’s thinking of previous missions, when she’d frozen up and let herself and everyone else down, but she doesn’t hesitate, she just nods eagerly, gripping her seat to keep herself from bouncing off of it in excitement. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. You can count on me."
__________
MISSION: FAILURE, ALL OBJECTIVES
He’s standing there in the observation room when they get back, looking down on them with his hands clasped behind his back. She can’t keep herself from looking up at him, even though meeting his eyes is the last thing she wants to do. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for – some kind of understanding, maybe, forgiveness, absolution – but she doesn’t get any of it. He turns away, the brief glimpse she catches of his face completely expressionless, and she looks down, cheeks burning in shame.
She doesn’t want to think about her new ranking, but she can’t keep herself from being drawn to the board, all the same, sitting with her head bent, as if awaiting her execution.
__________
“It wasn’t your fault, Connie.”
Except it was, and she’d failed, and she knows she’s blown her last chance. Wash is the last person she wants to deal with right now, Wash with his fumbling attempts at comfort she doesn’t want and hadn’t asked for, his hand large and clumsy on her shoulder, his utter bewilderment and cluelessness when she tries to explain to him what’s really going on. She wants to shake him, to yell and make him understand, but she’s also tired, too tired to try when she knows it won’t work. She shoves her helmet into his hands instead, and turns to leave.
She pauses as she heads for the showers, a bitter little smile twisting her lips. “And don’t call me Connie. Makes me sound like a fucking kid. Call me CT.” She doesn’t wait for his response.
__________
Her next session with the Counselor isn’t a good one at all. She has no doubt that he knows every last detail of her talk with the Director – hell, he’d probably recorded it for the Counselor to watch, to study and read more into her every word and movement than she ever would have dreamed of. But he doesn’t say anything about that, he just asks her about the mission, an hour of how did it feel and what do you remember and would you do anything different? Of course she would, but it doesn’t matter, because she sure as hell can’t do anything to change any of it now.
__________
She gets to dinner late, and sits alone in a corner of the empty mess, eating her food without tasting it and trying not to think about anything at all. When Wash sits down across from her, an infuriating look of concern on his face, she doesn’t acknowledge him, she just stabs her mystery meat with her fork that much harder.
“Hey.” He sounds cautious but determined, and when she gives him her best glare under lowered eyebrows, he isn’t deterred. “You can’t keep beating yourself up like this, Connie.”
It doesn’t deserve a response. She flicks her eyes back down again, concentrating on her food, and Wash hesitates, shifting a little, uncomfortably, before he presses on again. “Connie, it wasn’t your -”
“It was my fault!” She snaps at him, sharper than she’d meant to, but she doesn’t let herself feel bad, even when Wash’s eyes widen in surprise. “It was my fault, and I did screw it up, and that’s not my name, Wash!” She stands abruptly, grabbing her tray, and turns away, only to find Wash blocking her way about three steps later. She glares up at him, and he hesitates, looking apologetic, but he raises his arm, gripping her helmet in his hand.
“I brought your -” He pauses, looking at the tray in her hands, and takes a step back, uncertain. “Do you want it now, or should I just - later -”
CT scowls at him, resisting the urge to thank him or apologize (she doesn’t feel bad, she doesn’t - ) and fumbles with her tray, balancing it with one hand so she can take her helmet, awkwardly, under her other arm. Wash makes sure she’s got it all, and smiles hopefully, and she looks back up at him, but she can’t summon the energy to scowl at him any longer.
She goes to dump her trash and return the tray, instead, and when she pauses at the door and looks back, Wash is still standing there, looking after her. Their eyes meet, and CT turns away quickly, clutching the helmet in both hands as she hurries out of the cafeteria. She doesn’t feel bad. She doesn’t. She has too much else to worry about.
__________
[episode 10/11 - fight with Tex]
Washington: What? Are they using live rounds on the training floor?
C.T.: Looks like it.
Washington: That's against protocol, they're going to kill her!
C.T.: Probably.
Washington: Someone should get the Director.
C.T.: The Director? Who do you think gave them the ammo?
Carolina: Watch your mouth C.T.
Director: You should be ashamed o' yourselves. I expect you to act as a team.
Washington: They used live ammunition on the floor, Sir, that's against regulations.
Director: Do you think our enemies will care about regulations on the battlefield, Agent Washington?
Washington: So, y- you're not punishing them?
Director: Ingenuity, and adaptability, are admirable traits.
The medics roll York over, and his facemask is entirely fractured in place
Director: You should all learn something from this. Dismissed.
C.T.: Yeah. We should've learned something, alright.
Washington: I can't believe this!
C.T.: Don't forget to check your place on that list, Wash.
__________
[episode 13 - planning the heist]
C.T.: What about Agent South?
Director: Agent South will not be accompanying you on this mission.
C.T.: Hmm, I guess the world's a tough place when you move down a rank. And where's our new recruit, will she be joining us?
Director: That's enough questions, Connecticut.
C.T.: Notice he didn't say no.
__________
“I’m trying. I understand. I - I just need more time to - I have to go.”
She doesn’t hear his approach, but somehow she’s aware of a presence there all the same, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She turns, the set of her shoulders already hostile, and there he is, the gold of his faceplate reflecting impassively back at her.
“What are you looking at?”
Wash doesn’t say a word in response, and she stalks past him, head held high. “Mind your own business.”
“I should say the same.”
They’re empty words, meaning nothing, meaning he doesn’t know what to say and has no better response, but somehow they hurt all the same. She doesn’t look back as she walks past him, doesn’t see him turn his head to watch her go, and she waits until she’s down the corridor and out of earshot before she stops, smashing her fist hard against the bulkhead.
It doesn’t dent from the blow. There’s not even a scuff mark to show for it, but she has to bite back a cry of pain as her hand connects, teeth drawing blood from her lip as she wrings her stinging fingers. They’re bruised for a week - not broken, thank god, but it was stupid, as stupid move, and what the hell had Wash been doing there, anyway.
She just needs more time. But she’s running out fast.
__________
“Hey! Connie!”
She keeps walking, wondering idly who he’s calling - she doesn’t know a Connie, but then, she hardly knows anyone’s real name here, just their call signs. He catches up to her, though, and slows down, turning so he’s lightly jogging backwards and giving her a smile.
“Hey Connie, where’re you going so fast?”
She blinks at him, a little thrown, and shakes her head. “Wait, you meant me?” She’s heading to the showers, as it happens. Their training session had ended a few minutes ago, and she’d never been one to stick around and chat afterwards. This is the first time someone’s come after her, though.
He grins, and claps her on the shoulder, almost as if they’re friends. “Less of a mouthful than Connecticut, huh? Hey, we’re all getting together after dinner tonight, yeah? Eight in the lounge?”
“Um...” She stares dumbly for a moment, but he’s still smiling at her, that easy grin that none of them are entirely immune to, and she finally nods, smiling back. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Great! See you then,” and he’s off again, jogging easily down the hall and already going for his next target. “Hey, North! Wait up, man!”
__________
She’d been quiet when she’d joined Freelancer, not shy exactly, but just quiet, unwilling to throw herself right into the middle of things and stake out a spot in the social scene like so many of the others had. She’d preferred to stay on the sidelines at first, watching and waiting, trying to figure out everyone’s relationships, their motivations, who was hiding secrets.
Parties aren’t really her thing, but she’d said okay, and she shows up about a half-hour after eight, peering into the room. It’s loud and crowded, she hadn’t even realized there were so many of them in the program, and the noise is overbearing enough that she’s really considering sneaking right back out again before she’s noticed when York catches sight of her.
“Hey, look, guys, Connie’s here!” He grins, and makes his way across the room, pressing a drink into her hands so that she has to grab it before it spills, giving him a nervous smile. “C’mon in, have a drink. And whatever you do, don’t steal Maine’s favorite seat.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but then Carolina calls from across the room and York looks over, his whole face lighting up. He turns back to her briefly, clapping her on the shoulder. “Good to see you here, Connie,” and he disappears into the crowd again before she can say a word.
She looks around, finding herself surrounded by people who aren’t in her training group, who she doesn’t know, all of them turned away from her and caught up in their own conversations. She makes her way over to the wall, instead, and finds a row of chairs, and Washington sitting in one of them.
He’s in her group, but he’s quiet like her, focused on his work and friendly enough to everyone, but not loudly opinionated or outgoing. He’s always been nice to her, though, and she smiles a little hopefully as she gingerly sits down next to him, careful of her drink.
“Hi.”
Washington looks at her, and smiles back, looking almost surprised that she’d said anything, but he looks pleased, too, and she relaxes a little bit.
“Hey.”
__________
She starts finding him in the mess at lunchtime, sliding her tray onto the table across from him and giving him a cautious smile, content, most of the time, just to sit there quietly, studying their training manuals or just eating silently rather than talking. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t look annoyed with her, either, and she doesn’t feel like she has to think of witty things to say, or work to keep up with the conversation, like she does with some of the others. It’s nothing exciting, but it’s nice, feeling like maybe she’s actually got a friend here. She lets herself relax.
__________
And then the missions start.
Training is one thing, and she’s not bad at it. She’s always been competitive, good at contests and challenges and tests, and the training sessions are just more of the same. She’s not at the very top of the board, but she rises fairly quickly through the ranks, and holds her own in the top ten.
The missions are different. She may be fine in the training room, but once they get into the field it’s a whole different ballgame. The first time a grenade goes off next to her ear, she locks up, holding her gun in a deathgrip and totally deaf to her teammates’ calls, until Maine has to grab her and haul her bodily into the Pelican to head home.
She drops three places in the rankings that day, and is ordered to start seeing the Counselor every week.
After all, a soldier who cracks when she goes into battle is no kind of soldier at all.
__________
If she’s honest with herself, the Counselor creeps her out a little bit.
She’s never really trusted anyone who asks that many questions, or who can stay that calm and emotionless all the time, whether it’s his job or not. The fact that she’s expected to sit there and talk about herself for an hour when she knows nothing about him doesn’t help.
“Do you remember what you were thinking?”
“I told you.” She scowls, kicking her foot against the floor in frustration, hands tight on the front edge of the chair. “I wasn’t thinking anything at all. It all just...stopped. I could hear them but...I couldn’t move.”
“Sir,” he reminds her gently, and she presses her lips into a line, stilling her foot. He makes a note on his datapad and looks back up at her, eyes boring into hers. His voice is still smooth and even, without a single hint of judgment or suspicion or contempt. A simple question.
“Were you afraid, Agent Connecticut?”
She looks straight back at him and swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. The grenade, louder than she’d imagined anything could ever be. Gunshots. Shouting. South getting clipped by a stray bullet and letting out a steady stream of curses, the words clear as a bell through her audio link as she’d stared at the blood pulsing out of the other Freelancer’s arm, at the way she’d shifted her gun to her other hand and kept shooting, pushing through the pain.
The sudden realization that she could die, right there, on a planet she couldn’t even remember the name of, and no one would ever know what had happened to her.
“Yes, sir,” she replies, and her voice is hollow. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else. “I was afraid.”
The Counselor doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He just looks down and makes another mark on his datapad, saying nothing at all.
__________
She starts training harder.
She goes to the gym on her downtime, to the firing range, to the simulation room. Pushing herself, improving her skills, her reaction time, shaving off seconds from the time it takes her to fieldstrip a gun and nanoseconds from ducking an incoming blow.
She watches everyone else, hunched in front of the window looking down into the training room, studying them until she understands their strategies or their lack thereof, the strengths they take for granted, the weaknesses they overlook. She watches the recordings of the missions, and listens to them over and over until she’s got them memorized, until she hears them in her sleep and the sound of grenades no longer makes her jump.
Through it all, she never notices that someone else is watching her.
__________
“I must thank you for joining me, Agent Connecticut.”
She nods, wordlessly, and tries to resist the urge to look at everything, forcing herself to keep her eyes straight forward. She’s never been in the Director’s office before – she doesn’t think any of them have, except maybe Carolina.
“It was very kind of you to fit me into your schedule on such short notice.” He sits down behind his desk, prim and neat with his back straight and his hands folded in front of him, resting on the wood, a crinkle in the skin around his eyes that might almost be a smile. She can’t tell if he’s making fun of her or not.
She nods again, straightening her own posture slightly. “I came as soon as I got the message, sir.”
She’d been in the gym all afternoon, in heated contest with a punching bag, interspersed with running laps whenever she got too tired of thinking – strong left hook, don’t drop your arm, keep your eyes open and don’t give them any opening – and all she could do was thank her lucky stars that she’d showered in the changing room rather than going straight back to her room to collapse, because if she’d come back and seen the message beforehand she couldn’t possibly have justified taking the time to rinse off first.
He keeps his eyes trained on her as she speaks, apparently listening attentively, but when he answers it’s as if she might as well not have said anything at all. Like he’s just humoring her, letting her pretend she’s actually a part of the conversation, waiting for her to finish so he can get on with what’s really important. Like she’s a child, out of her depth and not even knowing it.
He leans back in his chair, casually, and presses the tips of his fingers together, regarding her. “It’s a very busy schedule, isn’t it, Agent Connecticut?” He raises one eyebrow, and glances down, and for the first time she realizes that there’s a computer display embedded in the desk, lines of type she can’t make out marching across it. He reaches down and flicks his finger across it casually, and the display changes to video, to her, training in the gym that afternoon. The Director flicks his finger across the screen again, and the video changes, to her in the library, the firing range, the observation room. Studying, training, watching. Never stopping at all, from the impression the videos give.
The Director twists his fingers, and the screen goes dark as he lifts his hand and leans back again, lacing his fingers together and looking back at her. “I’d be surprised to hear you still have the time for your regular training duties, with all that you have deigned to add to your routine.”
She stiffens, her stomach dropping right out of her, and tries to keep her voice from quivering. “Sir, if I’ve broken some sort of rule –”
He chuckles, shaking his head, dismissing the worry entirely. “Not at all, Agent Connecticut. As a matter of fact, I find myself very – impressed with your initiative.” He cocks his head, studying her, and she has the fleeting impression that she’s a rat in a cage, or maybe a butterfly pinned to a sheet, with no other purpose but to be stared at and contemplated. “Agent Connecticut. Quite a mouthful, is it not?”
“…That’s what York said.” The admission’s out before she can think about it, taken off guard by how similar his choice of words is to York’s, by the fact that he’d commented on something so trivial at all. She smiles a little without realizing it, shrugging her shoulders. “They’re calling me Connie.” She can’t keep the hint of pleasure out of her voice as she says it. In some ways, merely having a nickname at all, being noticed and liked enough by her peers to be worth that much effort, is as much of an accomplishment as anything else she’s done here. It hurts that much more when the Director snorts in something not quite invested enough to be content. It’s more like wholesale dismissal, with just a hint of disappointment.
“A child’s name.”
She doesn’t have a chance to respond, because he’s already moved on, tapping at the display screen on his desk to pull up something she recognizes immediately. It’s the rankings board, this version more detailed than the big one on the wall in the training room, listing everyone’s win/loss ratios and how they’ve scored on various skill tests and evaluations. She has nothing to be ashamed of here, at least, because her training’s been paying off, and she’s probably about as high on the list as she’s ever going to get. She sits up a little straighter, looking at the display with interest, not saying a word.
“Agent Connecticut.” He looks up, grey eyes piercing her like steel, and she swallows, nodding faintly. “There is a mission scheduled for a few days from now. It is a very important mission, and its success is vital to our goals. I have not yet selected a team to complete this mission. Due to your recent rise in the rankings, my computer simulations recommend you as a part of this team.” He stops, still watching her, and she realizes suddenly that her eyes are watering as she strives to keep from blinking. “Can I trust you to be a part of this team, and to ensure that your role in this mission is completed successfully?”
She knows why he’s asking her specifically, knows that he’s thinking of previous missions, when she’d frozen up and let herself and everyone else down, but she doesn’t hesitate, she just nods eagerly, gripping her seat to keep herself from bouncing off of it in excitement. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. You can count on me."
__________
MISSION: FAILURE, ALL OBJECTIVES
He’s standing there in the observation room when they get back, looking down on them with his hands clasped behind his back. She can’t keep herself from looking up at him, even though meeting his eyes is the last thing she wants to do. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for – some kind of understanding, maybe, forgiveness, absolution – but she doesn’t get any of it. He turns away, the brief glimpse she catches of his face completely expressionless, and she looks down, cheeks burning in shame.
She doesn’t want to think about her new ranking, but she can’t keep herself from being drawn to the board, all the same, sitting with her head bent, as if awaiting her execution.
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“It wasn’t your fault, Connie.”
Except it was, and she’d failed, and she knows she’s blown her last chance. Wash is the last person she wants to deal with right now, Wash with his fumbling attempts at comfort she doesn’t want and hadn’t asked for, his hand large and clumsy on her shoulder, his utter bewilderment and cluelessness when she tries to explain to him what’s really going on. She wants to shake him, to yell and make him understand, but she’s also tired, too tired to try when she knows it won’t work. She shoves her helmet into his hands instead, and turns to leave.
She pauses as she heads for the showers, a bitter little smile twisting her lips. “And don’t call me Connie. Makes me sound like a fucking kid. Call me CT.” She doesn’t wait for his response.
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Her next session with the Counselor isn’t a good one at all. She has no doubt that he knows every last detail of her talk with the Director – hell, he’d probably recorded it for the Counselor to watch, to study and read more into her every word and movement than she ever would have dreamed of. But he doesn’t say anything about that, he just asks her about the mission, an hour of how did it feel and what do you remember and would you do anything different? Of course she would, but it doesn’t matter, because she sure as hell can’t do anything to change any of it now.
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She gets to dinner late, and sits alone in a corner of the empty mess, eating her food without tasting it and trying not to think about anything at all. When Wash sits down across from her, an infuriating look of concern on his face, she doesn’t acknowledge him, she just stabs her mystery meat with her fork that much harder.
“Hey.” He sounds cautious but determined, and when she gives him her best glare under lowered eyebrows, he isn’t deterred. “You can’t keep beating yourself up like this, Connie.”
It doesn’t deserve a response. She flicks her eyes back down again, concentrating on her food, and Wash hesitates, shifting a little, uncomfortably, before he presses on again. “Connie, it wasn’t your -”
“It was my fault!” She snaps at him, sharper than she’d meant to, but she doesn’t let herself feel bad, even when Wash’s eyes widen in surprise. “It was my fault, and I did screw it up, and that’s not my name, Wash!” She stands abruptly, grabbing her tray, and turns away, only to find Wash blocking her way about three steps later. She glares up at him, and he hesitates, looking apologetic, but he raises his arm, gripping her helmet in his hand.
“I brought your -” He pauses, looking at the tray in her hands, and takes a step back, uncertain. “Do you want it now, or should I just - later -”
CT scowls at him, resisting the urge to thank him or apologize (she doesn’t feel bad, she doesn’t - ) and fumbles with her tray, balancing it with one hand so she can take her helmet, awkwardly, under her other arm. Wash makes sure she’s got it all, and smiles hopefully, and she looks back up at him, but she can’t summon the energy to scowl at him any longer.
She goes to dump her trash and return the tray, instead, and when she pauses at the door and looks back, Wash is still standing there, looking after her. Their eyes meet, and CT turns away quickly, clutching the helmet in both hands as she hurries out of the cafeteria. She doesn’t feel bad. She doesn’t. She has too much else to worry about.
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[episode 10/11 - fight with Tex]
Washington: What? Are they using live rounds on the training floor?
C.T.: Looks like it.
Washington: That's against protocol, they're going to kill her!
C.T.: Probably.
Washington: Someone should get the Director.
C.T.: The Director? Who do you think gave them the ammo?
Carolina: Watch your mouth C.T.
Director: You should be ashamed o' yourselves. I expect you to act as a team.
Washington: They used live ammunition on the floor, Sir, that's against regulations.
Director: Do you think our enemies will care about regulations on the battlefield, Agent Washington?
Washington: So, y- you're not punishing them?
Director: Ingenuity, and adaptability, are admirable traits.
The medics roll York over, and his facemask is entirely fractured in place
Director: You should all learn something from this. Dismissed.
C.T.: Yeah. We should've learned something, alright.
Washington: I can't believe this!
C.T.: Don't forget to check your place on that list, Wash.
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[episode 13 - planning the heist]
C.T.: What about Agent South?
Director: Agent South will not be accompanying you on this mission.
C.T.: Hmm, I guess the world's a tough place when you move down a rank. And where's our new recruit, will she be joining us?
Director: That's enough questions, Connecticut.
C.T.: Notice he didn't say no.
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“I’m trying. I understand. I - I just need more time to - I have to go.”
She doesn’t hear his approach, but somehow she’s aware of a presence there all the same, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She turns, the set of her shoulders already hostile, and there he is, the gold of his faceplate reflecting impassively back at her.
“What are you looking at?”
Wash doesn’t say a word in response, and she stalks past him, head held high. “Mind your own business.”
“I should say the same.”
They’re empty words, meaning nothing, meaning he doesn’t know what to say and has no better response, but somehow they hurt all the same. She doesn’t look back as she walks past him, doesn’t see him turn his head to watch her go, and she waits until she’s down the corridor and out of earshot before she stops, smashing her fist hard against the bulkhead.
It doesn’t dent from the blow. There’s not even a scuff mark to show for it, but she has to bite back a cry of pain as her hand connects, teeth drawing blood from her lip as she wrings her stinging fingers. They’re bruised for a week - not broken, thank god, but it was stupid, as stupid move, and what the hell had Wash been doing there, anyway.
She just needs more time. But she’s running out fast.
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