Prompt Fills
Jun. 26th, 2018 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
troublewillfindmeinbatcountry17 asked: 28. “That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.” and 63. “What do you mean? It’s exciting!” (for xcom :)
28. “That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”
It hadn’t been planned, and the cover up hadn’t been graceful. To be fair, he’s not sure they could have found a graceful response given the circumstances, but that’s another matter entirely. Besides, how were they supposed to prepare for the one in a million chance of being in the same customs line?
He’s never exactly been a believer in platitudes, but he’d seen enough of people to know that apples generally didn’t fall far from trees. Everyone carried something of their parents with them, even if it was just the memory of bad parenting. The Commander has the easy charm and devotion to duty, but good god, he’d like to know what happened to the diplomatic finesse.
The Council is not happy, but then again, the Council is seldom ever happy. It’s easy to pass judgment from the outside, when you’re not the one knee deep in wounded soldiers, sleep-deprived engineers, and scientists pushing the safe consumption limits on caffeine in an attempt to keep up with an invasion force of ever increasing threat and sophistication. The recent cut to their funding would not alleviate any of those concerns, and would, in fact, likely exacerbate them.
“Commander,” he says, pressing a finger to the comm in his ears. “We’ve got an urgent transmission coming in from the Council. Looks like they need us to secure a VIP ambushed by the aliens.” He takes a few steps from the hologlobe and lowers his voice. “Please be diplomatic about this.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she answers, lightly. “Whoever’s the closest to combat-ready will go get the VIP, and then I’m going to diplomatically tell the Council they can go fuck a chryssalid next time they need a favor.”
“That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”
–
“What do you mean? It’s exciting!”
Securing the car had been a feat in and of itself. It had taken months and months of rations, a not insignificant amount of intelligence, a few too many pockets picked on Sally’s part, and more luck than he thought either of them had left. But, still, there it was: road-ready and rigged with solar panels. Not pretty, but sturdy enough — or so he hoped. It was their best hope of making it across the country in something approaching a reasonable amount of time.
“You’re fifteen.”
“Yeah, and you like to drink. I have the reaction time; you have the experience. Between the two of us, we make one competent driver. Besides, I read the manual. How hard can it be?”
“The … manual?”
“Yeah! The driving test one. You know. The book we found in that little office in Maine.”
The pain thrums behind his eyes. “I appreciate the effort, Sal, but it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“It was pretty clear about not driving with alcohol.”
He sighs. When the little one’s right, she’s right. He really has to cut back one of these days; it’s just been so hard.
“Besides,” she presses on, undeterred. “France and the US drive on the same side of the street, so maybe I’ve got maman and papa’s experience working for me.”
He lets out a soft chuckle at the optimism; he’s surprised she can still manage it after everything. “You can hope, Magpie.”
“Now,” she says, shifting in her seat. “Mirrors, seatbelts, brakes, ignition —“
“Sally?”
“Yeah?”
“No one drives an automatic with two feet.”
28. “That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”
[Sometime within the EW timeline]
It hadn’t been planned, and the cover up hadn’t been graceful. To be fair, he’s not sure they could have found a graceful response given the circumstances, but that’s another matter entirely. Besides, how were they supposed to prepare for the one in a million chance of being in the same customs line?
He’s never exactly been a believer in platitudes, but he’d seen enough of people to know that apples generally didn’t fall far from trees. Everyone carried something of their parents with them, even if it was just the memory of bad parenting. The Commander has the easy charm and devotion to duty, but good god, he’d like to know what happened to the diplomatic finesse.
The Council is not happy, but then again, the Council is seldom ever happy. It’s easy to pass judgment from the outside, when you’re not the one knee deep in wounded soldiers, sleep-deprived engineers, and scientists pushing the safe consumption limits on caffeine in an attempt to keep up with an invasion force of ever increasing threat and sophistication. The recent cut to their funding would not alleviate any of those concerns, and would, in fact, likely exacerbate them.
“Commander,” he says, pressing a finger to the comm in his ears. “We’ve got an urgent transmission coming in from the Council. Looks like they need us to secure a VIP ambushed by the aliens.” He takes a few steps from the hologlobe and lowers his voice. “Please be diplomatic about this.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she answers, lightly. “Whoever’s the closest to combat-ready will go get the VIP, and then I’m going to diplomatically tell the Council they can go fuck a chryssalid next time they need a favor.”
“That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”
–
63. “What do you mean? It’s exciting!”
[Pre-Every Exit, though within that canon]
“What do you mean? It’s exciting!”
Securing the car had been a feat in and of itself. It had taken months and months of rations, a not insignificant amount of intelligence, a few too many pockets picked on Sally’s part, and more luck than he thought either of them had left. But, still, there it was: road-ready and rigged with solar panels. Not pretty, but sturdy enough — or so he hoped. It was their best hope of making it across the country in something approaching a reasonable amount of time.
“You’re fifteen.”
“Yeah, and you like to drink. I have the reaction time; you have the experience. Between the two of us, we make one competent driver. Besides, I read the manual. How hard can it be?”
“The … manual?”
“Yeah! The driving test one. You know. The book we found in that little office in Maine.”
The pain thrums behind his eyes. “I appreciate the effort, Sal, but it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“It was pretty clear about not driving with alcohol.”
He sighs. When the little one’s right, she’s right. He really has to cut back one of these days; it’s just been so hard.
“Besides,” she presses on, undeterred. “France and the US drive on the same side of the street, so maybe I’ve got maman and papa’s experience working for me.”
He lets out a soft chuckle at the optimism; he’s surprised she can still manage it after everything. “You can hope, Magpie.”
“Now,” she says, shifting in her seat. “Mirrors, seatbelts, brakes, ignition —“
“Sally?”
“Yeah?”
“No one drives an automatic with two feet.”
