Untouchable

4. Jarvis

She asks around, burdening strangers with her proximity without warning. They know she serves directly under commissar Lynch, it is hard to mistake her for someone else all things considered, so they answer but it is clear that they would rather not have anything to do with her. A man flinches so badly when she addresses him that he drops the crate he is carrying. The wood cracks but doesn't break, nothing spills out. She takes a moment to just look at it before turning her attention back to him.

"I'm looking for the 116th," she tells him. The crate is his problem.

"W-what?"

"The 116th. Sergeant Eade's squad. Where are they garrisoned?" she says, not making the effort to appear to be anything other than what she is. She can see him shiver, knows it is because of her and not the wind.

"Um, I think down the second row that way," he says, gesturing past her. "Not entirely sure, sorry."

She looks at him for a second or two too long before turning and walking away in the direction he gave.

"Thank you," she says, remembering her manners as she hears him scramble to pick up the damaged crate without jostling its contents further.

The mud squelches under her boots and the sleet is coming in sideways. Supposedly this is summer here. Eden 39 is quite possibly the most inaccurately named planet she has ever set foot upon, with few redeeming qualities. There have been mentions about valuable minerals, but with the sleet coming in hard she finds it difficult to see how that would be worth the effort.

Further inquiries lead her to one of the ramshackle buildings, old and worn and not built to last. A relic that has been reinforced, repurposed, but not rebuilt to be comfortable. She steps inside, relieved to be out of the wind, but finds the interior to be cold despite the number of people sheltering inside. There are multiple card games, the smell of lho-sticks snake through the air, clothes are hanging up to dry. Still, she can stretch the definition and consider it fairly orderly, under the circumstances. The bunk beds are made properly, personal effects are evidently not allowed to spill out into the public area, she can only see a handful of bottles of unidentified liquid.

The barracks are filled with strangers wearing more or less the same clothes. There are faces that she might have seen before in passing, but none that she has ever paid any attention to. It is evident that they know her though as the people closest to the door straighten up. One man gets to his feet and the companions around his makeshift table quickly follow suit. The conversation dies. People further into the building glance in their direction, noticing the mood changing, curiosity getting the better of them.

The first man seems nervous, young. Pimples and an unflattering wisp of a moustache. He offers her a salute. She looks at him, from his face to his shoes, back to his face. He seems uncertain if he has done something wrong, so she returns the gesture. Acknowledgement. He doesn't need to salute her. Technically shouldn't, being indoors. Still. She has no desire to embarrass him. Besides, he sees her as an extension of the commissar, no doubt.

"Bleak!" A familiar voice easily overcomes the increasingly hushed conversations. The woman waves at her, weaves through her fellow guardsmen, approaches casually.

"Wechsler," Holly says, staying put. She musters up a smile, she should be friendly, the guardswoman has been nice to her. The other woman stops in front of her, and the people who previously occupied the space closest to the drafty door seem to evaporate further into the building. "You are well, I hope?"

There. Pleasantries.

"As well as I could hope to be," she agrees, moves as she talks, fluid and without effort, as if her body is an extension of her mind, her face and voice one and the same. Holly can't help but want to study her. "What are you doing here? Commissar sent you?"