Untouchable

12: Scars

It is still early in the evening when Lynch begins to tell her about his time training under commissar Zima senior, a grizzled old man who had no qualms about informing the cadets that they performed poorly in comparison to his daughter. A daughter he had not seen since she was seven, he always added to drive home the scale of their ineptitude.

"Word was that she handed him a formal request to be sent to the Schola in crayons at the age of four," he gestures with his free hand, a wide sweep, while rolling his eyes. "And that he spent the next three years training her before granting that request. Never thought I'd actually meet her, but she's... definitely her father's daughter."

He says the words in a way that clearly conveys that it is not a compliment. Holly sips her glass, pretends that she doesn't mind the sting of the alcohol, nods as he continues. Her micro-bead buzzes alive and she freezes with the glass still touching her lips, mouth seeming impossibly dry in an instance. Memories of sudden brief messages in codes flood her mind. Reality comes crashing down on her, the galaxy beyond this, the inquisitor, orders, the actual mission, her real life. But there is no code spoken into her ear, only a familiar voice.

"Bleak? Have I got the right channel?" Wechsler asks, keeping her voice down. Sounds worried, concerned. Threatened?

"Yes?" she raises her hand to the micro-bead, for Lynch's sake as he looks quite surprised at having been interrupted. Unaccustomed to it in her company, perhaps even among his equals.

"Could you come to the barracks? There's a bit of... not a situation but..."

"Of course."

A half-whispered "thanks" and then nothing. No code, only silence.

No code, yet now she is tense, filled with unease. Wechsler's request? No. No, it is the reminder that she has managed to forget her old life to this extent that unsettles her, the knowledge that her old life is not going to forget her. Borrowed time, mental gymnastics, self-deception. She has become quite adept at it.

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, rising from her chair. "It seems that I am needed in the barracks."

"Hm," Lynch presses his lips together, raises one eyebrow just a hint. Disapproving? Probably suspects that it was Jarvis who asked for her. Cutting their evening even shorter than usual.

"Wechsler asked for assistance," she explains, feels like she is oversharing. Still. His expression seems to soften a little. He likes Wechsler, likes the cheerful attitude she has whenever she stops by, likes that she can see past Holly's condition, seeks her out for her company alone. "It doesn't sound very serious, but nevertheless."

"You should go then," he says, leans back, spreads out further on the couch, picks up his dataslate. Sounds a little displeased, yet his words have given her permission, so she chooses the interpretation that suits her.

Holly nods, smiles softly, takes care to stand with her feet close to one another, weight on her left foot, fingers intertwined in front of her. Awkward and small, unthreatening.

"Thank you, sir."

He glances at her, gives her a hint of a smile. She reciprocates, bowing her head a little, raises her eyebrows into an apologetic frown. Is pretty sure she gets it right as the corner of his mouth twitches, he nods, turns his attention to his dataslate. She wastes no time leaving, yet takes care to walk softly until she has exited the room. Doesn't want to give the impression that she is fleeing his company.

The guards are talking at their post, keeping their voices down, don't notice her entering the hallway until she grabs her coat. The sudden silence, the chuckle that quickly dies, the way they look between each other and her as she dresses, pulls her gloves on. Well. At least they're staying awake. She passes them without a word, only a glance to acknowledge their presence, opens the door and steps out into the cold, the wind, the snow. Summer is well and truly over.