Quiet Hate

Annoyed

The small brown package sat in my kitchen drawer for the entire night. I avoid the track, unsure of exactly who all had eyes on me, and I head in the gym on Saturday morning. I am more successful in the gym than at running, but in the face of such physically capable people, I feel like I needed to get better at running. But I'm not going on the missions with them, exactly, so who cares - I can put off running for a little bit while I wait for König to get off my back. If my assumptions are correct, which I bet they are.

After the gym I head to work the day studying up. I feel like I don't know enough about Task Force 141, or the area we will be working in. I know, who works on the weekends, right? But it was either that, or sit in my house and be angry that König got me compression socks. I bet it was a slap in the face more than anything. An insult. Retribution for not calling him König to his face. Who knows.

As I'm waiting by the printer for a document to print out, someone walks in. I'm annoyed because up until now, it was totally empty. And I would rather work in a bustling room than alone, awkwardly, with someone else.

I don't turn around, trying to act casually. Maybe they don't recognize me out of my uniform. I'm in leggings and a big t-shirt, and I start to doubt my choice of outfit. I only just got here, who am I to come in wearing comfortable clothing?

The paper prints, and I try to non-chalantly glance at who came in.

Only, I can't, because a wall of gray t-shirt and man chest is in the way.

Ghost is tall, but he would have said some form of greeting. Plus, I'm betting he's waking up with a massive headache. And he's not this tall.

I frown. I don't look up, I can see a black hood in my peripheral vision.

I take the paper back to the center table, where I've spread out some materials. I sit it down, and step back to my computer for a second to do a quick search. In that time, König has taken a seat and is studying what I've laid out.

I don't say anything to him. I'm not in the mood, and if he has a question, I'm sure he will ask, in a condescending voice, no less. So I go back and forth, double and triple checking the details for the upcoming mission, mainly, the enemy and what they might do.

König sits in silence, sometimes watching me, sometimes picking up what I have just printed or laid there. He isn't messing up anything, so I don't say anything to him about touching my things.

After thirty minutes, his voice breaks the quiet. "I see you've noted the west entrance as a highly improbable method of entering."

"Yes," I say. "That entrance is where the guards take smoke breaks."

He nods, and says nothing more.

Another hour passes, and I realize it is well past lunch time, and I had a measly granola bar after the gym. Before my stomach rumbles embarassingly, I decide to pack up my things.

König doesn't offer to help, and I'm glad. I have certain folders for certain things, and I don't want his big grabby hands crumpling things up.

As my computer shuts down, he stands.

"I've assessed your work today as acceptable," König says.

I fight the urge not to whirl on him right now. Acceptable?

"If I remember correctly, General James is currently in charge of my progress, not you," I say. "As he is commander of the intelligence unit, and I am simply supporting the 141."

"I did not say I was trying to evaluate your progress. I was assessing your work on behalf of my team."

My team, he's said.

"Your team," I say, nodding. "The team you just fucking joined?"

König is a couple of ranks higher than I am. Technically, he's my superior. Do I care in this moment? No.

"I've proven myself capable," he says.

"Well, Colonel, as is indicated several times in my file I provided to you so kindly," I say, my words anything but, "I should think that you find ample evidence to support your team's decision to bring me on as their intelligence specialist."

"And I hope that you stick to intelligence," König says. "As we all know you'd immediately fail if we allowed you to join us on a tactical mission."

The words slide over my skin like ice. Voice level, I say, "What do you mean by that, sir?"

His eyes darken as he looks down on me. Both of us have taken a couple of steps forward. Now, only three feet between us. He towers over me, and I know, now, that he has the upper hand in this fight. I refuse to acknowledge what he might mean, not until he says it.

"Well, Flora, we do quite a bit of running," he says, his voice menacing, his words heavy.

My heart drops through my ass. Not even through it, but to the center of the fucking earth. Nothing can describe how hurt I am by those stupid little words. Why am I hurt? I weight-train to keep myself strong and I do Pilates and yoga to keep my body in shape. Just because I'm not a combat professional doesn't mean I'm not just as good as any of these guys. Either way, I'm a fast runner, just not great at the recovery part. But who cares? I made it here for a reason, and I'm not out of shape by any means.

None of this matters as his words sink into my bones. I have to fight my body's reaction to let tears come to my eyes. I feel my skin pale - not flush, but pale - which means he has really gotten to me. God, why am I so sensitive?

I step away from our stand-off.

"I understand," I say, my voice quiet. If I speak any louder it may crack. I pick up my jacket from my chair. "Have a good rest of your weekend, sir."

I force myself to walk at a normal speed out of the room.