Crichton steps into the Oak & Iron in the evening to catch a bite after his shift in the enforcement office, and that's when he spots her. New face, 5'11", red-head with vibrant green eyes? Check, check, and check. Guess he's having company for dinner.
"Carolina?" he asks as he comes up to her with his hand out to shake, "I'm Commander John Crichton and I believe we have a mutual acquittance. Got some time to talk over a meal? My treat."
Company is the last thing Agent Carolina expects, sat at an empty table in the O&I.
'Carolina?' he says, like a cop. She'd know the cadence anywhere, having used it plenty herself. Not exactly a cop, but as a Commanding Officer the sentiment doesn't differ very much.
Arms crossed, the fiery-haired ex-soldier leans back into her chair.
Tough cookie, huh? Unfazed, he keeps his hand out. "I want to talk about that mutual acquaintance. CT and I are good friends, so I said I'd come introduce myself. Is that seat taken?"
"Thank you," he says with aggressive politeness as he uses that hand to reach for the chair and turn it around backwards. That's right, he's going to straddle it like everyone's least favorite youth pastor.
"Just to set the record straight, I really am here as her friend. Enforcer might be my day job, but you're not being interrogated, okay? That title I gave you is a civilian title from my home on Earth. I didn't come here to bust your balls."
She's quiet for a moment, catching her cheek between teeth and trying to get a read on her new dinner guest.Enforcer; he's not trying to intimidate her, is he? ...If he wanted to pick a fight, they would have cleared the table by now. And if it's not a fight he wants, nor an interrogation...
Then what the hell's his deal?
Carolina shifts her weight in her seat, patience leaking out like a newly opened damn.
"So you came here for... What, exactly? To suss me out?"
He tilts his head back and forth like he's weighing the word, then shrugs. "Yeah, guess that's what you'd call it. I know that you and CT have reasons not to feel any warm fuzzies for each other but I don't think she even knows for sure where the two of you stand. So that's my first question." Cards on the table, he's learned, is the way to go with this stuff. Even if it sometimes earns him a sock to the jaw Rock 'Em Sock 'Em style.
"Where we stand?" She repeats the phrase like he's just cursed her non-existent first born child, enraged and horrified. Jesus— sure, they'd ended on, perhaps, the worst terms possible, but is a mediator really necessary? She's expected to spell out her guilt to a stranger?
"I made mistakes. I'm in the wrong, I know that." Each word is more firm than the last; a snake's hold around vocal cords. "I'm not here to— hunt her down, or whatever she thinks. And if she wants left alone, fine. I'll leave her alone."
But she doesn't, does she?
When has Agent Connecticut ever avoided the chance to ask questions?
He's bracing his jaw for impact after that start but, thankfully, he's safe for now. He can't promise he won't keep digging when he hears Carolina practically sounding like she's trying to convince herself right in front of him. Self-appointed as he is, he's still doing this in hopes of easing tensions and he can't do that if he doesn't know where they pull tightest.
"I don't think that's what she really wants," his tone has softened considerably. "Is that what you want?"
She's scowling now, facial muscles pulled taut in a sudden burst of vitriol— a feeling she's used to these days, but never unsurprised by its ability to take over.
He doesn't deserve to know this. He doesn't know her, so why should he get to call into question what she really wants? What gives him the right to dangle Connecticut's potential forgiveness over her head like a carrot tied to a stick?—
You don't deserve it.
She tried to get there in time. She tried.
You don't—
Tried to block the Black Death flighting alongside her.
Deserve—
Who should have never been there in the first place.
It was never Agent Texas who she thought should receive blame. It's her. A Commanding Officer. The designated team leader, tasked with keeping her peers safe, traitorous or not.
He rides that expression out like he's surfing a riptide. If he had a nickel for every time someone gave him that look, he'd be a very rich man. Hell, even CT gave him that look when they first started talking. He doesn't react beyond a frustratingly sympathetic half-frown that goes away as soon as she answers to be replaced with a doe-eyed smile.
"I'm really glad to hear that. It's... hard to be separated from everything and everyone you've ever had. So many things you have to explain, so many pieces of context that no one but you knows. You and CT can skip all that when you talk. So, I hope you will--talk to each other, I mean."
"I doubt it. What she wants is answers. And when she gets them, that'll be it."
Is that pessimistic? Probably. But unfounded? No, she doesn't think so. In fact, if she'd died at the hands of individuals she once called teammates, she'd never speak to them again. None of the Freelancers can be trusted, that's the lesson here. All of them, liars. All of them, cheats. Idiots, thieves, the best and worst, scattered and killed.
And that's fine. Connecticut can ask her myriad questions and she'll answer them. What reason does she have to lie? Why would she ever cover for the Director's ass after what he's done.
We have a common enemy, CT.
And I'm not one of them.
"Here's a question," weight shifted forward on bulked forearms, eyes like a hungry panther's. "How much do you know?"
He knew this one was coming eventually. It's only fair, since he just ambushed this woman with her own past she has a right to know how much of it he's sitting on.
"About you? Barely anything. But I know what happened to CT's home, and I know what she was doing while she was working under you. I have a pretty good idea about what your Director was up to, too. And why."
The last thing she needs is some random man knowing her business. Keep your head down, do your job and get out of here the second you're able. It's easy. Should be, that is, until a morbid curiosity entreats her forward in her seat.
"And what was it my Director was up to?"
She needs to hear it. The what, the why— like kindling to her fucked-familial-revenge-fire. How exactly did my father screw himself over?
He puts his hands up in the universal 'don't shoot' gesture, "You don't want to be friends, all right, but I'm willing to meet you in the middle if you change your mind." Yes, even after an introduction like this, he'd still extend the hand of friendship to her. Assuming she won't bite his fingers off.
"He was playing God with AI, the way I heard it. Was willing to cross every ethical line known to man, all in an attempt to bring his wife back to him in AI form. Not that I don't get where the impulse comes from, but he put that above all else including the lives of the people he was responsible for--not to mention a world ending war he was supposed to be helping fight. Selfish son of a bitch."
"I won't." A promise made lethal by her green-inferno stare. She isn't here to make friends— not a chance in hell. Certainly not with much larger fish to fry— like how she plans on getting out of here. (Any closer and Crichton might go home with two or three less digits. Maybe a whole hand less.)
And in a jarring flip of countenance, Carolina laughs. It's the kind of laugh that's absent of joy; an explosion of air so aggressive it feels almost animal.
Selfish son of a bitch. Selfish is right. Selfish, cruel, stupid. An old man who leaves behind nothing but violence, and it's that very trail Carolina tracks like a bloodhound. Soon it will end with her— that's if nobody's gotten to him first.
When she speaks, it has an almost sing-song quality. "And it all came cashing down on top of his head. He's buried so deep in his mistakes he has nowhere else to go. It's exactly how I want him."
Somehow that promise sounds an awful lot like a challenge to his ears, but she doesn't have to know that.
"If you say so."
Oof. Hm, nope. He doesn't like that laugh. That sounds a little too close to the way he laughs when he's one marble away from losing the whole set. ...Maybe he shouldn't judge.
"Hell of an evil laugh you got there. You practice that?" Wait, wait, don't shoot! Hands are up again! "Sorry, sorry, couldn't resist. But, uh, in all seriousness, be careful treading down that path of revenge so you don't end up joining him at the bottom, huh?"
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A short while after his conversation with CT - Oak & Iron
Crichton steps into the Oak & Iron in the evening to catch a bite after his shift in the enforcement office, and that's when he spots her. New face, 5'11", red-head with vibrant green eyes? Check, check, and check. Guess he's having company for dinner.
"Carolina?" he asks as he comes up to her with his hand out to shake, "I'm Commander John Crichton and I believe we have a mutual acquittance. Got some time to talk over a meal? My treat."
no subject
Company is the last thing Agent Carolina expects, sat at an empty table in the O&I.
'Carolina?' he says, like a cop. She'd know the cadence anywhere, having used it plenty herself. Not exactly a cop, but as a Commanding Officer the sentiment doesn't differ very much.
Arms crossed, the fiery-haired ex-soldier leans back into her chair.
Crichton's poor hand goes unshaken.
"Depends on what you want to talk about."
no subject
no subject
"Does it look taken?"
CT— she should have known. What she can't be certain of is what he knows, and that unknown element drives a serrated knife through her nerves.
Carolina, relenting, gestures to the empty chair across from her.
"...Fine. Be my guest."
no subject
"Just to set the record straight, I really am here as her friend. Enforcer might be my day job, but you're not being interrogated, okay? That title I gave you is a civilian title from my home on Earth. I didn't come here to bust your balls."
no subject
She's quiet for a moment, catching her cheek between teeth and trying to get a read on her new dinner guest. Enforcer; he's not trying to intimidate her, is he? ...If he wanted to pick a fight, they would have cleared the table by now. And if it's not a fight he wants, nor an interrogation...
Then what the hell's his deal?
Carolina shifts her weight in her seat, patience leaking out like a newly opened damn.
"So you came here for... What, exactly? To suss me out?"
no subject
no subject
"Where we stand?" She repeats the phrase like he's just cursed her non-existent first born child, enraged and horrified. Jesus— sure, they'd ended on, perhaps, the worst terms possible, but is a mediator really necessary? She's expected to spell out her guilt to a stranger?
"I made mistakes. I'm in the wrong, I know that." Each word is more firm than the last; a snake's hold around vocal cords. "I'm not here to— hunt her down, or whatever she thinks. And if she wants left alone, fine. I'll leave her alone."
But she doesn't, does she?
When has Agent Connecticut ever avoided the chance to ask questions?
no subject
"I don't think that's what she really wants," his tone has softened considerably. "Is that what you want?"
no subject
She's scowling now, facial muscles pulled taut in a sudden burst of vitriol— a feeling she's used to these days, but never unsurprised by its ability to take over.
He doesn't deserve to know this. He doesn't know her, so why should he get to call into question what she really wants? What gives him the right to dangle Connecticut's potential forgiveness over her head like a carrot tied to a stick?—
You don't deserve it.
She tried to get there in time. She tried.
You don't—
Tried to block the Black Death flighting alongside her.
Deserve—
Who should have never been there in the first place.
It was never Agent Texas who she thought should receive blame. It's her. A Commanding Officer. The designated team leader, tasked with keeping her peers safe, traitorous or not.
—A long, tense silence.
"No."
no subject
"I'm really glad to hear that. It's... hard to be separated from everything and everyone you've ever had. So many things you have to explain, so many pieces of context that no one but you knows. You and CT can skip all that when you talk. So, I hope you will--talk to each other, I mean."
no subject
"I doubt it. What she wants is answers. And when she gets them, that'll be it."
Is that pessimistic? Probably. But unfounded? No, she doesn't think so. In fact, if she'd died at the hands of individuals she once called teammates, she'd never speak to them again. None of the Freelancers can be trusted, that's the lesson here. All of them, liars. All of them, cheats. Idiots, thieves, the best and worst, scattered and killed.
"So you can wipe that smile off your face."
no subject
"She wants answers, of course she does. Wouldn't you? But What if you're wrong about that being all she wants? What if being here changes things?"
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"Yes," Carolina says dryly. "I would."
And that's fine. Connecticut can ask her myriad questions and she'll answer them. What reason does she have to lie? Why would she ever cover for the Director's ass after what he's done.
We have a common enemy, CT.
And I'm not one of them.
"Here's a question," weight shifted forward on bulked forearms, eyes like a hungry panther's. "How much do you know?"
no subject
"About you? Barely anything. But I know what happened to CT's home, and I know what she was doing while she was working under you. I have a pretty good idea about what your Director was up to, too. And why."
no subject
"Good. We'll keep it that way."
The last thing she needs is some random man knowing her business. Keep your head down, do your job and get out of here the second you're able. It's easy. Should be, that is, until a morbid curiosity entreats her forward in her seat.
"And what was it my Director was up to?"
She needs to hear it. The what, the why— like kindling to her fucked-familial-revenge-fire. How exactly did my father screw himself over?
no subject
"He was playing God with AI, the way I heard it. Was willing to cross every ethical line known to man, all in an attempt to bring his wife back to him in AI form. Not that I don't get where the impulse comes from, but he put that above all else including the lives of the people he was responsible for--not to mention a world ending war he was supposed to be helping fight. Selfish son of a bitch."
no subject
"I won't." A promise made lethal by her green-inferno stare. She isn't here to make friends— not a chance in hell. Certainly not with much larger fish to fry— like how she plans on getting out of here. (Any closer and Crichton might go home with two or three less digits. Maybe a whole hand less.)
And in a jarring flip of countenance, Carolina laughs. It's the kind of laugh that's absent of joy; an explosion of air so aggressive it feels almost animal.
Selfish son of a bitch. Selfish is right. Selfish, cruel, stupid. An old man who leaves behind nothing but violence, and it's that very trail Carolina tracks like a bloodhound. Soon it will end with her— that's if nobody's gotten to him first.
When she speaks, it has an almost sing-song quality. "And it all came cashing down on top of his head. He's buried so deep in his mistakes he has nowhere else to go. It's exactly how I want him."
no subject
"If you say so."
Oof. Hm, nope. He doesn't like that laugh. That sounds a little too close to the way he laughs when he's one marble away from losing the whole set. ...Maybe he shouldn't judge.
"Hell of an evil laugh you got there. You practice that?" Wait, wait, don't shoot! Hands are up again! "Sorry, sorry, couldn't resist. But, uh, in all seriousness, be careful treading down that path of revenge so you don't end up joining him at the bottom, huh?"