Work Text:
~*~
Kal’tsit doesn’t care for digital clocks.
Sure, she has them, on the walls, on her wrist, on the corner of her dataslate. But the clock she keeps on her desk is traditional. Hand-wound. In this day and age, it’s practically an antique. But there’s something about the soft, steady ticking that she finds… comforting. Routine.
Kal’tsit checks the time on her slate, and lets the tablet fall flat on her desk. She taps her stylus against her lips, spinning it idly above her fingers.
“Secure office,” she commands.
There’s a subtle shift in the air around her. Door sensors blink online, automated defenses quietly whir into position. In the right light, one can even notice a peculiar light flickering up and down her spine.
“Office secured,” PRTS’ digital voice responds.
The instant her desk clock chimes the hour, she sees her. She just materializes out of the shadows in her office, as if conjured by some sorcery. A petite young woman, her gray furred ears poking out of a red hood, her hands stuffed in her pockets.
“Reporting in,” she says, tonelessly.
“Hello, Red,” Kal’tsit says with a patient smile. “You’re right on time.”
She gestures to a long, low leather couch situated across from her desk. Red shuffles over and sits down without a sound.
“How was your week?” Kal’tsit asks.
“Monday. Responded to intruder alert. Tuesday. Guarded reception room. Wednesday. Escort. Thursday. Assassination. All contracts completed without incident.”
Kal’tsit leans forward, spinning her stylus in her hands. “...And how were
you
this week, Red?”
Red hesitates. “...Tried… talking more. To the Doctor. Amiya. ...Texas.”
“What did you talk about?” Kal’tsit presses.
Red rocks her foot against the ground, fidgeting. There’s a restless energy that pools in her limbs, but never quite makes it up to her face or out of her mouth. She reluctantly pulls a fist out of her coat pockets to cover her mouth as she clears her throat.
“I… tried to…” Red begins, haltingly. Her hands are shaking.
Kal’tsit stands, gesturing to the row of gadgets and gewgaws arranged along her desk.
“Would you like something to help you concentrate?”
“No,” Red says. “I like mine.”
A blade flashes in Red’s hands. Kal’tsit feels her fingers twitch towards the panic button under her desk, feels the telltale spark of power surging up her spine, but she shoves those feelings down.
Across the office, Red starts spinning a knife in her hands, just like Kal’tsit and her stylus. A dark reflection of the woman who raised her.
“I tried… talking more. Just like you said.” Red mutters. “I tried showing people my favorite knife.”
Kal’tsit blinks. “And… how did that go?”
“They’re scared of me,” Red growls. “The other wolves, they’re scared of me. Provence. Texas. The new one. I tried talking to the Doctor about it.”
Kal’tsit’s eyes narrow. “What did they say?”
“They said, ‘they shouldn’t be. We’re all killers, here.’”
Kal’tsit hissed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“...That sounds like them,” she sighs.
“Texas was nice,” Red says, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “She said it wasn’t my fault. It was a… chemical thing. A pheromone thing. She made me this way.”
Kal’tsit glances up. “Who did?” she asks, a little too quickly.
“I don’t remember,” Red says, her tone flattening. “She won’t let me.”
“Who is ‘she’?” Kal’tsit urges. “Could this be… ‘Grandma’?”
In an instant, Red was crouched on her desk, fist clenched tight around her knife.
“
Don’t
say that name,” Red growls.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Kal’tsit says without even flinching, without even glancing down at the blade against her throat. “I’m sorry, Red. Please step away from my desk.”
Red takes a breath. She flips her knife in her hand and stuffs it back into her coat. She hops off of the desk and stalks back to her couch without a word.
Kal’tsit clears her throat, fighting down the nauseating swell of power pooling between her shoulder blades.
“Let’s talk about Operator Texas,” she says, changing tack.
Red’s ears twitch upwards, attentive.
“...I like her,” Red says quietly. “She’s nice. She’s… pretty.”
“What’s so nice about her?” Kal’tsit asks.
“She talks to me,” Red says simply. “Even though she’s afraid. Lots of people think I’m scary. Or I don’t want to talk. I do. I just don’t know how.”
“But you’re trying,” Kal’tsit says. “That’s all that matters.”
Red nods. “Texas is… talking to me, more. But I think it might just be because of the white wolf. Lappland. They know each other. It’s complicated. She really gets under Texas’ skin. Not always in a bad way.”
“That’s very observant of you, Red,” Kal’tsit smiles.
“I’m a hunter, not an idiot,” Red grumbles. She glances up. “...I tried talking to her. Lappland.”
Kal’tsit raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“She said she wanted to get all the lupo aboard Rhodes Island together and call ourselves ‘The Wolf Pack’, Like our own little club. And everywhere we go, we’d announce ourselves. ‘Wolf Pack! Woof woof!’”
Kal’tsit fought down a snicker. “...That sounds… entertaining.”
“She was making fun of me,” Red growls, “or else she was just saying it to annoy Texas. But even if it was a joke…”
Red trails off, shaking her head. Kal’tsit purses her lips, thoughtfully spinning her stylus.
“Is that something you would like?” Kal’tsit asks. “A pack.”
Red is quiet for a long moment. She raises and lowers one shoulder.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we can figure that out,” Kal’tsit urges.
“Mm,” Red hums, thoughtful. “...I tried talking to Lappland again. Later.”
“Go on.”
“I asked her if she wanted to see my knife. She asked me if I liked playing with knives.” Red’s lips curled into a frown. “...She asked me if red was my favorite color because it’s the color of blood. She asked me… if I like hurting people.”
Kal’tsit presses her lips into a line. “Do you?”
Red glances away. “...Sometimes. But I don’t know if that’s me, or what she wants me to be.”
Kal’tsit isn’t sure what to say. Red reaches up and pulls down her hood.
“Grandma didn’t give me this name. You did. You named me after a fairy tale,” Red muses, gazing over Kal’tsit’s shoulders and floor-length windows into the Catastrophe-scoured wasteland beyond. “The grandma in that story is nice at first. But she’s killed, and replaced by a wolf.”
Kal’tsit purses her lips. She pulls her slate across her desk, quickly scribbling down notes with her stylus.
“What if Grandma was never nice?” Red wonders, to empty air. “What if Grandma was always the wolf?”
Kal’tsit finishes typing, and clicks off her tablet screen. Red is still staring out her office’s tinted windows, slowly clenching and unclenching her fists.
“Doctor,” Red says abruptly. “Do you think Lappland is a bad person?”
“I’ve known her less than a week. It’s too early to say,” Kal’tsit admits. “Do you?”
“I don’t know,” Red ponders. “She hurts people. But I don’t think she likes to, or wants to. It’s just all she knows. She never learned how to stop. I asked Texas about her.”
“What did she say?”
Red shakes her head, rueful. “She said, ‘she is who she is’. Whatever that means.”
The seconds tick by on Kal’tsit’s desk clock. For once, Red isn’t tapping her foot or spinning her knife. She’s lost in thought, puzzling over the newcomer aboard Rhodes Island. Her ears twitch.
Kal’tsit watches her carefully, spinning her stylus in her hands. After a long moment, she sets her stylus down on her desk.
“Well,” Kal’tsit says, “maybe she can learn.”
Red looks up, a rare glint of warmth in her otherwise cold eyes. “...Like me?”
Kal’tsit smiles, and nods. “Like you.”
There’s a chime on Kal’tsit’s desk. Red stands up, and dips her head in a nod.
“Time’s up,” she says, her face impassive as always, but her voice holds a tinge of warmth. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Red,” Kal’tsit replies. “I’ll see you next Friday, 7 PM sharp.”
Red nods. She pulls her hood back up over her ears, and slips away without a word.
Kal’tsit watches her go, her tablet clutched to her chest, thoughtfully tapping her stylus against her lips. With Lappland aboard, that made
three
Lupo operators with dark, mysterious pasts and a penchant for blades. For so-called ‘lone wolves’, they certainly had a lot in common. She wonders if Provence had any emotional baggage of her own, just to round out the set. Not that Kal’tsit was any better.
Kal’tsit lingers in her office, her mind wandering from Red practicing her social skills, to Amiya, to the Doctor, to Babel and Mont3r and the ghosts on her shoulders. And through it all, the constant, reassuring ticking of the clock on her desk.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Always forward. Never back.
One step at a time.
~*~