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“You’re kidding me.”
“Wish I was.”
The scowl that crosses the Sergeant’s face is reminiscent of the time some of her fellow rooks in the IMC pranked her by stuffing her locker full of their dirty, sweaty gym socks while she was away on leave. Except, this time, it’s not so much about participating in a publicity stunt as it is about who she’s being forced to attend it with.
“You’re not going to like what they have in mind.” Sunbird keeps her tone level, and her space distant; after all, she’s had to come find Bangalore herself, bearing the bad news. She draws in a deep breath, leaning up against the door frame, and her sigh breaks the silence between them.
“Go on, spit it out already.”
“Fine. They want you and I to…” Another sigh. Laura’s hand reaches up, and her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. “The Syndicate wants us to go together. As in, each other’s dates.” Ugh. Anita’s face still remains as blatantly annoyed, shaking her head. Of course. There’s no doubt that some big-wig among the executive producers and directors decided that something like this would be good for publicity with the media clamoring for each and every Legend to say their piece. Pairing the IMC soldier with the IMC defector makes sense if only to keep them away from any and all kinds of controversy.
Admittedly, Anita hates that she understands the reasoning behind it. Slowly, she rises from the bench, throwing her water bottle in her locker before slamming the door shut. “Great. Guess you’ll come callin’ when you need me for this shit-show, huh?”
Laura’s brows knit together, but her jaw remains taut. Her arms fold across her chest. “You really should check your messages more often, Sergeant.”
Upon Anita’s approach, she pauses in front of the other woman, looking down at her for just a moment before stepping past her, without so much as a glance over the shoulder. “Yeah, sure.”
The hours prior to the event are bustling; make up artists and fashion advisors hired by the Syndicate work to make each Legend look their best, lest they be left to their own devices. Music blares across the drop ship en-route to the city. It’s a cacophonous symphony of various genres, and a known source of headache. Some, who are more consciously aware of their surroundings opt for headphones – and Anita is one them. Sat in a chair with her leg crossed, the stylist carefully cleans up the lines in her undercut, opting to pull back her thick hair into something less military and something more stylish for an evening Gala.
It’s not her first choice. Hell, it’s not her choice at all to participate, but a contract’s a contract.
By the time the ship lands, most of the others are dressed to the nines – suits, dresses, and some combination of both. The biggest wig of the operation – an organizer with a pressed suit and slicked back hair starts ordering everyone around to take their places. The line forms at the ship’s cargo bay doors. A few of the Legends are set together as dates to appease the crowd, mostly to bring up the ratings. It almost makes Anita laugh to see how some of them also look just as uncomfortable as they feel; Silva, in particular, can’t seem to stop fidgeting with his suit pants, much to the chagrin of the designer trying to adjust their length last minute.
When Anita is directed to her place in line, her eyes drift around the cargo bay. From the door, Laura emerges, but not in her usual gear. Instead of a braid, her hair rests over her shoulders, curled and styled to frame her face just right. As for the dress, a stunning shade of red compliments her figure, fitted in all the right places, with a slit in the fabric to her thigh. She makes her way down to the platform and upon closer inspection, her prosthetics have been fitted with heels.
“Gotta give you credit, Bumatay, you clean up well,” Rarer than finding consistent loot in the arena, Anita’s compliments only come when she means them. Laura falls into place beside Anita, and the soldier goes so far as to offer her arm. Might as well make it look genuine for the audience.
“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Williams,” Laura adds, but she begrudgingly slips her bare arm around the taller woman’s as the cargo bay door finally lowers. With a bit of smoke for dramatic effect, the Legends are revealed to a long red carpet and blinding lights of the media circus. The brightness makes Anita squint, minding her step as the procession moves ahead. The crowd clamors at the sight of the more popular Legends, begging for photos and autographs. Anita keeps her gaze focused ahead, but the director’s earlier instruction to ‘be pleasant’ forces out her smile. Beside her, Laura laughs under her breath.
“You really must hate this, hm?” She peers up briefly but maintains her smile as they get bombarded with flashes from the paparazzi. “It’s enjoyable knowing you’re faking it.”
“Yeah, every minute,” Anita says through gritted teeth as they approach the backdrop, littered with a multitude of sponsorship logos. The sense of dread makes it hard to maintain the smile, but like any good soldier, Anita pushes on through the pain.
Finally, they’re ushered away, down the pathway towards the event hall. Warm lights illuminate the windows, and they arrive through large, heavy and ornate doors, guarded by two men on either side. Live music is heard from within – some kind of brassy jazz quartet. The round tables are set evenly apart and from a distance, it’s hard to tell if they have place cards or not.
“Well, this is… something,” Anita says once they’ve made it up the stairs. At the top, Laura drops her arm, surveying the crowd. The other Legends are spread around the room, in between Syndicate representatives, CEOs, and other rich people of the Outlands all here for the sheer entertainment value of forcing blood sport competitors into fancy clothes for an evening.
“Could be worse,” Laura adds. “They could put you in front of that camera, instead of Mirage.”
“Hell no,” Anita retorts sharply; the man in question loves the attention. Lavishes in it, even. “I’d rather shoot myself in the foot. Far less painful.”
“I can make that happen,” Laura teases, but her grin might suggest she’s contemplated it, even for a moment. “If it helps get us out of here, I’ll do it.” The teasing makes Anita lightly roll her eyes, but her laugh is genuine.
“You think I wouldn’t do it to myself?” As Anita walks, they fall into stride. The music resonates throughout the hall with the brass trumpeting a jazzy rhythm as the guests begin to sit down. One of the Syndicate managers directs them to their assigned table but before they get there, a reporter and camera man run in front of them. Their eyes look eager and hungry, ready to get the scoop before everyone else.
“Bangalore! It’s so nice to finally see you out with the rest of the Legends! Now tell us, has the IMC made any attempt to contact you, now that you’re renowned as a Legend throughout the Frontier?”
Immediately, the Sergeant tenses up. Laura casts a glance between her and the reporter, making it a point to move just a little closer. She opts not to take Anita’s arm, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that the soldier’s posture dictates an urgent discomfort.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Anita says plainly, like she’s rehearsed it a hundred times in her head – like a damn drill sergeant at boot camp by upper management who doesn’t want to deal with more drama. The reporter, however, isn’t happy with her answer.
“Oh don’t feed us that line. Tell us the truth, Sergeant: is the IMC lining your pockets to stay in the Games as their Champion? Or wait, better yet, is that you, Sunbird?”
“I said, I’m not at liberty to say,” Anita’s tone turns sharp, and her shoulders square, fists balling at her sides. “Don’t you get what a contract means, dipsh—"
“Listen,” Laura’s hand comes to Anita’s, stepping in between her and the reporter. “There are many rumours, about the both of us, but they are ones that you need not concern yourself with. The IMC hasn’t had its hand in our contracts, and as far as we’re concerned, we’re not the ones to be digging into for the so-called truth. The IMC, as we knew it, no longer exists. Perhaps, and I say this quite seriously, you ought to look into what’s left of the higher ups who retreated and disappeared from existence.”
Laura smiles sweetly to drive the point home, and much to the relief of the panicked manager, she takes Anita by the arm again and leads them away towards their table finally, leaving the reporter aghast for just a few moments before she and her cameraman dash off towards their next target.
Anita lets out a deep sigh when they finally get seated; she adjusts her tie, letting it loosen just enough to be comfortable. Laura tucks her dress in beneath herself, relieved to be hidden away from the pack of reporters. At least the higher ups can’t be mad at them for that – it’s better than previous interviews, at least, since the bar had been rather low from Bangalore’s past “outburst”, as the headlines called it.
“Hey,” Anita begins, head turning to glance at her evening companion. Her easy smile follows. “Thanks for that back there. You got a lot more patience than I do.”
“It was either that or have them be breathing down your neck again for –”
“Look, you two, that was… enough media for you,” Mr. Big Wig makes his unexpected return, leaning between the two women with his hands on the backs of their chairs. He seems stressed. “Stay away from the reporters. I don’t care what you do. Hell, go get drunk if you want. Just… stay away.”
Anita casts a glance between Big Wig and Laura and forces herself to bury her laugh. “Got it, Boss.”
When he leaves, Anita lets her laughter loose. Laura finds it hard not to smile back at her, even just a little bit. Despite the forced situation, it’s endearing to see the real Anita shine through – not hiding behind the veneer of the IMC soldier. It’s endearing.
Eventually, their meals arrive, brought out by waiters and even some of the kitchen staff. The dishes are served with a mixed array of local flora and fauna – meats and vegetables, cooked to perfection. Most of the options are common choices, with a bit of that Outlands flair for the locals. Settling into their meal, Anita begins to relax with the way her shoulders lower, and she leans back in her chair.
“Would it be too much if I offered to get us a first round of drinks?” Anita asks out of the blue and between bites, Laura pauses. It isn’t beyond Anita to offer; the public makes her out to be detached or cold-hearted, but it couldn’t be more untrue.
Drinks, if anything, will make the evening go by faster.
“That’s kind of you,” Laura responds at last. “Do I have to remind you what I like, or do you remember?”
“You think I’d forget?” Anita’s lips curl back into a cheeky grin. Of course, the open bar means that no one’s paying a damn dime, but the gesture still has the same sentiment behind it. She puts her fork and knife to her plate once she’s finished and excuses herself to head to the bar in the middle of the dining hall. The line is, unsurprisingly, already long, but eventually she gets their order – a whiskey on the rocks in one hand, and a classic pina colada in the other. On the way back to their table, the jazz band seems to have been replaced by a DJ booth on the nearby dance floor, where more of the audacious attendees are already dancing.
“Took you long enough,” Laura chides, though she does it with a smile, accepting her drink from Anita, raising the straw to her lips. The plates have long been cleared, along with the other guests.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It seems like everyone needs a little somethin’ to get through tonight,” Whiskey hits Anita’s tongue and she lets the bitter liquor linger. Under the dimmed lights, the cut and tailored suit she wears has a bit of sparkle within its red material.
“I don’t necessarily blame them for wanting to let loose,” Laura says finally, tracing the condensation on her glass with her fingers. “Most of us don’t get opportunities like this.”
“Neither do I.” Even with the change in lighting, Laura still looks the part of a hot date but admitting that out loud might require a few more drinks. Instead, Anita falls quiet and they both return to people watching. Eventually a waiter comes and goes with their empty glasses, bringing back another round of drinks, and later, one more, for good measure.
“Y’know, you look good,” Anita finally breaks their longstanding silence, over the sound of the growing dance floor crowd. The thought was there before the whiskey got involved, but now it feels easier to talk, to forgo their grievances, even if only for a night. “Red’s really your colour.”
“Flatterer,” Laura shoots back without missing a beat, but her comfortable smile softens any of the sharpness her tone may have had. “I didn’t think you’d let them dress you so… boldly. Maybe you should wear bright suits more often,” She fiddles with the straw in her nearly empty cocktail glass. They share another look, but the waiter with his inopportune timing interrupts when he comes to take their glasses away, and when he asks if they’d like another, both women shake their heads. Too much indulgence can only lead to messy mistakes, maybe even disaster if they’re not careful.
While the dancefloor is packed and crowded with the well-dressed party goers, it’s clear that some of the attendees have vacated the premises entirely. Feeling warm in her face and in her gut, Anita finally pushes herself back from the table, stretching out her long legs and rolling her shoulders before standing up. The room isn’t spinning for her, but it’s close.
Laura busies herself for a moment to check her phone, but the time is blurry; turns out, sitting and drinking doesn’t feel too bad until trying to stand up. Almost like a newborn deer on long, uncoordinated legs, Laura stumbles just a bit when she first gets back to her feet.
“Easy,” Anita instinctually reaches out with her hand to steady Laura at her back, and immediately, her hand finds Anita’s upper arm.
Woah.
“I’m fine,” Laura says after she gets her bearings, moving a few steps so she’s beside Anita, taking her arm again for balance more than just formality. Anita adjusts her hold for a moment to tuck in their chairs rather haphazardly, slowing beginning the long walk across the hall.
“Hey,” Anita says as they pass the dancefloor. “You uh, wanna get the hell outta here?” The suggestion comes easily, rolls off the tongue without even a second thought. Laura’s fingers gently tap against Anita’s bicep, tilting her head back to look up at her date.
“Where did you think I was going?” She laughs – though it turns into more of a drunken giggle. “I wasn’t gonna make you dance with me.”
“Oh c’mon, I’m not drunk enough for that,” Anita quips in return. “I was gonna say my uh, apartment’s not that far. Might be nice to get out into the fresh air.”
“If that’s a pickup line, ‘Nita, I’m a little disappointed,” Laura’s face remains serious for only a few seconds before her mock frown breaks into a wide smile. “You’ve got more game than that, don’t ya?”
“Y’know it,” She says with that sudden air of confidence, but it’s hard not to laugh with the way that Laura looks up at her, all expectantly but still with that wide, contagious smile. “You just gotta gimme a chance.”
“Oh, I will,” Laura’s lips purse together as they near the entrance of the hall. “In fact,” She draws out, peering up at her evening date. “I’ll hold you to it,” She laughs again, like that giggle that only being a little too drunk brings out. Anita can’t help but laugh again as she keeps Laura upright; it isn’t too hard, though their closeness makes their walk a slow, ambulatory one.
“Heh, good one,” Anita quips in return. “Holdin’s easy enough. How ‘bout… sweepin’ you off your feet?”
“Oh, don’t try it now. You’ll drop me!”
“Wouldn’t plan on it, beautiful. Like I said,” Anita gestures with her free hand. “Gimme a chance.”
“If you keep insisting…” Laura is still all smiles as her hand pats Anita’s bicep. “I might just have to.”
Eventually, they make their way down the stairs and out to the streets. The nighttime air offers a great reprieve after spending hours in the same hall with hundreds of people. Out of habit, Anita loosens her tie. She keeps her suit jacket unbuttoned, and the pair fall in stride – at least, as best they can – walking close together, along the pavement. Solace is lawless, and while the crooks tend to stay away with all of the Syndicate’s security near the event, the streets are fair game. Drunk or not, Anita keeps herself aware of their surroundings – a soldier’s habit.
“How much farther? I’m dying to take my heels off,” Laura jokes once again, earning another bout of subtle laughter from the Sergeant. Eventually, they finally arrive at the apartment complex.
“You want another drink?” Anita’s voice carries across the nearly empty expanse of her apartment; it’s a simple one-bedroom unit, decorated only with the bare essentials, and hardly anything resembling personal effects. Very spartan to the core.
“Just water, please,” Laura calls back, minding her way to the couch. The walk wasn’t very far, but the evening and the alcohol have finally gotten the better of her. Finding respite in the comfort of a quiet, private place is quite welcomed. Laura kicks her heels off – the choice had been a compromise with the dress team; something that was both functional with her prosthetics but matched her dress. She had done well for the most part, but high heels still took a toll on her like anyone else.
Eventually, Anita returns from the kitchen, bringing a glass of water in each hand before sitting down right beside Laura. Since Anita disappeared from sight, she had since taken off her suit jacket, along with the tie, undoing the top two buttons of her dress shirt, revealing just the slightest hint of cleavage beneath it. Anita’s relaxed posture makes her look incredibly comfortable, even with unexpected company.
“So… I’m fine with never having to do that again,” Anita says with a sigh as she leans further back into the comfort of the sofa. The walk had been only somewhat sobering, and that happy buzz lingers in her lazy smile in Laura’s direction. The two of them with pair up like outcasts with the drama and controversy surrounding their every move. It’s fitting to be stuck together, suffering through every odd and end of their Legend contracts at the Syndicate’s behest.
“You got into it. Some might even say you’ve had some practice. Or…” Laura draws out over the rim of her glass. “You had a helping hand to keep the media from tearing you limb from limb, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the one who sweet talks’em to death, and I say it like it is,” Out of habit, Anita reaches for the TV remote, absent-mindedly flicking between a few channels before she finds some late night movie that acts as nothing but background noise.
“Just admit it, ‘Nita, I saved your ass. You owe me,” Laura’s grin widens as she sets the glass down on the side table, turning herself to face Anita, propping her elbow on the top of the sofa, and resting her head in her hand. “Would it kill you to say it, just once, hm?”
“Fine,” Anita sighs dramatically – she’s just playing it up. “You did damn good. Better than me. Happy?”
“Mm, less sarcasm and a little more enthusiasm, but… thank you.” Laura’s hand reaches out to touch Anita’s knee – a bold move made with the undue influence of the rum in her system. Her fingers lightly brush over the material. Smiles and glances are cast at one another while the banal plot of the movie plays on, but it isn’t enough to draw their attention away from each other.
“Hey,” Anita whispers under her breath, adjusting her posture to rest her arm across the back of the couch – acting as an invitation. “C’mere, I wanna tell you somethin’.”
“What?” Laura’s brows knit but she can’t deny her curiosity and the draw of Anita’s low, suggestive voice. They’re closer now than ever before, and Laura’s heartbeat quickens when Anita’s other hand lightly grasps her chin.
“May I?” Anita’s husky whisper preludes the way she closes the space between them, waiting only for confirmation, but it comes when Laura leans into the kiss first. Lingering rum and whiskey on their breath meet in a cautionary embrace; Anita’s hand cups Laura’s cheek and Laura’s arm slips around Anita’s waist. The sudden blush in Laura’s cheeks brings back the heat and warmth from the alcohol, but they only part after a long embrace, in need of breath. Anita starts to say something but instead, Laura moves herself closer to the taller woman, decidedly resting her head on her shoulder, content. The Sergeant smiles regardless, letting her arm rest over Laura. She said what she had said, and meant it, even under the influence – whiskey only makes her more honest.
Dawn comes and sunshine peeks through slated blinds. Anita is usually up with the sunrise, save for a few rare occasions. What isn’t usual, of course, is the warmth at her side. A mess of soft brown hair tickles her cheek. The reality check hits her, but Anita stays in place. Her neck is stiff and her limbs sore from falling asleep on the couch. Eventually, she feels a stir beside her and Laura wakes with a small yawn and stretch, stopping when she feels the other woman still wrapped up around her.
“Mornin’ sunshine.”
“Morning,” Laura says softly before she turns her head away from the incoming sunlight. Her headache isn’t that bad, but the light is too much. It makes Anita chuckle, though her voice is a little hoarse. Neither woman intends to move right away, though Laura sits herself up a little more, and Anita takes her arm back, rubbing her hand along where it aches.
Even as a slightly hungover mess from the night prior, the way that the sunlight illuminates Laura’s features makes her look stunning.
Living up to her name after all.
“You uh, want me to make you a coffee?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
Anita remains on the couch for another moment; in the mess of entangled limbs and hungover minds, their slept in formal wear is wrinkled and worn out. Wardrobe will certainly be after them. Eventually, Anita gets up and stretches out her back before making her way to the kitchen to put the coffee pot on.
Gradually, Laura pulls on the heels again and fixes her hair back into a quick braid, meandering into the kitchen where Anita has pulled out two mugs, cream and sugar, sat down at the table waiting for the tell tale beep of the machine.
“I can’t imagine wardrobe’s gonna be too happy about all these wrinkles,” Anita comments, looking between the state of her dress shirt and Laura’s evening gown as she sits down beside her.
“Nothing a little ironing can’t fix,” Laura adds, and her brows knit together when she notices a bit of red tinge to the corner of Anita’s mouth. Reaching for a napkin from its holder on the table, she reaches out to the soldier. “You got a little something here,” She states, focusing on gently wiping away any remnant of her lipstick. They linger on one another again, until the brewer finishes with a loud ding.
“Heh, thanks. Got my back again for the second time in twenty-four hours. Guess I couldn’t have asked for a better… date, huh?”
“Mm. Any time you need your ass covered, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah,” Anita says, finally standing up to pour their coffees. Even with her back turned, she’s unable to stop smiling. She turns around with mugs in each hand. “I do know. Maybe you oughta come with me to dinner sometime. Just to have my back.”
Laura laughs softly as she takes her coffee, spoon clinking against the ceramic. “Just in case?”
“Just in case.”