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“Who’s he?”
Mitchell glances up, away from the firing range in time to catch a serious-eyed woman nod in his direction.
“Hm?” Gideon shifts slightly, absently tilting his head towards her without actually taking his eyes off Mitchell. “Oh, the rookie? That’s Mitchell. He’s new, handpicked by Irons,” Gideon catches Mitchell’s eye and adds wryly, “He doesn’t talk much.”
“Good,” the woman says, giving Mitchell an appraising look as she leans against the doorway “You talk enough as it is, Gideon.”
Mitchell can’t stop his lips curving up in a faint smile which he tries to hide. Unsuccessfully, he thinks, if the answering look of amusement on the woman’s face is anything to go by. Gideon rolls his eyes, “Shove off, Ilona. You’re distracting him.”
“Fine,” she says, lips actually quirking up in a small smile, and pushes off the wall to leave. “I was about to go, I have things to do.” Unlike Gideon, stuck handholding the newbie through basic training, is left unsaid. She turns to Mitchell before she leaves, and adds, “I look forward to working with you, Mitchell.”
Mitchell flushes, slightly surprised that she’s actually addressing him, and lets the barrel of his gun drop slightly as he replies, “Thanks. You too.”
She leaves and Gideon jerks his head at him, “Back to work.”
Mitchell nods in acknowledgement, and adjusts his grip on his gun, waiting silently for Gideon to reset the target sequence.
Ilona. He’s seen that name, printed at the top of the leaderboard in all the practice ranges. He wonders if he ever will get to work with her, if he can meet Atlas’s exacting standards. There’s a part of him that’s still stuck on earlier, the training simulation this morning that he screwed up. Well. Not that he screwed up, exactly. That’s the frustrating part. It had been going fine - right up until it hadn’t. He’d handled everything competently, had been this close to success, and then his arm had just. Stopped. Refused to obey his mind’s orders. The memory was bitter. Because it might not have been his fault, but Gideon was right, there was no excuse.
“Mitchell!” Gideon’s voice interrupts, and he jerks upright. The other man gives him a look of mild exasperation. “You ready?” His tone suggests this isn’t the first time he’s had to ask.
Mitchell takes a moment to breathe, and push down on the thoughts, then says steadily, “I’m ready.”
“Not bad, rookie,” Gideon says, clapping him on the shoulder appreciatively.
As praise goes, it’s not much, but it adds to the warm glow of satisfaction filling Mitchell. He might not have knocked Ilona of the leaderboard, but he managed to score a respectable position towards the top end of the leaderboard. Not bad indeed, given that not too long ago he wasn’t sure he’d ever be fit for fieldwork. It’d taken a lot of work, a lot of physical therapy, to be able to use the prosthetic Irons had made for him. But it’s all worth it. He curls his fingers, marvelling again at how easily and intuitively the arm responds to him. Especially since that last adjustment, this morning.
“Thanks,” Mitchell says, accepting the bottle of water Gideon hands to him.
“So you ready for your do-over?” Gideon asks, leaning back against the wall.
“Do you think I’m ready?” Mitchell counters, aware of the way Gideon is still scrutinising him, eyes flickering from his face to his body, like he’s picking Mitchell apart mentally and noting any weakness. He chugs the water while he waits for Gideon to answer, not that he needs an answer. He knows Gideon isn’t sure, knows that Gideon thinks he’s just here because Irons likes him, is sentimental about his dead son’s best friend. Maybe that is why, but Mitchell is going to prove that he’s got what it takes.
“Just don’t fuck it up,” Gideon says finally, “you’ll make me look bad.”
Mitchell smiles a little, aware Gideon is evading the question, but decides not to push it. “Well, we can’t have that.”
“Looks like we have an operator on our hands,” Irons says, staring at Mitchell with the pleasure of someone whose bet has paid off.
Gideon glances at Mitchell, who even flushed with exhilaration as he is, catches the hesitance as the other man says, “He’s getting there, sir.”
So Gideon still isn’t convinced by Mitchell’s performance, no matter that this time he ran the simulation perfectly. It doesn’t matter though, because Irons clearly is.
“He’s ready for some real work. Good job son. Welcome to Atlas.”
Mitchell takes the hand proffered without a second thought. Gideon looks at him, and if he doesn’t approve, at least he stays quiet.