Chapter Text
“Miss Holly Holiday!”
Holly smiled curtly as she approached the man, more focused on the gargantuan steel dome behind him. “Colonel Cross.”
He sidled over to her, his mouth sliding into a wolfish grin. There was a mischievous air about him. “The legend herself. Glad to have you aboard,” Wilbur Cross drawled, holding out his hand. She shook it firmly, and his eyes widened. He laughed. “Woo! That’s a firm grip you got there, Holiday.” He nodded, pointing at her in approval. “That’s good. That’s good. Don’t want people thinkin’ you’re soft.”
She gave him a poker face. “People here think I’m soft?” she asked with a tone of mild interest.
He shook his head. “Well, not soft, exactly.” He shrugged. “Just different, that’s all. Your position here is certainly…unprecedented.”
She ignored this and said nothing else, only adjusted the strap that carried her guitar case, as the latch of the dome’s metal trapdoor was flung open by some invisible force and the two of them climbed down into an underground tunnel. She paused to take in the space. It was dark and cavernous, and an odd white mist flirted with the white steel walls, dancing around them and disappearing into gaps. A shiny, black tiled floor stretched out in front of her and the colonel. She could hear faint echoes in the distance.
“So,” Wilbur said with a smirk, gesturing at the heavy case slung over her shoulder, “you come here to cast spells, or to play your little guitar for us?”
A small smile crept onto Holly’s lips. She turned to the man, playing along, ready to banter then brush him off. “You’re pretty informal for a military man.”
He raised an eyebrow and shrugged, tapping his hands on his belt as he strode along beside her. “Just bein’ friendly.”
“As you know, Colonel, I’m here to help people with my music.”
“Miss Holiday, I do. And I would never suggest anything less.”
Holly turned away, and for a moment, the two of them walked in silence. It was cold in the tunnel, she noticed; she was glad she’d worn her favorite baggy jean jacket. The jacket that had belonged to Celia, her ex-girlfriend and bandmate, that she’d given to Holly as a parting gift before she left. The jacket she’d always worn when she recorded songs.
Colonel Cross broke the silence, pointing at her guitar. “How long you been playin’ that thing, Miss Holiday?”
She looked up wistfully. “I knew I wanted to play guitar the moment I saw one,” she said, gazing in front of her as if there was an invisible audience there. Wilbur leaned his head to the side, watching her with interest.
“Mhm…when did you first see one?”
“1982. I’m from-” she caught herself. “…a long time ago. I was a nobody then, new in town and hangin’ around the local music shop, when I saw this gorgeous red Fender. And something about it just called out to me.” She pondered this. “But you know, when I released my first album in ‘85… that’s when I actually fell in love with it. I realized how much I loved performing, having an audience know my songs. How happy it made them…the fame was just a bonus. I was gonna keep going, but-” Holly stopped herself again, remembering where she was, and that she was telling this to a near-stranger who could potentially make or break this new job of hers. She chose her next words carefully. “...Certain events happened, and…” She looked at him again with a rueful smile. “...here I am.”
He nodded slowly, his face softer now, more sincere. His expression radiated curiosity, but he didn’t pry. “Huh,” he said. “That’s mighty interesting.” He paused, that smirk sliding up his face again. “Mighty vague, too. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hiding something.”
She laughed, crossing her arms coyly. “Well, that’s a bold statement. I don’t owe you my secrets, Colonel Cross.”
They reached the metal double doors of the entrance of PEIP Headquarters, which seemed to open of their own accord the moment Holly’s eyes landed on them. Pleased with herself, she made her way in as Wilbur Cross watched her with amusement. He chuckled softly.
“We’ll see about that.”