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Entry tags:
mountain climbing
The whole job was a mess.
Miles finds himself stuck in the basement of a Jacksonian corporate building, the lift he'd used to arrive collapsed behind him and groaning shrilly with the sound of steel sliding against concrete as it settles. Dust clouds the air. Someone had cut the cable, someone prepared, because cutting industrial grade, ten centimeter lift cable took malice aforethought. You didn't have those kinds of bolt cutters just lying around.
He eyes the jammed lift doors grimly. No sense waiting here to be cornered. Turning immediately to leave, Miles searches through the surrounding rooms with all the urgency of trapped prey. They'd succeeded in separating him from his escort, and however frantic Taura was upstairs and outside, even her formidable strength would be no use. Miles has his combat armor and a plasma arc and a stunner-- the stunner he has out at the ready-- and his now useless command helmet, the meters of concrete and dirt between him and the surface cutting him off more effectively than any communications jammer. They'd planned this, oh yes. They'd planned this very well.
When he finds what he presumes is a laundry dumb waiter in the laundry room, he stares at it and sighs. Once again, his tiny frame is going to get him out of a situation with a method that he wouldn't be able to use if he were a normal person. Obviously if they've cut the elevator they'll be attempting to herd him toward the stairs, or at least trying to enclose him somewhere he'd be backed into making a desperate, futile last stand. With this dumb waiter, he doesn't have to do either.
Grumbling to himself about the unfairness of being stuck in vents or vent-like spaces again, Miles slaps the button for the uppermost floor available-- best to get as far away as possible; he can get an emergency pick up from the roof if necessary, and they certainly won't be anticipating that-- and clambers in. He just barely fits, yanking a last foot out of the way before the hatch closes and the box starts to crawl upward. Miles hurriedly checks that the safeties are engaged on both his weapons and settles in for what is sure to be several minutes of claustrophobic tedium.
He has no idea where he'll be coming out. It sends a little thrill of excitement through him, actually.
Miles finds himself stuck in the basement of a Jacksonian corporate building, the lift he'd used to arrive collapsed behind him and groaning shrilly with the sound of steel sliding against concrete as it settles. Dust clouds the air. Someone had cut the cable, someone prepared, because cutting industrial grade, ten centimeter lift cable took malice aforethought. You didn't have those kinds of bolt cutters just lying around.
He eyes the jammed lift doors grimly. No sense waiting here to be cornered. Turning immediately to leave, Miles searches through the surrounding rooms with all the urgency of trapped prey. They'd succeeded in separating him from his escort, and however frantic Taura was upstairs and outside, even her formidable strength would be no use. Miles has his combat armor and a plasma arc and a stunner-- the stunner he has out at the ready-- and his now useless command helmet, the meters of concrete and dirt between him and the surface cutting him off more effectively than any communications jammer. They'd planned this, oh yes. They'd planned this very well.
When he finds what he presumes is a laundry dumb waiter in the laundry room, he stares at it and sighs. Once again, his tiny frame is going to get him out of a situation with a method that he wouldn't be able to use if he were a normal person. Obviously if they've cut the elevator they'll be attempting to herd him toward the stairs, or at least trying to enclose him somewhere he'd be backed into making a desperate, futile last stand. With this dumb waiter, he doesn't have to do either.
Grumbling to himself about the unfairness of being stuck in vents or vent-like spaces again, Miles slaps the button for the uppermost floor available-- best to get as far away as possible; he can get an emergency pick up from the roof if necessary, and they certainly won't be anticipating that-- and clambers in. He just barely fits, yanking a last foot out of the way before the hatch closes and the box starts to crawl upward. Miles hurriedly checks that the safeties are engaged on both his weapons and settles in for what is sure to be several minutes of claustrophobic tedium.
He has no idea where he'll be coming out. It sends a little thrill of excitement through him, actually.
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This isn't the first she's heard them in all her damn years here (the far, far too many) and she knows it won't be the last. Too much is done here on a need-to-know basis and those far above the pay grade of the man that commissioned her creation didn't like her knowing a whole lot. It had only been in recent years she'd been deemed trustworthy enough to step into the rank of armed guard, primarily for said creator and his labs, and it was turning out to be better work. More fulfilling and the weight of armor on her body and a gun in her hands is one of comforting familiarity.
She's listening for orders through her headpiece and glances back towards the labs behind her. The doors are secured, nothing's going to get in there at least which means her asshole of a creator might survive whatever is assaulting the building. While her rifle is at the ready, it isn't until she hears the noise of the laundry dumb waiter at the end of the hall that she switches the safety off. They aren't due for anything to be returned to them, the last load of materials that needed to be clean sent down only briefly before the alarms went off. Does that mean...?
Rifle aimed and ready to be fired when it opens, she quickly approaches and slams on the button to bring the dumb waiter to a stop at her floor.
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His eyes have adjusted to the darkness and he has to blink rapidly to see the menacing, armored form aiming at him. He instantly raises his hands up, empty, the stunner left at his side and the plasma arc, the deadly option of the two, still holstered. In his custom-fitted battle armor and the rank insignia of an admiral on his command helmet, beside the Dendarii stars-above-a-mountain, there's no mistaking that he isn't a lost, gnomish caretaker. It's too bad. Playing like he was stupid and bullied into the dumb waiter and this merc his unwitting rescue would be an easy out.
"I'm coming out," he says quickly, voice soothing. "Don't shoot. I'll give you my weapons." Miles knows this game, knows her weapon is a deadly one and at this range, despite his armor, deadly to him. Oh no, he can't die now. He has far too much to do.
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"Against the wall," she orders. She takes a step back to give him the space to get out of the dumb waiter and there's no way in hell her gun is training on anything but him, even as her eyes are trying to get a glimpse of the space he's leaving. Nothing left behind in there and she motions towards the ground.
"Put your weapons down first. Name?"
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Miles slides out of the little metal box with some relief and lands adroitly on his feet. "Naismith, Dendarii Free Mercenaries," he answers, forcing his nerves down as he places his stunner on the ground and removes his plasma arc to join it. Until she'd spoken, he'd had no idea his discoverer was a woman, and it makes his respect go up a notch. All the most terrifying people he knows are women.
He's obviously done this dance before as he straightens up and backs toward the wall, hands up and empty. At his full height, Miles isn't quite 4'10", and he's a skinny bastard for all that, all of his bulk provided by the armor. "And you?" Miles's favorite weapon is his tongue and he goes on speaking, searching for a chink in her defense already. "What's your name? What are you doing up here, out of the main action, eh?"
The reception is returning to his radio, inside the helmet. Fortunately for Miles, his top of the line command helmet is activated by eye movements, so there's no physical trace of it as he mutes the radio and activates the tracking receiver in his suit. Dendarii should be en route momentarily.
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"My name doesn't matter. I work here," she answers dryly. She motions for him to turn around as she moves his weapons farther away with a kick of her foot. If he has cronies, this isn't the best place to be should they come knocking. The labs aren't either, but there's a security room one farther into the floor that would work fine and keep any potential fire fights away from the lab rats.
Dr. Church hasn't pinged her on her HUD yet and she's not sure what to think about that. Normally he gets antsy when she's away from the lab this long, even with a building-wide emergency taking place. He can track her easily from the gear she's been given and that'll have to do for now. He can have his update on her status once this Naismith is secured.
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"So you're a security guard?" he asks, brain whizzing along, thinking of possibilities. "Does that mean you're not particularly attached to your, ah, employers...?"
Miles has recruited in far worse circumstances. And it's usually turned out excellently. This has nothing on the time he'd found his first jump ship pilot while drugged, drunk, and trying to kill himself. The pilot, not Miles, though Miles himself had shortly become drunk in the process...
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"It wasn't my first choice of employment," she replies and attempts to push him in the direction of the security room. It's a ways off and she isn't interested in standing around while he tries to chit-chat. "You better have a helluva offer if that's what's about to come out of your mouth next."
Though she has to admit, anything that got her out of being cooped up here would be tempting. She glances towards the entrance to the labs as they walk by, frowning beneath her helmet.
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He pounces on that opening immediately. To Miles, that's practically an engraved invitation. "Oh, I do, I do. Last time I picked up a woman who could break me with one hand, I started her at Sergeant. And I promise to double whatever you're making right now." If that's an exorbitant amount, well, he'll eat it somehow. The accountants are always exasperated with him anyway; what's one thing more?
"I'm the admiral," he adds helpfully, since she'll figure that out the second she looks closely enough at his rank tabs. "I have authority to make whatever offers I want."
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"And how do I know you aren't going to have me skinned once you're back with your people?" He's a stranger after all and he doesn't exactly have the upper hand. She's found in this job that the amount of shit someone will say when faced with potential death is great.
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For all that he'd gotten that position through lying, he isn't lying now. Miles lies for his benefit but not to harm others-- not unless they've proven themselves a danger to him. And he isn't certain she is a danger yet, so he's certainly not lying now.
"Mm, that is tricky, isn't it," he says thoughtfully, accepting the demand. He could say that he has back up en route right now, so he isn't as beholden to her as she thinks, but that would remove his advantage and he can't be sure she will flip. "I suppose you can't know. Not very reassuring, but anything else I could say would be a lie." Miles shrugs as he walks. "It really isn't the first time we've done this, though. All of my best came from unorthodox recruitment methods.
"In the end, the real question you have to ask yourself... Is if getting out of here is worth the risk."
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She stops and casts another glance towards the entrance to the labs. No one's coming out or looking for her. Yet. This could be her one chance.
"Grab your weapons. We're getting the hell out of here."
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He hurriedly accepts his weapons back and checks the lethal one, the plasma arc again, with military efficiency and precision. All of a sudden, he sounds extremely chipper, like he's out for a jaunt.
"We should head up. I signaled backup to give me a pick up and make its way down."
If he didn't have his helmet on, she could've seen the fierce grin that accompanies those words, but it's audible nonetheless. He hadn't been nearly as helpless as he'd let her believe-- and mostly, he's pointing it out here to say, see, I'm an excellent commander, you want to work for me.
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Her eyes aren't leaving him and while her gun isn't trained on him anymore, she's ready to point it right back at a moment's notice. He's not incompetent, that much is clear to her from the way he's handling his plasma arc. This could still be a trap, but going with him is better than sticking it out here.
"Why are you here?" she demands, though she's heading towards the fastest way she knows to get up the building. Security clearance is a beautiful thing.
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His regained confidence (if he ever lost it) probably doesn't help with dispelling that this is a trap. Even though it isn't. "Contract," he assures her. "Jacksonian moguls are never lacking in enemies. If you go through with signing up, then you can find out who our employer is." Bad policy to go shouting it all over a building that almost certainly has security monitoring.
He follows after her at a rapid clip, no matter that she's over a full foot taller than him. Miles keeps up with Taura on a regular basis-- and he'd never let his injuries slow him down before that, either.
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"As soon as we're in transit out of here, I want all the details. If I don't like your terms, you're taking me to a port of my choice." No negotiation on that front. If this is her one ticket out of here, she's holding onto it and taking what she can get. Too bad she can't get a free ship out of this.
"Agreed?"
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Once they're inside the elevator, there's bound to be at least thirty seconds of immobility, which Miles doesn't take well to. His foot is tapping and he's peering at her keenly through his visor, wondering continuously what she looks like out of armor. And what she's like out of armor, period. Maybe she's not any different at all, but he's still curious.
"So, my new-found accomplice, you haven't told me your name."
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"You can have it if I decide to sign on with you." It's better that way. If she has to run from him too she'd rather be anonymous. "You said you were Naismith, right?"