Collateral Damage (Closed)

[Apollo Wilde]

For most people, the island chain of Pèl Peyi was a virtual paradise: white, black, and the occasional green sand beach, crystalline waters that ranged from aquamarine to the most royal velvet blue, dense jungles that flanked long dormant volcanoes shrouded in mist and wispy clouds. The history of the islands was nowhere near as pleasant - a long line of conquest and genocides, enslavement and liberty. Tourists were never concerned with the puppet governments, the weak and inefficient politicians. Well, not for the most part: not until a president was “democratically elected” that was an ally that made the islands, a paradise of times past before various trade embargoes and hostilities closed the borders for decades, open for travel again. Then, it became the “It” spot, and the islands began to flourish, growing fat on tourism dollars - both ecological, and, quiet as it was kept, sexual tourism. Not quite as steeped in the grimy neon of Thailand or the sleepy hedonism of Jamaica, it was a playground for those with money, and had enough rich infrastructure of centuries past to have still clung to the allure of better, brighter days, and show that it had enough of a will to claw its way back to those good times. Such a nice place, then, so catering and welcoming and warm to the crowds, that it was all too easy to forget that there was a military base, stationed on the outskirts of the capitol city on the main island.

Vet Bijou was the largest of the islands, the pearl of the proverbial necklace (a crescent moon chain in the southern oceans) - set dead center, flanked by two smaller islands on either side. A true island, it was still the most accessible: by air and by sea, and easily enough traversed from end to end in a sturdy jeep. It was roughly hours to travel from end to end, though it was rumored that it could be done in 18 hours if the weather was clear and the driver kept their foot glued to the gas pedal. The capitol, Bote Monte, gained its name from being directly in the shadow of the largest mountain on any of the islands, Nwa Deyès. It was only natural that the largest city would have started in the fertile and verdant valley beneath. The capital kept the finer bones of a distant colonial past, painted over with the conveniences of a modern world. High speed internet and delivery drivers moved in and out of buildings that looked like they were out of a storybook.

The military base, the unimaginatively named Fort Green, was a 45 minute drive away from the capitol - close enough to give the illusion of recreation off the base. Like the capitol itself, the base had started life as some sort of grand mansion, or something close to it, centuries back, but over the years, had been repurposed into barracks and air conditioned white buildings without too much character in the middle of the jungle. “One last stop before civilization ended entirely,” was how it was referred to - past the base, after all, was the expanse of jungle, preserved under wide net of “National Parks” and “Wildlife” somethings or the other. Not that there was much complaining on the base: Fort Green didn’t need to be any bigger, and the parks offered that much more for the soldiers to do on their leave.

Not like Mahalo “Doc” Vaughn knew the ins and outs of the island - this one or any of the four others. It felt like it had just been yesterday (though it was more like 6 months) that she’d been transferred here: out of the “battlefield”, as it were, and into the “cush” dwellings. It was no secret that many would have given “their left nut”, as it was heartily exclaimed to her, to be stationed here. Vet Bijou was the place; the place where lifers pulled every string, called in every favor, to wind down their service. Rules were lax, rest and recreation was the name of the game, no matter what. Work was done, of course, but could it even be called work in the middle of this place? Gorgeous. And really, Mahalo couldn’t fault them for that. When she stepped out of her barracks and inhaled the night air, perfumed with the fragrance of thousands of unseen flowers, heard the call of nightbirds, the distant roar of waterfalls, the way that the island fell into a natural silence into the dead of night, it hardly seemed that she was punished.

But that’s what it was.

She couldn’t forget it, no matter how leisurely her mornings were, no matter how friendly both her staff and the locals were (and genuinely friendly to boot - mutely impressed with her rank in combination with her race and gender), no matter how many cups of tea she had on her back patio, that this was a punishment. A punishment from a benevolent higher up, but one all the less. Sure, she still toured her hospitals, got to check on soldiers, but the ones she was allowed to see were dutifully handpicked, ones who were content to the gills, because recouping here in the “Big Green,” as they also called it, meant that there was a ticket back to the States, and that meant the end of active duty. She couldn’t fault them there. And getting to talk to them was always a joy, to endure the fun ribbing and pranks that they could only play in the relaxed island atmosphere. And maybe she would have been able to handle it, if it hadn’t been for yet another change of plans.

15 years of service. 15 years of unfailing, unflinching service. From being shot at in the sky to grasping the hands of men younger than her, the night sky illuminated by the haunting ghost light of tracers, fumbling for her pack, trying to reassure the wounded while she was panicking and her bladder threatened to explode to this - a glorified baby-sitting mission. Was it because she was a woman? Was it because she was black - and had overstepped some invisible line, pushed through some boundary that she wasn’t supposed to? Could she have only gone so far? She knew she was the envy of the few girlfriends she had, scattered to the corners of the world, that they considered it a reward. That she had a post that she could coast on for the rest of her life. But they hadn’t heard about this: she’d been too ashamed to say it out loud once she’d gotten her orders. Read them over. Tried to tamp back the hot tears that sprang to her eyes, the tears she kept for only absolute privacy.

15 years of service to babysit.

___

The day of her new assignment, she’d woken up at her usual time. Showered, listening to the news tell her of life a memory away. Pulled back her locked hair into its usual formal, tight bun. All things, mechanically performed, seeing herself in the mirror without really looking. It wasn’t until she was applying her perfume that the reality set in. For all of the formality of her uniform, of the patches on her shoulders, she wasn’t a real doctor. Medical training hadn’t resulted in the coveted “M.D.” after her name, and with this new assignment, the possibility of following up with her interrupted studies was all the more remote. It stung. How she managed to choke down breakfast, the bitter coffee, was a mystery to her. It felt that one moment she’d been in her room, the next in the mess hall, trying to make sense of the day’s headline and nudging around her tasteless hash browns from one side of her tray to the other.

“What’s up, Doc?” The friendly voice of the cook, a middle-aged man with an accent that she was still unable to place. The running bet this week was somewhere from the former Soviet Bloc, and was a sleeper agent from an era past. Despite his robust voice, he was deceptively thin, with brown eyes that may have been more vivid in the past, but looked like the color drained out of them. “Washed out” would have been a good way to describe him: with the exception of his hair, dyed so heavy a black that it seemed more like a helmet than actual hair. He was friendly enough, and had always tried to get Mahalo to talk (and didn’t tease her about her name - even after 15 years in the service, it still raised eyebrows in polite company, a hard laugh and “you’re kidding” among the grunts), which was something she wasn’t…really known to do. Not quite mean or cold enough to be a “hard ass” by Marine standards, but not quite personable enough to be on the same level as the more chatty nurses. An anomaly, maybe, but not one that was met with hostility. A “Oh, that’s just how Doc is,” from her patients, who universally adored her.

“Mmm, just a change of plans, it would seem, Zero,” she pushed aside her tray. Those hash browns weren’t going to get any less greasy and limp.

The cook’s merry expression fell. “Some bum, he hurt you? You want me to stab him? Got good knife. Good chef’s knife. Separate skin from muscle like fft!” a distinct slashing motion from one of his thin hands. A laugh from her, before she shook her head in the negative.

“Better use those knives on today’s lunch. Irene from nursing said something about fish?”

“Fresh caught,” he nodded in the affirmative, “This place, so beautiful. So full of life.”

“Life just ripe to be caught and served to us, right?” A knowing grin as she stood up, picking her tray up. “I’ll see you at lunch, Zero.”

“Oh, yeah, hey, Doc?”

“Hm?”

“Smile, yeah? You’re never fully dressed without one.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind.” And as much as she wanted to scowl, she found herself mustering a small grin. He always managed to cheer her up.

____

It was with the memory of that smile that she approached the door to the IT center. It was one of the few places on the base that had (and allowed) for civilians. Most were contractors; a rotating cast of faces that would swap out every few months or years. She supposed that, much like her comrades, for these contractors, being stationed at Fort Green was more a vacation than actual work: a plum assignment.

Maybe ‘babysitting’ is an uncharitable term.

And maybe pigs will come flying out of my ass.

She bit down on the last crunch of bitterness, hoping that she could pull it together before she entered the room. She’d only been to the IT center once in the 6 months she’d been here - and that was part of the introductory tour. From what she remembered, it was a stuffy, dark room that never got any natural sunlight or air. Maybe that had changed.

She grasped the handle, turned, and stepped in.

At 5’6, Mahalo was decidedly average in height, even with the minor boost of her low navy heels. She was, however, beyond striking in her formal dress blues - something that wasn’t lost on her. Her uniform was tailored to nothing less of perfection, every button, seam and crease in place. It off-set the warm brown of her skin, making it look luminous and creamy against the white of her dress shirt, the knee-length skirt revealing well-toned calves, hidden behind sheer pantyhose. There was an air of World War II formality about her; it could have been the hint of good cheer, of a “can do!” attitude that was lurking in her dark eyes, a smile that didn’t quite make it to her mouth, but was just waiting for the right comment to coax it all the way out. Or maybe it was the simple symmetry of her face - a heart shape with plump, almost childish cheeks that had the hint of dimples, poked just so on either side of the wide mouth. In a neutral position, those lips had a downward turn, not so much of disapproval, but elegant lines swooped downward, the wings of a bird prepared to fly. Dark brown eyes, dark enough to appear almost black from a distance. A high, round forehead, naturally full brows, thicker towards the bridge of her nose. A cheery face that seemed decidedly at odds with the brain that resided within it.

“Good morning, gentleman,” she started, that hint of a smile playing, “I’m Second Lieutenant Mahalo Vaughn," a pause, more words wanting to tumble out. A twist of sourness, pushing back a secret, a slip of anger, then, as quickly as it'd happened, it was gone, replaced by that unflappable cheeriness. “And yes, ‘Mahalo’ is my actual name, to cut down on the questions before they even start. My mother wanted to travel, and originally, I was going to be named ‘Hawaii’ - but someone told her that ‘Mahalo’ was something they said a lot in Hawaii. She liked the sound of that better, and so ‘Mahalo’ stuck. Now,” a prim folding of her hands in front of her skirt, “I’m to be your point of contact here on the base - basically, to answer any questions that you may have.” Dulcet voice, crisp little throaty number.

A pause. Uncomfortable in its awkwardness, the realization that the sunny shiny Valentine face was skin deep. Not that there was a hint of emptiness, of a bubble-brain behind it - but that it was just the way her face was crafted, a clever “gotcha!” at the hands of some bemused Creator. A hiccup of genes. Her eyes were the real tell - shrewd, sharp. Calculating in a quiet way, the gaze of a big cat surveying the land in front of them.

“Any questions?” Silent had gotten too much for her to bear - not comfortable enough with being the object of scrutiny.

 

[ManlyUsername]

He pulled down on the sides of his cheeks, drawing his face into a grotesque, drooping mask before letting the skin snap back into place again. He didn't look that bad? Did he? For Dexter Hawthorn, the inevitable passage of time was a constant battle, but it was one he wasn't about to surrender without a fight. When he'd found that his hotel was within walking distance, he’d decided to go for a run on the beach. The neverending parade of youthful bodies had put him in his current midlife spiral of self doubt and now he stood examining himself in the hotel mirror.

His once shiny jet black hair was now peppered with gray, especially around the temples. He kept it cropped relatively short now that it had lost a bit of its sheen, but thankfully it had not started to thin. At least not to the point anyone could tell. He always kept his face meticulously shaved whenever he was going to be ‘on base’. Well most of the time now really. The last time he’d let his coarse black beard grow in he'd been annoyed by the new flecks of gray. Though it had softened a bit, his face was still firm. There was no sagging at the chin, and his ‘masculine features’ as his mother had always called them were still relatively sharp.

His blue eyes with their mottling of green were still clear and bright, but were now framed by tiny wrinkles at the corners. How had his ex-wife described them? Like tiny little pools of water when the sun hits them through the trees. She’d always had a gift for a poetic turn of phrase.

God what a bitch he thought, remembering eight years of mind-numbing ‘marital bliss’ that he would never get back, along with the little piece of his soul that she’d taken with her as a souvenir. He’d married too early. Quit working at it too soon. And stuck with it for too long. The breakup had pushed up his mid-life crisis a couple of decades and he had put a lot of time into getting into shape in his early thirties.

Now ten years later, he was still fit by most people’s standards. His six foot one inch frame was still fairly muscular, but like a bar of soap after the first few uses, the edges of everything had softened. He lifted his shirt, looking at the mostly flat stomach. Something most men in their forties would be proud of, but he couldn’t help wondering what became of the hills and valleys of a once chiselled abdomen.

Ugh! He needed to get over himself. Island paradise or not, he was here to work, not prowl the beaches for women of loose morals. Island paradise. Was it though? Dex could sense the thin veneer of normalcy, carefully applied and cared for, that kept the tourists oblivious to the underlying unrest that permeated most of the island nation the moment he stepped off the plane.

For most of his fellow passengers, the upcoming days were all about sandy beaches, fresh seafood, and romantic moonlight walks in the carefully sanitized and groomed sections of 'natural jungle' the tourists were encouraged to explore. For a shadier few, it was about a brief descent into debauchery. A vacation from the moral rules and expectations of the normal lives they would resume back home after satisfying their darkest appetites, never considering what it cost those who served it to them.

His mind lingered on the thought. He didn’t want it to. But It was hard not to think about what was out there for the taking. A night of passion, packaged, tagged and ready for sale. With an endless list of optional upgrades. And no one to judge him afterward but himself. But sex was not passion. It would not fill the empty spaces in him that longed to be occupied again. And he was a harsh judge.

He had heard Brett and Nate talking in hushed tones back at the office when they thought he was out of earshot. No doubt there was at least one excursion being planned without his knowledge. He had thought about talking to them, but decided it was not his place. He was their Tech Lead, not their dad. Let them accumulate their regrets and hopefully come out the other side better for it. And without anything that modern medicine couldn’t clear up in short order.

Oversight, the company Dex had worked for for over ten years, was here because the military was here. The military was her to keep an eye on things, and keeping an eye on things was what Oversight did. The U.S. cared little about the sex trade. They cared considerably more about the growing drug trade, but this was due to the fact that the contention for territory required made them a player in the political unrest that was the real concern. Political in-fighting had evolved into actual fighting in remote pockets of the jungle, and anti-government efforts were no longer limited to protest marches and sit-ins. Freedom fighters or terrorists, they were a concern for the fledgling democracy and it’s U.S. ally, and though few in number, those numbers were growing.

So the current focus here Fort Green was monitoring the instability and ensuring there would be ample warning should things reach the point where direct intervention became politically palatable. Oversight was a key part of that mission.

The company specialized in unmanned aerial vehicles, or UAVs. Dex specifically was the brains behind their new Autonomous Flight Systems project. Software that completely eliminated the need for a drone pilot to spend hours a day locked in a metal box on some airfield, piloting an airframe that might be thousands of miles away.

Now, all that was needed was someone with something approaching a highschool education, i.e. your typical Air Force or Marine grunt, to punch in a set of basic mission parameters and poke a button. The drone would happily fly off, fly it’s mission of eight to twelve hours, sending back video or other sensor data about the objectives laid out in the initial mission plan, all with no further human interaction.

It would save millions, probably billions of dollars in pilot training. More importantly, it would virtually eliminate the potential for human error. People were smart, but computers were smarter, and they didn’t make mistakes. Dex had been sent to oversee this final six month trial of their software. Fort Green had about a dozen of the Cessna sized Predator drones, six of which had been upgraded with Oversight’s new software. The trial was strictly reconnaissance, but if all went smoothly, they anticipated a new contract to start trials with actual ordnance.

A glance at his watch told him it was time to get out of his head and down to the lobby where Brett and Nate were probably already waiting in the rental van that was almost clean, and almost didn’t smell like it had been driven by a smoker recently.

----

He leaned over Nate’s shoulder squinting at a screen full of log data in a font only a twenty-something could find bearable to read for more than ten minutes. “Yeah, I get it. There’s a huge gap. I told ya, the Marines have this fucked up idea that the logs from the actual mission execution have to be classified.”

Nate rolled his eyes. The skinny twenty two year old looked to be about fourteen to Dex with his scraggly blond hair. He was swimming in a red Oversight polo that was a size too big for him, over baggy khakis and black dress shoes that only came out of the closet for test trips. “Isn’t that what we have a security clearance for?” He replied, annoyed.

“Need to know.” Brett interjected from the other end of the table. Brett was nearing thirty, and was a little more put together than Nate. He also wore the almost universal military contractors uniform of company polo over khakis and black shoes. He had also opted for a red polo, but his was stretched across an extra 20 pounds, concentrated around his midsection, and his shoes were similar to what a waiter would wear, riding the line between dress and tennis shoe. “Just because we have clearance, we still only get to see what they think we need to see.”

“I know that.” Nate fired back in an exasperated tone. “But it’s our goddamn software, We need to know.”

The conversation was abruptly halted when the bright light of sunshine sliced it’s way through the dim interior. The newcomer stepped confidently into the room, took a stance almost like she was giving a presentation. Dex suddenly felt under dressed, as he took in the carefully tailored uniform. Not a fan of island paradises, precisely because they tend to be found on islands, which almost always meant heat and humidity once you got off the beach, Dex’s collared short sleeve shirt was of the high-tech fiber sort meant for wicking away moisture. It was a light powder blue, and still sported an Oversight logo on the left side of the chest.

Instead of traditional khakis, he wore what most people referred to as Tac Pants. They looked much like khakis at first glance but with zippered pockets on the legs and an extra layer of fabric in the knees. They were marketed to First Responded and SWAT types, but Dex liked that they were just nice enough to pass business casual, were stain resistant for uncommon occasions he found himself crawling around on a drone on the tarmac, and always had an extra pocket for that stray thumb drive or usb cable. A set of sturdy black and brown hiking boots completed the set.

Dex gave an internal sigh as he realized his predicament. When they had been pitching this project he had been accompanied by a VP. When they had come out for a week to test against the lab bench, one of the marketing guys had come along. They were well into the late stages of this phase so it was only the three of them. It would be his job to glad hand whoever the Marine Program office assigned to the project to ‘Help’. This often meant finding a way for them to feel like they were being useful so they’d have something to write up for their next performance review, while the real goal was keeping them out of the engineer's hair. This was squarely outside his job description.

Second Lieutenant, his brain stored a quick mental note. First rule, memorize name and rank so you can address them properly. Mahalo Vaughn. Mahalo? Jesus. He thought he had it bad growing up with Dexter. He had to smile when she immediately offered an explanation. It seemed at least she might not be a hard ass.

She ended her carefully constructed introduction as most all presentations ended. With ‘Any Questions?’


Brett and Nate gave her a tentative smile and perfunctory wave and then both turned to Dex expectantly. Right. He stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Dex...”

So wrapped up in his thoughts, it was not until this moment that he really took a good look at her. There was a cardinal rule in user interface programming. Never start a complex process on the main interface thread. Apparently, taking in Mahlo’s appearance was a complex process and his brain had failed to properly background the task for later processing. He froze.

“...Hawthorn.” How long had he paused. It felt like a minute. Okay maybe only a full second, but that was an eternity mid-sentence. His brain finally found familiar ground and gained some traction. “Lead Developer on Autonomous Flight Systems for Oversight Technologies.”

She was gorgeous. Combined that with the immaculate uniform and she looked almost like a pinup from the forties. Though he didn’t remember ever seeing a black woman on a World War II era pinup. He guessed it was a sign of progress seeing a woman of color in her rank and station.

Nice. You managed to celebrate her diversity and objectify her in the same thought. You’re a class act Dex.

“We’re glad to have you working with us and I’m sure you’ll be a big help. Lieutenant...”

Something about her eyes. Something deep down in his gut couldn’t decide if he wanted to be lost in their depths or flee from that predatory glint.

Fuck. Mahalo what? Something with a V. He was left no choice but to let his statement hang in the air like a fleeting thought that had lost its way. Perhaps she would think he only intended to address her by rank, but he doubted his original intent would be lost on her.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Second Lieutenant Vaughn.” Crisp as the rest of her. Tougher cookie than the pleasant wrapper suggested. Not cold, not harsh; correcting an errant child, an implicit, “Oh, you!” with a matronly nod of the head in her voice. Firm handshake, deceptively soft hands with the tell-tale line of calluses at the base of her fingers, sanded and exfoliated and moisturized into mere hills instead of mountains of hardened flesh. Cool flesh there, leaving the ghost of slick floral hand cream as she let go. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hawthorn.” An upward quirk on the right side of her mouth, business professional smile insomuch as the military would allow. Maybe not as nice as initially came off. Even tone of voice that betrayed nothing, the pleasant distant tones of an operator saying to hang up and try the call again.

A step back, allowing space between the two of them to breathe. Maybe too soon to be considered entirely professional, a ghost of a suggestion of not liking close quarters. In the same motion, she surveyed the men in the room. Younger one. Heavier set one. Both of what she had more or less expected in the parade of contractors, typically observed from a distance or the flickering images from movie night. The man in front of her - a skip in the record. Her eyes rested on him longer than the others; easily explained as deference to his position. A good looking guy, she would have described him, with the same enthusiasm she would have in reading a weather report. His being handsome was a fact, the same as the sky was blue, and something directly noticeable. The salt and pepper hair, the square jaw, the light eyes with hints of laugh lines. Good looking. The type that never spoke more than necessary to her, instead opting to use flirtatious lines on the easier to approach nurses, secretaries. He would be no different.

Now would be the time for an ice breaker; civil camaraderie. With a parting glance to Mr. Hawthorn, redolent of sweetly muted flowers and secret places, she turned to more evenly face the rest of the group. “I’ll be an official part of your team, but I personally don’t want to get in the way of your work structure, as I’m aware of how disruptive it can be.” Carefully chosen words, each one scrubbed clean of some heavy regional accent. An attempt to lean away from what could be considered all too welcoming, but too deeply baked into her speech to totally eradicate. A cadence that lent itself to soothing. A hidden Georgia peach? “While I’ve been advised on the general flow of this particular project, I’m sure as I continue to read up, that I will have additional questions,” A full smile then, slightly apologetic. Bolt of lighting in a clear sky, “as this is a bit out of my personal wheelhouse.” The admission of being less than perfect: military for “I’m just one of the guys!” - an invitation for forgiveness, but not to be taken as a sign of weakness. “This is also my first time coming in to this center, so I wanted to stop by and introduce myself before I started the somewhat arduous task of moving a few items to the desk in the back,” a lift of dark eyes, an invitation to follow to where she was referring to.

Behind the lines of computers, nestled in near secrecy, was an empty desk - the lonesome companion to Dexter Hawthorn’s work station. Completely empty, it was devoid of personality, save for the battered pale yellow flag of a Post-It note, with nothing more than “V” scribbled on it. Horrifically slap-dash for such a high tech institution; reeked of afterthought and rushed considerations. “So it looks like we’ll be neighbors, Mr. Hawthorn.” The return of a lifting of the voice, flickering smile.

 

[ManlyUsername]

The correction was as polite as it was well deserved, but it still stung. It was a rookie mistake. She was sharp. A simple nod served as both apology for his loss of focus which allowed her name to drift away, and thanks for not making it a point of contention.

Her hand was softer than he expected. He took great care not to notice that fact, or acknowledge the faint sense of disappointment when she freed him from her firm grasp. All business.

What followed next was pretty much as expected. The sincere sounding assurance that she would not be a distraction, immediately followed by the promise of getting involved despite any lack of relevant skills or knowledge. All offered with seemingly no awareness of the contradiction. This was well outside his skill set, but he had seen it playout enough times it was no surprise. Hopefully she would be an infrequent visitor and tire of them quickly.

Dex groaned internally when she pointed out 'her' desk. Looked like their new zookeeper wanted to be hands on. 'Yeah she does', the twelve year old who lived deep in his lizard brain chimed in. Dex gave him a mental flick in the balls and sent him crawling back to whatever shadowy corner of his psyche he normally hid in. He'd already made an ass of himself once today.

The fleeting smile she flashed with her final comment was like a small prize he had won, but he didn't yet understand what the game was. He got the odd feeling like he had just sat down for a chess match but someone had placed checkers on his half of the board. But despite his frustration at what was still technically the hypothetical pain in his ass she was carefully crafting, he could not help returning the smile with one of his own.

"Well, I welcome the company, Second Lieutenant Vaughn." He emphasized the last three words, now publicly acknowledging his earlier faux pas. Then made a sweeping gesture, inviting the eye to take in the entirety of the room. "Let me show you around the neighborhood."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“You’re too kind.” There it was - that accent, warmth and sweetness, accompanied by a smile as welcoming as a slice of fresh pie. Still tough, but sweet. Crystalized sugar. Southern United States for sure. Eye contact made, held. Long enough to show that the smile that parted full lips was genuine. “But,” a soft untangling from the inconvenience of further conversation, “I should be moving my things in,” warmth chilled, an embarassment to be shoved back into a locked door. A familiarity that hadn’t been earned. Potentially never would be. A faux pas for a faux pas.

Snapping back into place, all that was missing was a smart click of her heels. Eyes on him, voice raised for the benefit of the small team: “I’ll be in and out sporadically through the rest of the day today; I’ll do my best not to disturb anyone. Tomorrow, consider me settled in and available for any questions or concerns.”

A perfectly executed heel turn, moving surprisingly quietly on those heels. Honey flower wake, confident swing to those hips. Did she know he was looking? Or simply formal, natural grace from years of wearing the uniform, of having to make a statement before she even spoke a word?





If the rest of the base had a breath of old world style and class, the base was the awkward teen years, with the IT department receiving the absolute worst of it. The building that they were in was one of the newer buildings: not just on the base, but on the island itself, and it showed, with its lack of adhesion to the rest of the island’s architecture. Despite being built with all the conveniences that modernity had to offer, it was distinctly charmless, a building that sucked the energy out of those that entered. And perpetually cold - it’d been a running joke between officers that the chill wasn’t unique to this building, but all IT buildings, as they were all “haunted by the ghosts of our hopes and dreams,” as one contractor had put it over a drink.

There had been an attempt to brighten up the building - a modest two story thing - with wide windows in the common areas that looked out into the depths of the jungle, a cafe that was entirely separate from the standard fare (might as well be restaurant dining) and coffee bar. The latter was 24/7, in keeping with the odd hours that IT and the contractors could work. Even if full meals weren’t readily available, there was always the small assortment of pastries and pre-made sandwiches offered by the coffee bar. Still, moving out of the common area and the manned reception desk on the first floor, natural light was instantly sucked into the building, vomited back out into rows of ongoing fluorescent lighting and high cubicle walls. The temporary office for Oversight was on the second floor, in an expansive room that had started off life as a conference room, but had developed into an office. The bones were there, of course, in how large and wide the room was - though much had been done to absorb the extra space by dint of cubicles and desks.

Just where Mahalo had been coming and going she gave no hint of, letting her acrimony fester in each click of her heels. It’d been easy enough to throw all of her items into cardboard boxes, load them onto a dolly and politely (but steadfastly) refuse all help to move them. Her things would always carry the stifling antiseptic smell of the base hospital, and it was that smell alone that helped her keep her wits about her. Disgusting in its sterility, it was a knife that sliced through all else, exposing still raw nerves. She didn’t let herself think - thinking was what got her into this position. No, not thinking. A particularly hard tug of the dolly’s handles as she dragged it onto the elevator, giving a shit. Giving a shit is what got her this. And if she continued to give a shit here, she’d end up in the same place. Maybe if she kept her head down, did this job, let plastic grow over her and move mechanically, she’d still have a shot at her actual goal. That’s why she kept the medical books, heavy enough to brain a small animal, with her. Why she didn’t remove the numerous colorful tags marking various traumas and areas of interest. Not that she thought enough of her new office mates to think that they’d be interested enough in poking around at her desk. The other two men had deferred easily enough to their Lead. Dex. And I thought my name was bad. She was thankful she was alone in the elevator as she allowed herself a bitten off laugh. Dex. Jesus. Maybe it’s short for Alexander or something a bit more dignified. Pressed the button, leaned back against the elevator wall and tilted her head up, looking at her distorted reflection in the ceiling. He was a good looking guy. Good-looking people weren’t a rarity on the island; the few natives left were the product of years of interbreeding of conquerers and the conquered, creating a breed of distinctly unnaturally beautiful people with tragic eyes. Fresh blood from visitors and immigrants kept the beauty intact, updating it as fashion dictated.

“Seems nice enough.” More to hear the sound of her own voice, to remind her that she was an actual person, that this was actually happening. Then, before the doors dinged open, a moment of truth:

“I hate this place.”



Her last trip she returned the borrowed dolly, satisfied (who was she kidding? She wanted to scream) that all of her things had been moved from the medical ward to the IT building. Not that she was a particularly sentimental person - there wasn’t a plethora of knick-knacks, photos, and random office detritus to be moved. Just her “essentials,” - all else was for her private quarters, as far as she was concerned. Glancing up at the digital display in the lobby as she walked towards the stair case (she preferred taking the stairs instead of elevators when possible - but there was no way in hell she was going to make multiple trips -if needed- with a dolly up the stairs. She may have been mad, but she didn’t have a death wish.), she was mildly surprised to see that her move had taken up the better part of the day. Late afternoon, creeping into the evening - and she wasn’t fully aware when the Oversight team would break for the day. She knew from intel that they were staying in a paid for hotel off base, and with that came the assumption that they’d wind down, the same as any standard work day. They might be packing up, or preparing to do so. If they’d wanted to cut out early on this first day, she not only wouldn’t blame them, she wouldn’t have said anything. She’d seen enough crunch time for IT to know that a day when they could work just 8 hours was a god-send. Still, she’d slip in as quiet as ever, and inch her way back into her chair.

She appeared to be entirely “moved in”: desk top set up, books stacked neatly against one another. Pens and pencils in a standard issue Marine mug. A name plate borrowed from another desk, carelessly placed on the furthest edge of her desk, beneath a standard issued lamp. Devoid of all personality, only lingering traces of her perfume to mark her passing and going. That certainly wasn’t standard-issue. Cause for complaint? Not heavy enough to be a distraction or cloying.

The only touch of personality of hers would be buried within the drawers: tubes of hand cream, lip gloss, hard candies (the good kind - her personal stash that she’d kept squirreled away, and were only available upon special request), earbud headphones. Oh, and the one “quirky” thing about her: a very non-regulation dot-grid notebook, depicting various states of human anatomy: skeletons, nerves, blood vessels. It was within said notebook that she had open for the duration of the time there, black framed reading glasses perched on her nose reflecting the pale blue glare of her computer screen. She’d glance up, read from the screen silently, make notes in her book, go back to reading.

Beneath the safety of her desk, she’d slipped off her heels, ran her toes against the rough carpet. It’d seen better days, stiffened from the moving of desks and heavy material, stained from incalculable spills and lackluster clean ups. In the medical ward, she’d kept a pair of ridiculously fuzzy bunny slippers (complete with ears) in the bottom drawer of her desk for late night shifts when she knew no one would be around (or would care) to bust her balls about them. Not knowing the nature of this team, and wanting to err on the side of caution, she’d chuck them discreetly into the bottom drawer of this new desk, with every intention of moving them to her private quarters once she had the chance. One look at their black stitched eyes had caused a wave of resentment to wash over her.

So she didn’t have much by way of “friends” - not being one to gossip, knowing she was hard to approach. But people in the medical ward had gotten used to her - had accepted her quiet presence with friendly, “Oh, that’s just Doc,” that made her feel like she actually was…noticed. Maybe “noticed” wasn’t the right word. But she’d felt like she was a part of that working body, that she had a designated spot and would be missed. Here, she knew she wasn’t wanted. Even if they weren’t aware of her baby-sitting duty, there wasn’t a history of friendliness between any contractors and the enlisted. And without the warmth of someone reaching out to her, she didn’t know how to start. And I don’t think it’d be in my best interest to, anyway, she thought sourly, ignoring the screeching of Southern hospitality that was baked into her bones and demanded that she should at least bring coffee in the morning as an effort. More flies with honey, right?

Yeah, but I want to be petulant about this. And I deserve that at least. A harsh stab at the arrow key combined with a heavy sigh.

 

[ManlyUsername]

"Am I boring you?" Brett asked sarcastically. He was actually. Brett had been showing him error logs for several test flights indicating brief losses of satellite connectivity, but Dex’s mind had once again wandered back to Lt. Vaughn’s sudden insertion into their little club house.

She was attractive. But Dex had worked with attractive women before. He was well past puberty, and perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation with a beautiful woman without picturing her naked. Don't do it. You just said you could. It was something else.

She was cold. No. That wasn’t fair. Distant? Painfully professional? He couldn’t put his finger on it. But that was a good thing right? The more she wanted to keep to herself, the less likely she was to be engaging him in meaningless Q and A’s designed to show how engaged she was with the project.

But when he had made a nervous joke about showing her around, there had been a crack in that carefully assembled facade. A charming smile. A hint of southern belle in her voice. An acknowledgement of him as another person and not an asset in need of management. And then just as quickly, the barrier reformed and she was back to being the charming, friendly and completely unapproachable warden. And maybe it was all bullshit. Maybe he was trying to see something that wasn’t there.

“Sorry.” Dex replied apologetically. “But look at the location service data around the same time.” Brett made quick work of opening another file filled with thousands of lines of information, and navigating to the same time index. “There. Scroll up.” Dex pointed at the relevant section of data. See the big shift there. The bird’s in the middle of a steep bank. Loss of comms for a few seconds is pretty common. It’s accounted for. I don’t think this has anything to do with what they claim they are seeing in the post mortem readouts, but it’s a red splotch in the logs, which means they’re gonna ask about it. Track down a few more examples, flag the corresponding location data, and write it up so I have something to point to when I tell them this isn’t their problem.” Brett looked less than thrilled to be handed such an exciting task, but dutifully set to it.

Dex made exactly one attempt to assist Lt. Vaughn in her migration, and was promptly, if politely, blown off. He made an effort to spend the rest of the afternoon on Brett and Nate’s side of the wall. She didn't seem particularly receptive to idle chit chat which was just as well.

They had started very early today. The boys had some sort of plans for the evening and wanted to cut out by five which was fine with him. The usual routine for the group was a stop back at the hotel for an hour or so, then meet up for dinner before splitting up to wile away the rest of their evening. Dex used that time to shower away the stale film of their work environment which he could feel if not actually smell.

Dining choices were limited, and got old fast. He had learned early on that it was always a smart move to ask a local for recommendations. To that end he headed back to his desk where their keeper had been quietly working for the past hour.

"Hey!"

Dexter Hawthorn, Master Conversationalist.

There had been more to the intended exchange of course, but once again he found himself momentarily tongue tied in her presence. A faint hint of her perfume hung in the air as she looked up at him with those dark eyes over the top of equally dark framed glasses. Her stockinged feet were stretched out below the desk dulling the sharp edge of her practiced formality with a hint of casual familiarity. The cliché of a sexy librarian seeped its way to the front of his mind.

Her low heels were neatly set aside. Those heels that had helped facilitate a perfect demonstration of sensuality and grace in the gentle sway of her hips the very first time he watched her leave.

She's not that into you.

"We're about to wrap up. We normally get together after work for dinner, and the locals always know the best places. Any suggestions?" He realized after the fact that the long path he took to get to his question left it riding the line between simple inquiry and invitation. Had he done that intentionally?

"You're welcome join us"

 

[Apollo Wilde]

None of it was clicking.

Why was it that she could remember, digest, and process every bit of minutiae of the most dull medical terminology, but something like programming instantly sent her head into a spiral? If she was being entirely honest with herself, she’d only half-paid attention when they explained the basics of the project to her.

Be fair to yourself, Mahalo. You’re angry. You could have your favorite comic in front of you and you wouldn’t be able to focus on it right now. At least it looks like you care - which is more than can be said for a lot of folks. And on top of that, I’m pretty sure they don’t want anything to do with you anyway.

Or maybe I’m blocking it out on purpose. She felt a certain kind of way about drones; maybe it was irrational. It would save soldier lives; that alone should be enough for her to feel glad that they were becoming more regular. But on the same hand…automation. Automation when a human mind could make the call between life or death; better assess a situation. To replace the churning of guts that no amount of science could explain away. And, taking a look at the people she shared her new office with, she doubted they knew the first thing about combat. There would never be an emotional attachment for them, no further than the scrolling lists of text and numbers on their screens.

Today, she was concerned about setting a good impression, so no headphones in. The monitors soundtrack of clacking keys and muted conversation was enough to make her eyelids droop. From her scant understanding, this new program wasn’t just looking to lean further into drones, but to take it one step further and unman them all together. She supposed it never occurred to them that enlistments were already down, and that even the lowest of grunt, with hard work, perseverance, and drive, could make their way up the ladder. Build a real career. Offer an out for those who had nothing else. Not like they’d understand that.

I wonder if we’ll ever get a contractor in that knows what it’s like to come from nothing.





She hadn’t realized how thankful she was for the interruption until his voice cut through her thoughts. Now it was her turn to be surprised and caught into silence. A quick slice of a smile as an apology for being caught off guard, and she primly removed her glasses, putting them in a small black case partially hidden under the overhang of her monitor. “Oh, um…” A break in that facade again, fumbling for a handhold in the unexpected. Had he just said he was leaving early, that the team would be following suit, she could handle that. Suddenly plunged into the depths of actual conversation, her true introvert, shy colors would show.

She was quite unable to think of anything to say. “I, uh, I don’t eat out much,” words tumbling out over one another, “I’ve got a place on base, and I like to cook, homemade’s usually better and cheaper than anything you can get out, then after a while, you get really burned out of constantly eating out-” Over-explanation: a sign of her personal anxieties. Screaming men, blood, hostilities, she could handle. Someone being friendly? Completely terrifying. Bundle of nerves; he’d found a weakness. One she couldn’t shove away, though her efforts to do so were commendable. “But, um, I suppose it depends on what kind of food that you like?” A twist in her seat to face him. After much fumbling of the ball, she had recovered it - a heroic effort! - and tossed it back to him. “I think a lot of stuff off base is pretty tailored to tourists and is so-so, you know, stuff you can get anywhere. Some of the really high end hotels, usually on the beach, have Michelin rated restaurants, but you’ll pay through the nose for them, and usually have reservations booked out for months on end.” A pause. “I mean, I know of a few places, but they’re off the beaten path.” A swivel in her seat again as she slid her feet into her heels, the action grounding her. “Tell you what,” A shot in the dark, but innocent enough. If he turned her down, it’d be no harm lost, hidden neatly by the excuse of a difference in food, “You talk to your staff, figure out what they’re interested in, and I’ll do some digging to see what might appease everyone. I’ve got a few places that I’ve heard the admins talk about that they really like. But if you’re interested in dank little hole in the wall joints with no hint of English anywhere, let me know and I could show you sometime.”

Hard candy melting under warmth. So it had been easier to focus on the job for years than it was to pursue relationships: Lord knows she’d seen enough crash and burn in her time here to be scared away from them. Nearly everyone she knew had stories of marrying too young, staying married too long, infidelity, babies conceived to save failing marriages, marrying women (and rarely men) who were blinded by the promise of military benefits and sat back, a perpetual drain on their working partners. She could count on one hand (and that was being generous) the number of enlisted that seemed to have stable marriages or relationships - and that was even counting those that had their mistresses and whatever the male equivalent of “mistress” was. Those couples, she couldn’t help but to marvel at the civility at how they handled everything. Smooth as butter.

For herself, her rank, her determination, her ability to appear effortlessly good at her job (because no one saw the hours she’d put in otherwise, the blood, sweat, and real tears at practice, practice, practice), was enough to keep most men away. Civilians? No way. Other enlisted? Usually trapped in archaic ideals of service and the role of genders. If they weren’t trying to talk down to her, they were trying too hard to elevate her just for existing as a black woman, not on her actual merits. No thank you. Sex toys were cheaper, got her off more consistently, and didn’t have the draining emotional needs. And were rechargeable to boot. “Unpaid emotional labor,” Lauren, one of her oldest military friends, had put it, with a deft look. As not only another lifer, but one who’d been through 3 marriages and an equal number of adult children, Mahalo was inclined to trust her word on it.

“But, you know, someone throws out a bait, no matter how small, you should take it,” Lauren had continued: “Shows some initiative, and trust me honey, initiative, especially around here, is a rarity.”

Initiative, huh? Well. Southern hospitality dictates being nice until given reason not to be. What would her mother think, being rude? You accept the first invitation, regardless, to be polite, and based on that first outing, you refuse others, to be polite.

 

[ManlyUsername]

Dex was not prepared for what was, as far as Lt. Vaughn was concerned, a torrent of actual conversation. He had fully expected her to decline his invitation in her customary polite but no uncertain terms. She actually seemed momentarily to be just human like the rest of them. Not the superhuman projection of strength and precision he was used to seeing.

He almost felt like he was getting a peek behind the curtain. Like Mahalo...You mean Lt. Vaughn right...had accidentally forgotten to lock a door somewhere inside her mind and the real woman had snuck out for a moment of stolen conversation before she was discovered and forced to return to whatever place she was kept hidden.

The slip lasted a little longer this time, but she quickly began to slip back into all business mode again. He found himself wishing she wouldn’t. “Personally, I love hole in the wall places. It’s one of the few bright spots of these trips. A little adventure to help you forget the tedious grind right?” Was he being too familiar. He suddenly felt self conscious. “But not sure about the ‘no English’ part.” A shy grin meant to show apprehension, but also hiding the fear of saying the wrong thing and sounding like he was fishing for an acceptance to his invite. But that is what he wanted right? He was surprised to find that was what he was hoping for.

“I can write code in probably a dozen different languages but I only speak english. I don’t think I’d be adventurous enough to try out a place like that on my own.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“And I can’t code a lick, so I think we can call it even.” Fumbled recovery, but she was back on solid ground. Polite interest, testing waters. What’s proper and what isn’t - initiative, yes, but he was still a civilian, and not just that, he was technically her subordinate, in the hierarchy of things. Baby-sitting came with a certain amount of supervision, invisible lines, spiderwebs to entangle with one false move. And she wasn’t keen on getting in any more trouble than she was already in.

That shy smile of his was charming. A quick glance to his hands. No wedding band. Potential, maybe. No - absolutely not. No point in following that train of thought. A distraction to pull her out of her downward spiral was what the doctor ordered. She wasn’t so hard up to automatically assume any man being polite -because that’s what it was- was doing anything other than just being polite. The world lacked manners.

“Tell you what, Mr. Hawthorn,” a few mouse clicks, the flicker of her computer screen as it powered down. Turned in her seat to face him again, with the crossing of the right leg over the left, like she was settling in, as opposed to getting up from the end of the shift. “While you might be interested in various holes,” she knew what she was saying, something about the playful glimmer in those dark eyes, cat playing with a mouse, biding her time before she showed her claws, “I don’t think that the places I’m thinking of can accommodate so many people at once. They’re quite…tight. But maybe with some advance planning, some care, we can get everyone to fit.” She had to know what she was saying. And she did - it was a testament to her own self-control that she didn’t burst out laughing. She hadn’t played such stupid innuendo laden games outside of girl’s nights. “So I’d say keep that offer open. I wouldn’t mind taking you exploring sometime.”





The invitation hung in the air between the two of them for the few days - days that turned into a week, then two. She didn’t bring it up again: she’d tossed that ball back into his court, after all. But true to her word, she’d talked to the admin staff and presented Dex with a quaint, professional email:

Subject: Restaurants

Good morning, Mr. Hawthorn -

Here’s a few places that were recommended to me. Let me know what you and your staff think.

Regards,
Second Lt. Vaughn

Wholly unnecessary, but the impish set of her eyes whenever hers happened to meet his made it crystal clear that not only did she know that, but she was enjoying keeping him on his toes. True to her initial word and presentation, she had actually pulled him aside on occasion to ask him a few questions about the program. To her credit, she tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, not daring to interrupt when he was engrossed in one task or the other. Her questions, for the most part, showed a shrewd understanding of broader concepts, if not the particular details. Her questions were truly less about the drones themselves, but the overall concept - what he hoped to accomplish, how he got into programming. Probing questions under the guise of polite conversation, soft until they weren’t, knife blades slid in-between unsuspecting ribs, reaching home. Each answer he gave was carefully weighed, stored within her eyes. She had a habit of leaning in close, but not close enough to be improper, and without the comforting buffer of a hand on a shoulder. Her air was aloof as always, faintly threatening raw power bundled under those dress blues, the sharpest of edges blunted by her perfume. A glittering invisible wake, shifting on the day and her mood, apparently. Floral on one day, reflecting the botanical bounties of the island, resinous and deep on another, reminiscent of dark caves and sacred rites. Or, on occasion, times when she called him to her desk, effervescent bubble gum, playful beyond anything she could say or do.

Back at her desk, she was finishing up on a mid-week report, dutifully typing away. Yes, the team was working well, yes, they were making good progress. There seemed to be a hiccup in the data, insofar as she could tell, but the root cause had yet to be determined. It was less a mechanical issue - that much, they had figured out. She had confidence that Mr. Hawthorn would get it figured out.

“It’s about that time,” she murmured, without looking up. The team had been fairly regular within this week - a sure sign that things were going well. A good, clean contract. “You guys going to be winding down soon?”

 

[ManlyUsername]

Stop it. For the second time in as many hours he caught himself nervously bouncing his knee under his desk. The same section of code he had been staring at for the last fifteen minutes remained un-reviewed. It was Nate's. It would be spotless. But that didn't excuse his lack of focus.

His mind replayed the exchange of a couple weeks ago. The day he felt like something changed between them, or had the potential to change. A fleeting moment of opportunity that came like a scent in the air and then just as quickly blew away with the breeze.

There had been nothing overtly sexual in the way she had crossed her legs. Toned. Powerful legs. But the effortless grace in the maneuver had it burned into the recesses of his brain. A touchstone he kept returning to despite his best efforts. And then she started talking about holes, and tight spaces. All with an almost mischievous look in her eye. An invitation? A test?

No doubt the exchange probably played out very differently than how he now remembered it. An imagined fantasy in his mind where he had squandered an opportunity to partake of the forbidden fruit. Her demeanor in the time since made that clear it was a fabrication of his too active imagination. Didn’t it?

Lt. Vaughn was the picture of professionalism. Taking the expected interest in the project. Asking broad, but pointed questions, and occasionally probing details with merciless scrutiny that left no question about the power dynamic in their relationship.

To Dex’s surprise when she struggled to understand how to use the Post Mortem Analysis tools, instead of apologizing for a lack of tech savvy and just “figuring it out”, she had pushed back on the design. Pointing out all the areas things were made needlessly complex, and where their civilian bias did not mesh well with how the typical enlisted mind was trained to process information.

Dex also didn’t mind the excuse it provided for inviting her to invade his personal space as they reviewed changes on his monitors. A mostly unacknowledged presence hovering just behind him that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.. The subtle scent of her perfume, often not even hitting him until she was walking away, a heady juxtaposition to her all business, formal persona.

It should be all business. Lt. Vaughn was becoming a distraction for none of the reasons he originally expected. She was an ethereal presence, wafting out of his subconscious, to pick at the corners of his focus whenever he had too completely put her out of his mind. And everytime Dex thought he had successfully contained the genie and put her back in her bottle, a hint of a smile, a twinkle of the eye, small enough to almost be imagined would bring the doubts about missed opportunities seeping back to the forefront.

‘I wouldn’t mind taking you exploring sometime.’

No matter how hard he tried to forget them, the words always came back, a taunting echo of his cowardice.

“You guys going to be winding down soon?”

Her question jolted him out of his reverie and he was annoyed to find that his knee was bouncing again. He looked up with a nervous smile as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Just ask her. You aren’t going to have a better opportunity any time soon.

“Yeah, we are.” But he couldn’t bring himself to just offer a direct invitation. “I mean, I’ve got another fifteen minutes or so, but I think the other guys are probably already on their way out the door. Looks like I’m gonna be on my own tonight. Maybe do a little exploring for something more adventurous for dinner.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“ ‘Exploring’, hm?” A smile in her voice, though she hadn’t looked away from what she was writing. Still the picture of professionalism, though that chill between them had softened a bit. Plastic, not steel. She was always unfailingly polite, wishing the team a ‘Good morning’ whenever she came in, and a ‘Have a good evening’ when the shift had ended. Like Dex, it wasn’t uncommon for her to stay a bit later: prepping reports, winding down on what she was working on, getting an agenda ready for the next day.

Initiative. Right.

“It’s Friday, right?” Both a question and a confirmation - the past two weeks had been a bit of a blur: once she’d gotten this assignment, it seemed that it had been specifically designed not to let her have any real time to herself to dwell. A blessing in disguise, being thrown into the deep end like this, without so much as a hint of a lifejacket. Between moving, trying to wrap her head around the new assignment (and her personal drive to handle it as well as she possibly could, even if she didn’t agree with it) meant that her weekends had been long periods of sleep, broken only by the need to eat and to train. The “joys” of getting a new assignment and the shambles it made of her personal life for at least the first month. Well, no matter. “Friday,” she repeated, confident in the day, “One of the places I like to go to runs a pretty decent baked fish, if that’s your sort of thing.” A quick glance to him. Bait cast.

 

[ManlyUsername]

“Baked, Fried, I’m from the land locked Midwest so ‘Fresh Seafood’ is an oxymoron where I come from. So I never pass up on a chance for real seafood.” His smile was a bit more relaxed but still hesitant. Was this or wasn’t this? Her tone, as ever, was hard to read. Always on the edge of familiarity but never dipping more than a toe in. She’d offered, well offered to offer, a simple recommendation. There was no sense reading more into it than that.

He paused a little too long as he looked at her contemplating. Trying too hard to come up with something clever to say. In the end, clever didn’t seem to be in the cards, so he’d have to make do with what he had.

“Is this one of your ‘No English’ places though? If so, I think I’d need an interpreter.” He again hesitated. Why couldn’t he just say what he wanted to say. “If you're available that is. Well I don’t mean ‘available’ available,” Dex punctuated the first ‘available’ with air quotes. “I mean, if you aren’t busy. And don’t have other plans for dinner already.”

The sensation was like the moment you begin to fall. Where you already know you’ve lost control and it seems like you have plenty of time to do something about it but you just...can’t. Dex broke eye contact, trying to make it look casual as he poked at his keyboard again.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A twinkle of a smile, childish joy that melted into adult slyness. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t planning on coming with you.” Pushing out from her desk, she stood up, report finished and emailed, punctual as always. Standing above him, put together as always, heels together as she looked down at him. Smile polite as always. “You’re staying at ‘Perola Kay’, right?” Right, as always. She had an uncanny ability of being able to remember things that were only mentioned once - it’d come up in the past, a conversation overheard without having directly eavesdropped on it.

“I’ll meet you outside at 7. Wear something comfortable and that you don’t mind getting dirty. Until then, Mr. Hawthorn.” A nod of acknowledgement, before a quiet turn on her heel and her usual, measured stride out of the room, only her perfume lingering behind long enough to stroke against his face.








Punctual to a fault.

She was outside at 7, perched on the back of a Vespa that had seen better days a decade or more ago. Rusted, dented, and mud-spattered, its chugging was deep and grating - but not out of place. The cars that came up to the hotel were mid-range, newer imports in quiet displays of money, older ones that seemed to be held together with hope and duct tape, conscious nondescript cars and vans of businesses. She wouldn’t garner a second glance with the motor going and one leg draped over the side, booted foot solidly on the ground.

If he was expecting her to be in uniform, he had another thing coming to him. As she pulled up closer to the curb with the flow of traffic, left foot still draped over the side of the scooter to keep it from falling over entirely, her outfit would become all the more clear. True to the advice she’d given him, she was in causal clothing: a blue long-sleeved man’s shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows with the first few buttons undone, the flash of a deep red tank top beneath it. Neatly belted blue jean shorts that hit mid-thigh, hiking boots with gray socks rolled down over their deep tan tops. Her locs were still pulled back - but instead of the regulatory bun, a cheerful ponytail that graced the tops of her shoulders. Googles were down around her neck, her helmet balanced between her torso and the handles of the scooter.

“Mr. Hawthorn,” she said, lightly enough - and held out a helmet for him. “You’ll need this.” Scooting forward on the scooter, she nodded towards the space she’d vacated directly behind her. “Hop on. It’ll be a tight fit, but it’s not too far.”



She was hot beneath his grasp, her back pressed to his chest, his arms around her waist. This close, she smelled of dirt, ozone, pollution - but closer still, sweat, remnants of soap and an afterthought of perfume. She drove through the busy streets, swerving in and out of cars, yelling, honking the meager bark of the scooter as she went. With the way she drove, the transformation from “military” to “local” was complete. She didn’t try to talk to him during the ride - there wouldn’t have been a point to it. The noise from the streets was entirely too intimate now, without the buffer of a car. On this level, snippets of different languages, of occasional t.v. screens, loud radios, and the constant grumble of cars was all of the soundtrack that they needed. It was obvious that she knew where she was going - cultivated tourist hubs and hotels melting into tin-roofed homes and small street vendors. White faces were dwindling as well, and the true nature of the island peeled back, layer by layer. About 20 minutes later, she finally began to slow down, easing her way through streets instead of flying through them. Less than a cultivated store-front, and more of a suggestion of homes converted into businesses as an afterthought, she brought them to a chugging stop.

“You still with me?”she was pulling off her helmet, moving the googles to the base of her throat. She’d stopped in front of a restaurant, all right - but it looked less like a business and more like someone’s home that had the front door removed and the dining room expanded. Vinyl tablecloths, checkered with red and white, covered each small table, framed by battered brown chairs. At the counter, a young woman was thumbing through a magazine, a radio at her right, blaring music. The woman didn’t bother to look up as Mahalo pulled up and parked. Despite her bored appearance, the restaurant was packed - families, friends, speaking with one another, playing checkers, drinking. Unlike the restaurants closer to the base and in the hotels, there was no TV in the corner with a steady stream of news - just the radio and the occasional abandoned newspaper on a table would serve as outward entertainment.

“We seat ourselves,” Mahalo set her helmet on the handlebar of the Vespa. She clearly wasn’t concerned about theft - for after she parked, she pocketed her keys and put down the kick stand. But to be fair, there was nothing about her Vespa that made it stand out; it fit right in, if not looked a notch or two worse for wear compared to others. Guiding him in, the two of them warranted a series of glances - a bit longer than usual, but more focused on him than on her. Curiosity was sated momentarily, and it was as if they’d always been there.

Picking a table towards the back of the room, it was more cramped than the others, an alcove that was an afterthought compared to the rest of the room. It seemed an uncomfortable choice, until they moved closer in, and it became clear that this little space, closed in on 3 sides, served as a natural sound dampener. There would be no need to shout at each other here - not that the seating was far enough to even allow for that. The table was, to be generous, about two feet across, with the chairs facing each other. Close quarters, claustrophobic in a small country way. Menus on the table were, indeed, not in English, but, as a begrudging deference to the occasional tourist, the lines of script were occasionally broken by a photo.

“Here,” she opened his menu, and pointed to a fine script in red. “This is what I was telling you about.” Leaning across the table to point, she’d given him a fine view down her shirt, tops of smooth brown flesh, little gap between those breasts suggesting a fullness that the uniform only hinted at, and her large over shirt was able to mask. She seemed to have no problem with skimming the menu, and, as if sensing his questions, she spoke: “I haven’t been stationed here long - 7 months as of last week, actually. So I’m still learning the language. It’s sort of a mishmash of French and Spanish, so I can pick out about every other word when it’s spoken, but I’ve gotten better at reading it. Best way to learn any language is through food and T.V., trust me. But if you have any questions, let me know. I can sit next to you if you’d prefer that?”

 

[ManlyUsername]

The night had been a non-stop carnival ride of shattered preconceptions.

He’d spent far longer than he cared to admit deciding exactly what the combination of ‘dress comfortable’ and ‘something you don’t mind getting dirty’ could possibly mean. Luckily, as with most business travel, even of the extended sort, Dex did not tend to over pack. So he was left with a plain white undershirt, those were trendy now right?, and cargo shorts over his ever present hiking boots. He actually debated buying some cologne, but then he thought back to the fleeting hints of perfume that often lingered in Maholo’s wake and he didn’t want anything to compete with that.

The woman who picked him up bore no resemblance to the stiff and tailored Lt Vaughn. He could do nothing but grin and give an approving nod when he saw the beat up Vespa. He hadnt bee a passenger on any sort of bike since he was a little boy, but he was not so insecure as to have any issue dutifully climbing behind his female driver. What better way to traverse an island paradise. Dex knew that not all was paradise on the island but he had had little need to venture far from the base before now. It was an odd mix of excitement and sadness. It was a bit of an adventure to see the culture and daily life of the island's normal inhabitants, but it was also hard not to be impacted by the poverty that permeated everything.

The roads became steadily worse but Dex was thankful for it. Every bump. Every swerve to avoid a pothole or errant farm animal gave him an excuse to grip Mahalo, Lt. Vaughn, just a little bit tighter. He was careful to keep his hands on her waist. The most neutral position he could envision, but holding her, with his hips pressed against her own, made him somewhat sorry once their destination had been reached.

The restaurant, if you could call it that, was what many might refer to as a shit hole. Dex loved it. He always loved finding the out of the way, the authentic. Really experiencing the remote places where he was regularly forced to spend days on end in sterile concrete boxes surrounded by the same glowing computer screens.

The table seems an odd choice, until they sit. Suddenly it is like they are in their own little space. A refuge from the rigid formality and carefully enforced personal space of the office. Here they were forced to violate those barriers and it seemed to have had a significant effect on his host. She spoke more freely and comfortably. Seemingly in her element, and despite the lack of finely tailored uniform, and carefully crafted bun, she had never looked more beautiful.

She showed him the menu, which despite the pictures, still left him unsure as to what he was looking at. But none of that much mattered. He was just enjoying the closeness. The excuse to look closely into those deep dark eyes without having to apologize for his proximity. Then she offered to sit next to him, no doubt to help him with the menu, and he was faced with a dilemma.

Did he let her sit closer. Given the close confines, would it even be possible without some level of incidental contact. Or would he rather she stay where she was, the better to take her all in. Study her, in fear he might not get the chance again. He finally decided he was tired of being indecisive.

Instead of inviting her to his side of the table, grasping his menu, he moved to sit on her right. Taking advantage of the claustrophobic arrangement, he moved his left arm around the back of her chair, turning his shoulder slightly towards her as he placed the menu in front of both of them. His heart was pounding, but his voice did its best not to reveal anything but friendly curiosity.

“I have a strategy whenever I go somewhere that is, what would you call it, exotic. I love trying new things, but I’ve also been burned plenty of times in the past. So, my question for you. What is the craziest thing on this menu and what’s the safest?” He finally looks up from the menu he can’t read anyway and is suddenly fully aware of just how close they are now. It put a lump in his throat, and suddenly his mouth is dry. “That way I don’t leave hungry either way.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Dunno if that’s the most sound policy I’ve ever heard.” A slip back into the accent, warm slippers at the end of the day, before her language cleaned up and straightened out again into military practiced nowhereness. Heavy Southern drawls in the military were a thing of parody, associated with hawkish war mongers, good ole boys, and drill sergeants from hell. “But being from the Midwest, pretty sure anything spicier than mayonnaise would be considered ‘exotic.’”

She looked up at him with a slight smile, though her eyes glimmered with amusement. No time like the present - and he was close enough so that he couldn’t get away. Not easily, at least. Rather than leaning into his arm, she pressed her right side close to his left. No mistaking closeness now, too deliberate to be written off as an accident. A shift in her shoulders, and she propped the menu up between the two of them, turning to glance at him. In their new position, they very well could be young lovers out on one of many dates. Cool exterior gave way to a supernatural warmth, threatening to suck him in with the ease. It was easy - so easy. And she knew it. Had known from the first hiccup in his speech: she hadn’t been what he was expecting. And it was easier to set her sights on him, more fun, than continuing to nurse the wound that was this assignment. Better to be happy than sad, and at the very least, she was overdue for a bit of male human contact. Little had he known that he’d essentially made the choice for her. She’d been looking him over as much, if not more, than he had, with a discretionary nature that was aided by her naturally introverted nature. A study in conflict - but for her, stepping into a long, dusty persona.

People were simple: they saw the uniform, they saw the skin color, and they expected certain things. The fact that she was usually not what they expected meant that just by opening her mouth, she caught people off guard. Threw them into a continual spiral, which sometimes she played for her benefit, sometimes she let them drown in the error of their ways to teach a lesson about assumptions. The downside of that was, well, having less than good luck with the opposite sex, but she was fine with that too. Part of living like this was having to decide things on her own terms. She loved the military for its order, for its neatness amid the chaos of life. Saw the downfall of those who tried to make their own decisions against the grain.

What was she to do with him? He’d shown a bit of initiative - that was something. She’d returned, played the little game of back and forth. Either too intimidated or polite or something or the other. Mmm. There were still things to be weighed, though. If she took him somewhere, say, a moonlit beach for an impromptu swim, then decided to fuck him under the moonlight, would he talk? Loose lips sank ships. Dalliances were fine as long as they weren’t cause for drama. On one hand, he was a contractor: meaning a temporary stay, and as close to disposable as possible, but on the other hand, she would still need to share close, professional quarters with him, and him assuming, like most men, that her closeness would provide a break or an ease in her supervisory position, wouldn’t do. However, there was also this possibility: if she let him believe he was taking control, to take a “love em and leave em” approach, and that it was ended on his terms, there would be less talk. Too soon to tell. Part of the fun was the chase, wasn’t it? And she was in the mood to play games.

“But to answer your question,” she pointed to a blurb of rapid red writing, “This would probably be the most exotic. Something about entrails boiled and stewed. Not too far out of the realm where I’m from, but might be a bit much. Safest is this,” a point lower down on the menu, any lower and her hand would be in his lap, against the side of one of his thighs. Tempting. “It’s like oatmeal - a sort of grain mash that’s deep fried with bananas. Fritters. I’d stick with the fish if I were you, unless you don’t trust my judgement, Mr. Hawthorn?” The return of that smile, a tugging up at the right side of her mouth. The one that said I know what you’re doing, and you’re trapped without even knowing it.

 

[ManlyUsername]

The warm honey smoothness of her accent graced his ears again. As always, only for a moment. Fleeting. Like an elusive prize to a game for which he had not yet figured out the rules. All too soon it was gone again.

He accepted her assault on his dietary horizons as a Midwesterner with an eye roll but a widening grin. She had not pulled away. Had not shrunk in her seat. And after her initial jab at his culinary experience, she actually moved closer. There was no more ‘personal space’, no more office decorum. There was an inherent intimacy to this sort of proximity and Dex was not sure how to handle it. His body felt hot where it touched hers and for a moment he was afraid to move lest he break the spell.

He put so much effort into not letting his eyes linger on Lt. Vaughn inappropriately at the office. Or at least not getting caught. Now, pressed together as they were, it was hard not to. In fact, he thought as he shifted in his seat, it was getting hard in general.

Letting her finish her suggestions, Dex puts on his best Trailer Trash accent, “Well Miss Lieutenant Vaughn. You’ve obviously never been to the Red Robin and had the SPICY mayonnaise!” He looks down his nose at her in a mock display of undeserved superiority before returning to his normal smile. “I trust your judgement. Fish it is. But you’re tryin the entrails with me!” His voice then softens. A subtle shift in tone that is almost imperceptible. “And please, call me Dex.”
As he says the last, he lets his hand drift forward to rest on her shoulder. Another small tentative step. Dex feels foolish. Like a boy back in highschool, terrified at every step that the next move would be the step too far that brings the evening to an abrupt end. But he is exhilarated all the same.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Oh ho - he did have a sense of humor. Cute. She chuckled, more out of pity than of actual amusement. “I couldn’t tell you much about ‘Red Robin’ - they don’t have too many of those where I’m from. Texas, by the way,” she added, as an afterthought, but careful to wash all of the twang from that word. “By way of Lubbock. And,” she raised a hand to wave over the very bored girl, “You’re out of luck. Entrails are only a once a month thing.” She pointed to a smaller swirl of script beneath the red. “It’s a speciality.” He'd been bold enough to put an arm on her shoulder; it should've been pleasant. From the salt and pepper of his hair (and further confirmed by the skim of his paperwork), he had a decade on her. Either he was actually this shy or it was an act. Was either thing something that she really wanted to deal with? A wrench thrown into her plans - no, strike that: the return of reason.

It was artful, really - the way she managed to keep close, but untangle herself from him all in the same time. A polite redirection of his affections, by pointing out the drinks on the menu, careful advice delivered at the same time about what he should avoid. Maybe he'd earn his place back around her shoulder with more information from him. And she could focus on a more entertaining aspect of this game she'd laid out for herself.





She placed the order for the both of them, though she was careful to confirm that he’d actually wanted. Though her attempts at the language were still halting - not formal enough to be called ‘textbook’, not easy enough to be fluent - she was able to communicate well enough, with emphatic hand gestures and the occasional supplemental bit of English. While she was talking to the girl, she hadn’t bothered with a second glance to Dex. Not so intentional; it took most of her concentration to figure out how to make herself be heard effectively, as well as pick up anything that she may have missed. The girl seemed helpful enough, if not precisely eager, to help Mahalo fill in the gaps.

Order placed, she turned back to Dex. “So…’Dex,’ tried on for size. She did well to partially mask the way her nose wrinkled in amusement as she said it. “Is that short for something? Not a very common name. Not that I’m one to talk, but I’ve already told the story behind it.”

 

[ManlyUsername]

Home town. Personal information. Was this another crack in the impenetrable facade that was the elusive Lt. Vaughn. He feigned true disappointment when his ill conceived attempt at showing culinary bravery turned out to be unavailable, fully aware he had likely dodged a bullet.

His mind was more focused on her reaction to his hand on her shoulder. Excuses and apologies had been rapidly under construction in the forefront of his brain; while the part of his brain that had never completely grown up had imagined her leaning in to kiss him. Instead she simply nullified the gesture. A polite but clear rejection. Letting him down in the nicest way possible.

When he came to sit beside her she had moved even closer. Dex had been heady with the thought that she shared his attraction. Had he simply moved too quickly? As ever, this woman was a puzzle he could not solve. A mystery for which he was missing too many clues. Playing checkers instead of playing chess, he thought again. He never was any good at chess.

Out of his depth, Dex chose to retreat, to regroup, and to rethink. As she made their orders, he slipped back to the other side of the table. The polite date once more.

He wrinkled his nose on her behalf when she asked about his name and gave a slightly embarrassed grin. “It’s short for ‘Please never call me Dexter’. Only two people have ever called me Dexter. I divorced one, I’m still on the fence about Mom.” The mirthful twinkle in his eye makes it clear he is joking. “But you are right Lt. Vaughn, people in glass houses as they say. At least yours is pretty.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“ ‘Dexter’?” So much for thinking that it was short for something else. Her raised brows and pursed lips said more than she actually did. “Family name, or of particular sentimental value? Sorry; I honestly can’t let that one go. It’s not a common name, Mr. Hawthorn.”

Volleyed back - the use of her title hadn’t gone unnoticed. And, because she was feeling particularly sadistic, she added, “Second Lieutenant. Though I suppose if you want me to call you ‘Dex’, I’ll let ‘Lieutenant’ slide. Just don’t get too comfortable with it.” A knowing grin given to him.

So, divorced. That would explain the lack of wedding ring. He could very easily be seeing someone - didn’t need to wear a ring for that. And with the way he’d retreated back to the other end of the table, he was well on his way to being squarely in the “I’m painfully shy” camp. At that, she felt a twinge of guilt. She’d misread him. He’d been eyeballing her - enough so that she could feel the burn of his light eyes on the back of her head some days - and she’d thought that perhaps he was trying to be discreet.

Maybe I’ve also misread the whole thing.

It wouldn’t be the first time; being an introvert did have its drawbacks. A quick thumbing through her past relationships quickly came up with the same results: in the few times she’d pursued, going on the faintest whiff of interest, she’d hated herself later. Felt that she’d merely chased her prey into submission, and not that she was the winner of some intricate dance between the sexes. A minor slip though - nothing that couldn’t be explained away as polite interest.

So she let him move to the other side of the table, and though she didn’t directly stiffen, there was a marked return to polite formality, the hint of an unspoken apology for misreading everything. She’d beat up on herself later.

“I don’t know about ‘pretty’ - it made being in Hawaii a living nightmare, let me tell you,” a gentle laugh. “I’m the middle of eight kids. Mom started early - had my brother before she was out of high school. Though I gotta say, her and dad, they made it work. They’re still, inexplicably, together.” A shrug. “But anyway, I guess when she was younger, the way she tells it, she’d wanted to travel the world and all that. Met dad her sophomore year, and travel went out the window. So she started naming us after places she’d wanted to go. My oldest brother is Paris, my youngest sister is London. No, really,” she said, cutting him off before he could say anything. “As I said, I was going to be ‘Hawaii’, but ‘Mahalo’ won out. I think she saw a commercial for Hawaii Air or something like that and liked the sound of it better. To be fair, I’m the only one named after an actual expression. Everyone else got cities.”

Talking like this, she was comfortable, at least. Like letting pressure that she hadn’t known release into the air. It wasn’t so much talking about herself, but spinning an interesting story: for all of the teasing and the jibes she’d gotten over the years, she never lost the wonder, or interest, in how her family worked. It was a great story, and if there was anything that Mahalo truly valued in life, it was a good story. That’s what really held people together - and made her job, when she could do what she wanted, good. She’d heard countless family tales from her patients, tantalizing snippets from higher ups. Once it became clear that Mahalo was a brick wall when it came to gossip, people spoke easily around her.

Nothing wrong with getting to know the guy that you’ve been tasked to watch. And this is probably much healthier than trying to bang his brains out. The last thing you need is another bad decision on your plate. A twist of her mouth. It wasn’t a bad call that I made. I know it. And I need to stop thinking that it was. They sent me here as a punishment; I know that much. But I still have control of how I can handle it all. They could either be waiting for me to screw up ‘again’, or for me to tow the line. God. Things really did go to shit once Ingram finally decided to retire.

“Anyway,” no time like the present, "How long are you going to keep staring at me like a love-stricken high schooler in the office?" A sharp look - eyes pinning him to his chair like she'd physically restrained him. "You haven't crossed any boundary into what I'd call 'unprofessional'," not much of a reassurance from her, "But it's noticeable, especially since we sit close to each other." Then, without a change of her expression, she dropped the real bomb, "Or should I say, how long do you plan on daydreaming about fucking me?"

 

[ManlyUsername]

With a single sentence Dex’s world stopped. His face flushed hot and his throat went completely dry. He crossed his hands in front of him and stared down at them in silence for much longer than was comfortable, as one after another initial, knee jerk responses flashed across his mind and were immediately rejected.

When he finally speaks his voice is tense, controlled. The forced professionalism of someone giving a deposition as opposed to conversational banter.. “Second Lieutenant Vaughn. I sincerely apologize for any unprofessional behavior.” He immediately regretted even the small discretion of emphasizing the first part of her rank. A crack already in his attempt to stay professional, his frustration leaking through. He wouldn’t address the question about his daydreaming. He couldn’t. First because the accusation was completely accurate and he had no desire to lie. Second because admitting to it was a career ender.

Like watching a playback on the mission simulator, Dex ran back the events of the evening in his head. Watching the log files for the warning messages he’d obviously missed. What the fuck had happened.

Identify the point of failure and work backwards to establish the cause. The hand on her shoulder was an obvious mistake. Obviously whatever mutual attraction he had thought was there was just… just wasn’t?

He remembered the way she had leaned into him when he had sat next to her. Was that incidental? That seemed pretty far-fetched. Was she fucking with him? He waggled a finger back and forth between them, “I had thought that there was some sort of mutual; Nope! That doesn’t Fu...doesn’t matter.” The tension in his voice is more pronounced. The furrow in his brow growing a bit deeper. Nobody is gonna give two shits about ‘what you thought‘ Dex. Don’t make your fuck up even worse. “Sorry.”

System state at point of failure. At what point should the impending failure have been detected or anticipated. He rewound the logs further. She had called him out for staring at the office. So it wasn’t his behavior tonight. She had been sitting on this for a while. But then she invited him to dinner? Or was it he who invited her? What the fuck difference does that make.

But she had chosen the location. Way out here. And the mode of transportation. FUCK! He was essentially stuck here. Even before he looked at his phone, torn impatiently from his pocket, he knew he would see no signal. His teeth gripped his lower lip in the formation of another hard ‘F’ but he stops the expletive just before it escapes. The phone is tossed onto the table in obvious frustration.

All the fucking small talk about names, her family, acting like she was really opening up to him. Was she just putting him at ease, the better to watch him flail when she dropped the hammer on him. Dex didn’t mind rejection. He was all too familiar. But what exactly had he done that warranted this whole cat and mouse dance just so she could humiliate him.

The frustration in Dex’s voice is close to giving way to anger. “WHY?” The sentence starts before fully formed. Is aborted. Dex was losing his cool. “Is there a reason you felt the need to drag me, no, strand me, out here in the middle of fucking nowhere just so you could tell me what a misogynistic prick I am? You couldn’t just send me an email? Did you want to rub my nose in it or something?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She didn’t seem at all surprised at the rapid change in Dex’s attitude. If anything, there was a slight sense of humor at his impotent fury.

“Calm down,” she made a hand waving gesture. “If this was something that I was insulted by, I would have reported it already. I wanted,” and she leaned forward.

You know what? Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. Literally. I’m bored, he’s good looking enough, and seems to be spineless enough not to make a big deal out of this. And playing with him will definitely keep my mind occupied instead of letting me wallow in bitterness. A bit a distraction never hurt anyone. I could certainly use the boost in confidence.

“To see if my guess was right. But based on the very pink shade of your face, I hit the nail on the head.” A slow wrapping of her plush lips around the straw of her drink. Nothing alcoholic - though that could have been a bad sign as much as a good one. She never had been much of a drinker, and she knew that if she was going to pursue this course of action, she’d need to be as clearheaded as possible.

And if he’s a bad lay, well, it’s not like I have to work that closely with him. “You see, Mr. Hawthorn, I’m not blind. I know you’ve been watching me. But I believe I asked you a question. I’ll repeat it, in case you were too busy getting your boxers in a twist to hear me properly: ‘How long do you plan on daydreaming about fucking me?’” The predatory look was back in her eyes, more confidence than she’d actually felt. Yeah, he’d admitted to it (maybe not so much as said it), but there was still this nagging doubt, this inability to let herself rely on this leap of faith she was taking. She was older, more experienced now, and that had to matter for something.

“Maybe if I like the answer, we can make it less of a daydream and more of a reality.” She let that particular question hang in the air - with impeccable timing, as it were, for the girl was returning to their table, steaming plates in hand.

“Looks good,” Mahalo said, loud enough for the girl to hear. The girl gave her a small smile, looked once at Dex, and was on her way back to her little booth. Then, her attention focused back on Dex, Mahalo grinned. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Shy or not, there was no way he couldn’t notice the way she leaned over the table, her breasts pillowing against her top, showing off a delicious expanse of brown skin, the curved line between her breasts inviting.

 

[ManlyUsername]

Mr. Hawthorne. She said it like she was scolding a child. It was starting to grate on Dex’s nerves. There was a fine line between arrogance and self-confidence and Dex was not quite sure which side his companion fell on anymore. She did seem to relish in making him uncomfortable. He’d just about given up on figuring her out.

Games. Games where only one person got to know the rules. She started off bluntly enough. Made confident strides towards some sort of ultimatum. Then, there it was. Maybe. Maybe if I like the answer. The trap, hidden amongst the distraction of talk of fucking, flashing cleavage and those eyes. Jesus those eyes. He hated the fact that he wanted her so bad. Hated more that she seemed to know it and found it a source of great amusement apparently.

He was tired of the game. He’d tried playing along and hadn’t had much luck figuring it out. But mostly he was tired of looking foolish.

“First off, Second Lieutenant Vaughn, I’m pretty sure what I daydream about is my own fucking business. Second, I’m not sure what you hope to glean from the answer. If I were in fact, as you so bluntly stated,” Dex’s gaze became a bit more intense, and he made no attempt to hide it when he looked down at her prominently displayed bosom. “daydreaming of Fucking You,” Despite his frustration, the vision of making those words a reality made him flush and he felt himself stiffen at the thought. “I don’t see what difference any real world experience would make on whether I chose to continue.”

He leaned closer. “I don’t know how often this hot, cold, mixed signal, Lucy and Charlie Brown thing works out for you. Hell, I’m not even sure what your end game is. If it’s just to make me look stupid you can take the win and go home. Kudos!”

Dex was not really sure where all of this was coming from. For whatever reason he felt like he was being played. Either she wanted to watch him twist in the wind on some kind of sexual power trip, or it was some sort of test of his bravery. Either way he was tired of it. He leaned in even further, looking in her deep dark eyes. Desperately trying to see what the fuck she really wanted. Well whatever she wanted, she’d have to just take it. Dex was done trying to solve the puzzle.

“I’m not sticking my neck out again on a ‘Maybe’. If you want to ‘make it a reality’,” Dex raised his hands making air quotes, then let them fall on either side of her arms so his thumbs are just brushing her elbows. “Then here I am, make your move. Otherwise, quit fuckin’ with me.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If she was surprised by his sudden outburst, she didn’t show it. If anything, she kept at her drink as if he hadn’t said a thing. Once she was sure that he’d finished, she looked directly at him. The same pin through a butterfly on the wall look.

“I think you misunderstand me, Mr. Hawthorn. I’ve nothing to gain by games - and I frankly don’t have the patience for them. I’m being as blunt as possible.”

She held up her right hand, and began ticking off fingers as she made her point: “1. We share close quarters at work, so I know when you’re looking and when you like to pretend that you aren’t, 2. You’ve obviously thought I was attractive, and for most men, that leads to daydreams of fucking. 3. You’ve been closer to me than necessary this whole night, and the moment I deflected your attentions, you withdrew.” She turned back to her food, settling her hands on her cutlery. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put it together. So I thought that I might spare you some awkward floundering by being direct. I’ve heard that men like it when a woman takes charge, but personally, it never ends that well for me. If anyone typically plays games, it’s men. They want a woman that takes charge, then feel emasculated when she does. When she’s direct about what she wants - in this case, a good, hard fuck - they act like she’s a slut for cutting through all of the bullshit. Like you, I wanted to be sure before I made a move.”

A “what can you do” shrug as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. Quiet as she popped a bit of food into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “If you want to keep daydreaming, that’s fine by me.”

Was there any point in life where she could imagine being seduced, or having a man approach her with actual subtlety? It felt like that was the realm of other women, the kind of girl that had that certain something that was intangible that she clearly lacked. It seemed that by being blunt as possible she could save herself some heartache, but perhaps she also lacked a seductive quality that made it seem more like an equal chase instead of a mouse caught by a tiger.

Another long drink of water, “By the way, if you were wondering, this wasn’t any part of some, long, drawn out plan. You did seem interested in local flavor moreso than the rest of your team, hence the invite. However, I saw the opportunity to ask you about your..wandering eyes,” a small grin, “And took it. I’m still your supervisor, and in a way, your superior on this project, so untoward fraternization wouldn’t exactly be a good look for me.”

 

[ManlyUsername]

He’d baited her with an offer to act, and she had simply ignored it. She was still the enigmatic puzzle that begs to be solved, but as she spoke, Dex finally felt he was making some headway. Or at least gaining some clarity. He still had a hard time pinning down her intentions. And it still felt like a test. But less and less did it feel like the consequences of failing that test would be dire.

“If I may, Second Lieutenant Vaughn, “ He couldn’t believe she still hadn’t budged on being addressed like he was one of her Marines. “Let me try to address your bullet points in turn.” He propped his elbows on the table and used his right hand to tick off the fingers of his left.

“One.” He paused with a slight laugh as he replayed her presentation in his mind. “I guess I need to get better at pretending, so no use denying I’ve looked. Two, I will refer you back to my previous statement on daydreams that I can neither confirm nor deny, but I think given we are being blunt I can confirm that, yes, Second Lieutenant Vaughn, I find you exceedingly attractive.”

He started to wonder if he was making a mistake, but he was tired of being worried and decided to try and be at least a little bold. “Three” A shift in his seat and his face becomes a bit more animated. “See this is where it starts to go all pear shaped for me. You were the first to offer to sit next to me. Now I took this as an implied invitation to sit next to you. You seemed pretty receptive to the notion as you clearly leaned into me. So far, Mr Hawthorne...” He referred to himself by last name to punctuate his annoyance that she continued to insist on using it. “...is feeling pretty good about things. Up to this point, Second Lieutenant Vaugh has not deflected his attentions.”

“Then the hand on the shoulder, which was quite obviously shrugged off. Now whether this was an outright rejection or a cautious attempt to avoid the appearance of impropriety, a ship I would argue had sailed at that point, moving away was, I think, a perfectly logical and polite reaction.”

“So I think you can see how, when this was immediately met with some very bold assertions and a request for answers that would make the Viet Cong proud, maybe, just maybe, that was a bit of a mixed signal.”

He sits back himself. “I think we disposed of the bullet points from there on out, but you then proceeded to assert that you were being direct about what you wanted. A ‘good hard fuck’ as you put it so eloquently. But this assertion was immediately preceded by my saying you could make a move, which you completely ignored, and immediately followed by a reminder that you are my superior and fraternization is frowned upon. I’m honestly not sure what the fuck to do with that second Lieutenant Vaughn.”

Dex then slid forward in his seat, letting his knees slide on either side of hers. “So I guess I’m left to ask. If I had tried to kiss you, would I have gotten a tongue or a reprimand?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She chuckled, honestly, at his response - listing her bullet points back out to him. At least, in no uncertain terms, she knew that he found her attractive. That, she could work with. There seemed to be an invisible weight lifted from her shoulders as she took another bite of her food, savoring it, and turning over how to respond in her head.

“I’m of two minds on this, Dex,” his unspoken reprimand answered now, and an unspoken request for a truce. “First mind is - you’re not bad looking, apparently single, and you’ve been staring at me hard enough for the last few weeks that I figure you’re attracted in some way, shape or form. So why not go for it? It’s been a while for me and I definitely could use a fuck of the caliber that I forget my name and what planet I’m on.” A pause as she took in a deep breath, “But on the other hand, I am still your superior, and fraternization isn’t really supposed to be a thing. Among equals, yes - but anything romantic, or, let’s be more honest, lust-driven, leads to all sorts of abuses of power and drama. And I think we’re both old enough to not want to deal with any of that.”

He’s fair about the mixed signals - I’ve been hot and cold this entire time because I can’t figure out what to do. I was hoping he might be a bit more bold and just go for it, but I can respect the fact that he didn’t.

She leaned forward to sip from her drink. A hibiscus tea, tart and sweet, deep red. “I don’t mean to be hot and cold, really,” a slip of honesty, some of that accent filtering in as if she’d given up for the time being. “I’ve been trying to decide what to do with all of this since I first got wind of it. Thought that by being blunt, I’d get an honest reaction - which I did - that would make me want to piss or get off the pot, as the old folks would say. But the more I think about it, and the more I say it all out loud, the more I think that this is probably not the best idea. I do, however, want to make something clear - me taking you out to this place? Purely platonic. I thought it might be nice to break the tension; build at least a fumbling sense of camaraderie. You don’t have to be psychic to know that you’re not too fond of me being in the same office as your team - and would prefer for me to be as hands off as possible. It’s not like I-” Abruptly, she cut herself off.

Don’t go getting too causal with him. You don’t really know the guy outside of his name, that he’s divorced, and the girls in admin have a betting pool on who can actually get him to flirt with them.

“It’s not like I didn’t notice,” she continued, hoping that it sounded smoother than it felt. “It’s partially to be expected, you know. But anyway. With all of that out of the way,” a democratic clearing of her throat, “I’ve made a mess of all of this - am quite out of my element, to be honest, and playing up being a sex kitten hasn’t worked in my favor. So, why don’t we salvage what’s left of this incredibly awkward team-building exercise and act like none of this happened beyond me treating you to a meal?”