Post by Tennessee Whiskey on Jan 19, 2016 10:33:43 GMT -8
The blackout curtains in the hotel were pretty decent, but they'd gone over with tape and tarps anyway. Second nature by now, as much as Whiskey travels, and it's dark enough now that she can't even see the ceiling. It's not the least comfortable place she's ever been in, not by a long shot.
For one thing, there's a bed, which puts it one up on the barracks and that lucky fraction of extractions that went south and then haywire, leaving them in the middle of the desert like a bump on a log for hours or days. The sheets are even pretty clean, for a motel just the nicer side of no-tell. Could probably pick up something off of them if she really felt the need, but she really doesn't. It's not even nice enough, though, that it's 'too nice,' like the place they put her up for the summit in Paris, all simulated vistas and unnecessary thread counts. She'd slept on the floor. Home had been like that, too, for the first few months, before it had stopped becoming 'the coterie' and had started becoming home. Not that home was without its issues lately...
Actually, if she focused hard enough, she could see the ceiling, just a little. There was some kind of glittering crap stuck in the textured tiles. Probably mica. Sort of like a pale shadow of the stars on the other side, though those had to be beginning to fade by now. The pull of the sun was heavy already, and there wasn't really any point in resisting it, but here Whiskey was. Staring at the ceiling.
It's not really a physical sensation, then, the itch that flexes her ankles and curls her fingers, but a psychological one, and in that way it does bring her back to the long FUBAR extractions, on her back in the sand staring up into the Milky Way. They achieved mission success, technically, but there's something in her blood, that small part of her that is Whiskey's and not Haqim's, and it's telling her she's not done. It's too late--or too early now, depending on your perspective--for her to pace the room like a caged tiger, but it's all she feels. Even as the sun finally drags her into her rest, she rolls back out of bed the next night without the feeling of any time having passed. She's slept in her boots, and her coat, and her sword, so all she needs to do is tear down the tarp over the window and then she's across the hallway before she's made a conscious choice to be, and the moment the petite blonde answers the door the words are out of Whiskey's mouth before she's thought to say them.
"Ma'am, I'd like to go back in."
For one thing, there's a bed, which puts it one up on the barracks and that lucky fraction of extractions that went south and then haywire, leaving them in the middle of the desert like a bump on a log for hours or days. The sheets are even pretty clean, for a motel just the nicer side of no-tell. Could probably pick up something off of them if she really felt the need, but she really doesn't. It's not even nice enough, though, that it's 'too nice,' like the place they put her up for the summit in Paris, all simulated vistas and unnecessary thread counts. She'd slept on the floor. Home had been like that, too, for the first few months, before it had stopped becoming 'the coterie' and had started becoming home. Not that home was without its issues lately...
Actually, if she focused hard enough, she could see the ceiling, just a little. There was some kind of glittering crap stuck in the textured tiles. Probably mica. Sort of like a pale shadow of the stars on the other side, though those had to be beginning to fade by now. The pull of the sun was heavy already, and there wasn't really any point in resisting it, but here Whiskey was. Staring at the ceiling.
It's not really a physical sensation, then, the itch that flexes her ankles and curls her fingers, but a psychological one, and in that way it does bring her back to the long FUBAR extractions, on her back in the sand staring up into the Milky Way. They achieved mission success, technically, but there's something in her blood, that small part of her that is Whiskey's and not Haqim's, and it's telling her she's not done. It's too late--or too early now, depending on your perspective--for her to pace the room like a caged tiger, but it's all she feels. Even as the sun finally drags her into her rest, she rolls back out of bed the next night without the feeling of any time having passed. She's slept in her boots, and her coat, and her sword, so all she needs to do is tear down the tarp over the window and then she's across the hallway before she's made a conscious choice to be, and the moment the petite blonde answers the door the words are out of Whiskey's mouth before she's thought to say them.
"Ma'am, I'd like to go back in."
