Description: After having taken 'leave' from her duties of the Ikari Warriors, former NESTS assassin Whip has lived comfortably in Southtown with her newfound brother, K'. She has made new friends, and found new enemies. But civilian life for a soldier is fleeting; soon, duty comes knocking at her front door in the most peculiar way...
It's been a pretty quiet weekend.
Quiet as in she's found the time to check her watch, reorganize the weapons in her gunny sac, go through the spam filters in all her email boxes, lower her Mii's score even more pathetically on Wii Bowling, and for the first time in her life watch golf on T.V quiet. Whip didn't think life could ever get this quiet. She didn't think it was possible to have so much time on her hands. What with the Ikari empty of assignments to send her on, and her apartment empty of brothers and friends who've flown off to New York City to compete in this week's SNF, and with her health, youth, and freedom at her complete disposal, what's a Whip to do? The realization had hit her clear across the head like a sledgehammer, and the clarity in its wake only left the soldier feeling giddy. What could she do? She could do anything she wants.
/Anything she wants...!/
"...I am. So. Boring," Whip is saying to herself, two hours later, as she dutifully carts a bag of groceries home. The night is sharp and chilly, the streets dark where they're not lit up in vivid holiday lights that colour many of the windows and balconies of the streetsides. She could be living it up on a night out on the town, and she nearly almost did, inching up a few last wary steps to the door of some trendy, packed club, booming so hard with music that you could feel the bass if you laid a hand on the foundation wall. She very nearly went in. Her hand had even reached for the door. She was almost inside. And then someone behind her suddenly laughed, loudly, and the poor Ikari spooked and took off.
And went food shopping.
Frowning a little regretfully to herself, using both arms to hoist the brown paper bag of goods, Whip can only roll her eyes at her own memory and exhale a heavy breath that mists visibly in the December air. She's so pathetic. Someday she's really going to stop being so shy.
Whip is not alone.
Whether she is aware or not, someone--or possibly something--has been watching her for some time since she left the cozy comfort of her shared apartment. For two hours that unknown has been stalking along through shadows, keeping watchful gaze upon the Ikari woman as she ambles through the city alone. Even now, those unseen set of eyes keep watch as she wanders through the dark, empty streets of Southtown with groceries in hand.
Certainly, this isn't the sight anyone would expect of her.
In the dead, silent air that fills the vacant streets, a second set of footsteps follow hers, staggering mere seconds behind each step she takes, but keeping pace with her. There's a tall, imposing figure behind her, a form in a long dark coat keeping its distance in near-darkness though it stalks after her like her very shadow. It says nothing and makes no sound, save the click of heels on pavement. And although its face remains hidden by a fedora perched atop its head, eyes can be felt staring intently at the woman's prone back.
And whether she is aware of it or not, it suddenly moves, a glint of silvery steel flashing in darkness set free of the form's gloved hand. It sails harmlessly past her face, gliding past her ear and cheek, dangerously close as it whistles beyond and lands in an aged telephone pole.
The presumably-male figure remains silent, waiting and watching for her reaction.
Soon enough, Whip's thoughts turn from her self-deprecating mantra. Though appearances may suggest otherwise, and she looks as harmless as they come -- just an average young woman carting her week's groceries home to her solitary life -- she's never completely bereft of her old training. It doesn't take long for her to realize that she's not alone. Soon enough, someone else's footsteps seem to exist out of nowhere, shadowing her own in a slow, deliberate stride, the step marked as though it wants her to hear.
This may be because of two reasons. This is someone who has no need to disguise his step because he means her no harm, or this is someone who has no need to disguise his step because she means /him/ no harm. And call it a myriad of life lessons, or just K''s healthy paranoia leeched onto her through months of co-habiting osmosis, but Whip likes to prefer the latter. Though her own step doesn't falter, and her unchanging body language fails to betray her tension, her hands tighten imperceptively on her grocery bag, and her dark eyes narrow with worry.
If she's being followed, anyone who's watched her closely enough would know tonight is a good night to strike. She's all alone. She wouldn't have anyone to call--
Whip grimaces. As if she'd even do as much with people around.
She supposes it's time to act. It's time to find out what's about to happen. The mouth of an alley is coming up close, a means for her to quickly detour, hide, and get the surprise on any interloper; decided, she cuts a sharp step to the left-- and stops when she feels something come so close to touching her cheek. It flinches by so fast that the cool air wafts across her face. Her eye, sharp as it is, widening as it does now, barely catches the glint of silver before it buries deep into aged wood.
Whip doesn't even think. The movement is as natural to her as breathing, as she merely drops the parcel of groceries to land heavily on the pavement, fruit spilling free and rolling around her ankles. She spins on the spot, her hands disappearing momentarily under the sides of her suede coat. In her right hand aims a gleaming handgun, the barrel of a desert eagle looking big enough to drive a train through even at sixty paces. In her left hand hang the long, heavy, looping coils of a bullwhip.
"Try to move and I'm takin' your face, asshole," Whip's angry voice suddenly demands of the chilly air. "Who are you?!"
Her movements are swift, the grace and fluidity of a well-trained woman who has lived long enough to have the sharpness veterans would only dream of possessing. Her groceries discarded, left to fall helplessly to the cold ground, she faces that odd, shrouded figure directly. In the blink of an eye, Whip has gone from 'helpless' to a perceivable threat, what with the almost too-large Desert Eagle in hand and her trademark whip in the other.
The figure, however, doesn't move.
In fact, it stands still--almost perfectly still, its breaths slow and measured as it holds firm to the ground it stands upon. Long arms hand loosely at its sides, spidery gloved digits slowly shifting about in an unconscious gesture. Though its face remains almost impossible to make out, there's the tiniest hint of humor bleeding from the stranger before her.
'Try to keep up,' the air about it almost seems to say.
One step is taken, a discreet click of hardened sole on concrete as it boldly moves forward.
Another is taken, heedless of second warning, should Whip be benevolent.
And a third--but suddenly, it's gone.
Almost.
The form flickers, a blur of blacks and browns as it swiftly moves across the once-gaping void between itself and the young Ikari woman. Despite her demands, the figure says nothing; instead, the obviously-male figure attempts to come in fast upon her and reach out, to try and grab her by the front of her shirt and toss her harmlessly to the ground with a soft 'hmmph' of exertion.
Whip's eyes narrow when her unknown aggressor seems to flicker into nothingness. But that look in her eyes is not surprise as much as it is fierce familiarity. She recognizes such a movement, witnessing her brother capable of movement so fast that it's escaped her very eyes. Instead of wasting time firing her gun uselessly his way, she does the only thing she can do: she lets past experience give her a blind faith.
Without even seeing him to know if he's moving toward her, she moves fast, side-strafing to one side the instant that darkened figure -- that darkened /man/ -- blurs close. His fingers miss her by millimetres as she turns, her body parallel to the reach of his arm. The speed at which he moves ruffles her dark hair, her bangs framing the angry set of the soldier's eyes. They're narrowed, trying desperately hard to look up at her opponent's face. But it's too dark. And she doesn't have time.
She'll worry about identities later.
For now, Whip seems apt to live up to her word. Unable to uncoil her bullwhip at such close quarters, she relies on the Desert Eagle in her right hand, trying to reach her arm suddenly over his to aim the barrel straight at where she assumes to be his face. He'll have a heartbeat to react before it fires.
Though long gloved digits reach out for the Ikari woman, they manage to grip nothing of her person. As expected of a woman like herself, a woman with experience in the field of battle and her 'unique' genetic manufacturing, she deftly avoids his grasp, her body twirling and positioning her abreast to his considerably tall form. Unseen eyes peer down upon her in that brief moment--she doesn't need to see them, she can likely FEEL them.
And there's a bit of distant humor in them.
But she moves like her namesake, cracking into motion rather suddenly and perhaps a bit unexpectedly. Within mere seconds her heavy Desert Eagle is suddenly staring the shrouded figure's face down, that odd, unseen gaze--barely visible in what dim light cuts the darkness here--widening briefly. She's a soldier. She's an Ikari. And that means she won't hesitate an instant to take advantage of the moment to defend herself.
A finger curls, squeezing the trigger.
The figure moves sharply as the gun roars in her hand, shot fired into the night. The man cuts to the right, his form lurching to the side just barely out of harm's way in an attempt to avoid his brains being splattered on the pavement. But it doesn't go without some casualty. The scent of blood is faint in the air.
That doesn't seem to thwart this figure, however. He moves, silently zipping forward once more as he drops low, long fingers splayed on pavement as a long leg snaps out and around to connect with Whip's ankles in an effort to sweep her off her feet in an attempt to disorient--as well as disarm her.
The Desert Eagle fires with a wicked recoil; not many people would be able to steady such a powerful weapon in one hand only. It is a mix of genetic tampering and years of training that allow this lean, harmless-looking young woman to wield her weapon as dismissively as she does. She's only passes the painful kick of her gun the briefest of glances; this faceless stranger remains the sole occupant of the rest of her attention.
She can smell blood, but Whip can't let herself feel victorious too soon. She can't capitalize on adrenaline too soon in the fight or she'll wear herself out. Forcing on her usual, stern-faced patience, she pulls back her smoking firearm, trying to backstep suddenly, sharply to cut distance between their two bodies. Close combat is not her strength, and especially not against an enemy who has proven himself to posess similar to her brother's unnatural speed. She won't be able to keep up.
Who /IS/ he?! What is it he wants? Could he be an enemy of the Ikari and have recognized her as one of the mencenary's ranks? Is it someone after K'?
Whip doesn't have time to wonder.
Her evasive footwork doesn't get to happen, her aggressor seeming to have read her thoughts -- or at least her body language -- as he suddenly drops down out of her range and aim. Whip curses close combat, already knowing in the back of her mind what he intends to do and lacking the reaction time to stop it. The man's leg drives powerfully at her ankles. Her teeth grit for the glimpse of a heartbeat. And she goes down, hard, her spine, skull, and then the tiny bones of her wrist smashing painfully against the concrete. The gun clatters noisily out of her hand. Her eyes twitch as for several moments all she can see are stars.
"Sonuva--" she's sneering thinly, at the back of her throat, trying desperately to lurch back up to one knee -- unless he's there to stop her first.
The faceless man moves silently, drawing in with little sound save the click of heels and the flap of his black trenchcoat's tails behind him. Despite the scent of blood in the air between them, the figure moves without hindrance; clearly, the shot did little to stunt his movements. With persistence he drops low and lets his leg sweep her off her feet. It works.
It does the trick, precisely what the man had hoped for. From her grip the Desert Eagle clatters noisily on pavement, just beyond her reach. Immediately the form moves, that offending leg reaching out to kick the gun from her reach entirely, silver spinning wildly as it skids a few feet from the Ikari woman and her odd assailant.
Who is he? What does he want? The man is not answering any questions.
The man moves swiftly as he can, cloth rustling softly in the darkness as he, like her, seeks to capitalize on her moment of vulnerability. Planting the heel of his outstretched leg firmly beneath him, the man gives his body a swift lunge forward with a faint 'hrrmph' of exertion. His intent is clear: one knee will attempt to come down upon the Ikari's whip-wielding arm, the other pinned at the forearm by the man's gloved. As for his other arm?
Whipping forward, long gloved fingers swoop in, rigid and stiff as they come dangerously close to the young woman's pale, bare throat. Pressure firmly applied, he merely intimidates, cold fingertips daring to puncture her soft flesh in a heartbeat. He moves nary a muscle; he merely pins her there for a long, oddly silent moment.
Then he speaks--finally, a familiar, dry voice cutting the silence between them:
"Civilian life has dulled your skills, Whip."
The gun is already forgotten. Whip carries too many weapons to worry about reclaiming just one of them. There's no time for that. She is wasting any moment she's not spending acting.
Her eyes haven't even blinked away their pained fog when she's trying to retaliate, securing the handle of her prized bullwhip into her left palm. Her fingers tighten down. And she pulls on her arm, suddenly trying to swing the weapon into sudden life--
Until his knee slams down over her wrist. Hissing, her other arm moves, the scarred palm of her right hand curling shut into a fist -- but he's fast, and her second arm is quick to follow the first as it's nailed to the pavement. The empty hand flexes angrily. Dangerous light burns inside her dark, flaring eyes.
The young woman tries to tense her body, every single muscle locking up as she no doubt prepares to shuck this man off her body by force, relying on that underlying, unnatural strength that's been genetically grafted to her body, but in one last movement to complete his elegant orchestration of victory, Whip's opponent secures her with the promise of fingertips pressed against her throat. She has a tiny throat for such a hardened soldier. It would not take much more than a flinch for him to do damage to her trachea. Much more than a steely push of his arm to sever her neck.
Whip seems to know this, because she goes very still. But even as the fight seems to go dormant inside her body, the patient anger never drains from her face. She's frowning up through the darkness at her faceless executioner, waiting with timeless patience for him to act. Because if he will not, then she certainly will. She doesn't intend to die in a place like this, not here, not now-- she has plans, and if she's supposed to die, it will be protecting those she loves.
Her teeth grit. Her lips twitch, and when she's about to bark up at him what the hell he's waiting for... he speaks first.
That voice.
First her eyes widen. Then the blood rushes out of her face. Whip's eyes widen, even if she's still unable to see. She forgets every last bit of her anger.
She just utters, in total disbelief, "S-- sir?!"
She's pinned, but she isn't any less dangerous.
A fool would merely pin her down, suspending use of the Ikari's arms. But her assailant clearly knows better; a hand shoots forward, threatening to crush her throat with mere pressure. Will he or won't he-the man's movements, his demeanor; everything remains a mystery.
But she's angry--it's visible there in her smoldering eyes, those angry depths peering up at this seemingly faceless figure. As still as she may be, she's as lively as ever beneath the coated figure's lanky but heavy frame. He doesn't hold back; all musclely two-hundred pounds bears down upon her arms and keeps her there.
Will he?
Or won't he?
He speaks instead, familiar tone gracing the young Ikari's ears and startling her. Her expression draws an unseen vague smirk over weathered features, his weight relenting somewhat before he smoothly withdraws. Lifting his knee he gives her freedom of her arm, followed by the other, as he comes to stand on his feet. And once there, a gloved hand is extended, offered to Whip.
"Indeed. I apologize for my absence," he offers, his words as crisp as the evening air. Once she's back on her feet his hand reaches up, plucking the black fedora from his skull, revealing his familiar face in all its one-eyed glory to his subordinate. In one swift motion he brings his legs together and raises an arm, giving the woman proper and painfully-formal salute. There, on his lips, remains the vague smile.
But it falters somewhat, vanishing from sight as his one, good eye hoods slightly as he squares his jaw.
"It has come to my attention that you recently got yourself in a bit of trouble.
"Explain."
For all of a moment, Whip can only stare in surprise when her commanding officer reveals himself to her, pulling away from her arms and throat to hand her back her freedom. He is the last person she'd ever expect accosting her on a darkened residential street in Southtown, the last person she'd ever think of seeing standing amidst so much decorative holiday lights and festive art. She would sooner expect Igniz himself to be here. But Commander Heidern?
The last she remembers seeing him was when she requested transfer out of South America to the Ikari outpost in Japan. Her only quiet explanation had been that she had finally found her brother, her only family in the world, and she wished to spend some time getting to know him. The request was approved, and she said a brief good-bye to all the friends she had spent a year getting to know. At the time, Whip was sad to leave them, sad to leave behind the first few people she had ever managed to trust -- the very home what had taught her all of her treasured principles and morals. She was nervous to let it all go to stay with a brother she didn't even know.
One part of her thought she would have been back there all too soon, when the novelty wore then, when either she or K' had decided that they were better off going their own ways.
But as the many months that have passed, Whip seems to have made Southtown her new home, a separate life and entity from that she used to keep with the Ikari. But, eventually, even her worlds must collide. And they do now, as her commanding officer cuts a strict, severe, and all-too-familiar form on her way home. Whip just exhales as she stares wonderously up at him.
Then he apologizes and extends her hand, and she quickly remembers herself. Sitting up, Whip is prompt to reclaim her fallen weapons, holstering her gun and coiling up the strewn length of her bullwhip. Gratefully, she takes her commander's hand up and rises briskly to her feet, balancing to her feet long enough to straighten her back, square her shoulders, and greet him with a respectful salute. She maintains the motion until he returns it, but even as her arm lowers, she does not dare loosen her posture from its armed stance. Whip won't dare stand down until Heidern allows her to.
And she won't decline answering a question that she really, really wished he didn't ask. Whip suppresses a small grimace, remembering how relieved she felt that the commander hadn't been present when the Ikari had briefed her in the hospital following her rescue from the Syndicate. She was glad he wasn't there to see her looking the way she did. But now...?
"Sir," she concedes at first. "I volunteered for an assignment the Japanese government had asked of the Ikari Warriors, which involved investigating the influx of illegal arms over the border from the Russian mob. I jumped my original orders and requested to stop a transaction in progress. My request was cleared by the government. However, I failed and was taken captive by the enemy," she explains, trusting Heidern's present intelligence of the situation. She's sure he only wants to hear it from her. "I... I was rescued by my brother, sir."
His hat in hand, Heidern looks nothing like the soldier he often does. Rather than wear his familiar uniform and beret, the one-eyed veteran has traded them in for the moment in favor of a long black coat, slacks, blazer and button-down. If anything, the Ikari Commander looks the part of a civilian, blending easily in amongst them like a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Save for that eye patch, of course.
But he's here, and he's addressing his soldier directly. He remembers the odd request she'd placed, to be stationed in Southtown to be with family. Heidern was, of course, conflicted; she was a prized soldier, one of his very best, a good woman with a good head on her shoulders. But he knew well that family was the most important thing. However reluctant, she was allowed to go with her newfound brother.
Duty, however, calls.
Aiding the soldier woman and helping her get back onto her feet, Heidern's features remain stern and simply observes her as she gathers her belongings previously discarded. He doesn't apologize--he shouldn't have to. He wanted to test her mettle after so long, and did. When she salutes, he salutes, as proper protocol demands, the two lowering arms as the Ikari Commander gets straight to business.
He listens. Not once does that single, blue eye falter from the young woman before him, his eye keen as she explains her side of the story. He trusts her, and knows she would not lie boldly to him. He knows he can trust her words as the absolute truth, and silently accepts them as she tells her tale.
And when all is said and done, the imposing man in black remains silent. For some time he merely observes the woman, looking down upon her with an expressionless face. Unreadable, unemotional; the Ikari Command is a blank book laid open before his subordinate.
Then, slowly, his one eye shuts.
"Unfortunate," the man replies, his posture rigid and stiff. Folding his arms behind his back, the man slowly turns, his eye reopening to gaze at the distant street crossing ahead of the pair. "Were you interrogated by the enemy? Did you divulge any sensitive information to them?" Slowly he turns his head back, peering with that one good eye toward the brunette an arm's reach from him. His lips twitch slightly, a ghost of a frown edging across his weathered features.
"And your brother saved you..?" He looks vaguely perplexed.
Soon enough his features fall flat once more, his face cold, stern and its usual emotionless self once more. He turns away once more, taking a few measured steps from the Ikari woman before he stops and tilts his head slightly back.
"Due to the circumstances related to your capture," he offers grimly to the darkness ahead, his eye narrowing as he stares ahead. "And your subsequent rescue by the hands of another not affiliated with the Ikari, as well as possible risk and compromise of information which may or may not now be in enemy hands..."
Feet shuffle, well-polished black loafers scuffing against the ground as he again turns to face the young woman. He is entirely serious, lacking any tell-tale emotion, be it disappointment or sincerity, as he fixes his blue eye upon Whip once more.
"Your orders are to return to the Ikari Headquarters for assignment and training, Whip."
It's as simple as that.
He moves shortly after, however, approaching her with that same lack of expression. He only stops when he's a foot and change from her, his gaze peering down upon her. Perhaps unexpected is the lift of his gloved hand and the settle of it upon her shoulder, where he gingerly applies a reassuring squeeze. The faintest hint of a smile can be seen.
"It's good to see you are all right, Whip. I'm glad you are still with us and capable."
Briefly, however, the man flinches. Beneath the trim of his coat and the lapel of his blazer a hint of deep red is visible, its source a gash running along the side of his neck where her shot grazed his throat. He says nothing; instead, his grin turns a little wry. She's not THAT rusty.
He may not be in his usual uniform (and that surprises her,) and they may not be back home on the Ikari base hidden in the thick jungles of South America, but Whip still reponds to Heidern all the same. Changes of scenery and outfits be damned, they both may appear as civilians disguising themselves along Southtown's residential streets, but all appearances may be deceiving. Whip betrays hers by maintaining the most unerring, painful posture in her commanding officer's presence, every muscle up and down her back rigid with respect. She hasn't even yet bent back down to try to retrieve her fallen groceries. They haven't even entered her mind as of yet.
She's still reeling from what appears to have been an impromptu examination... and though Commander Heidern's comments are good-humoured, Whip takes it as a failing mark. Has she been getting sloppy? She had really thought she could keep her senses and reflexes sharp, even outside of the daily, rigourous Ikari training. But Heidern's experience far outweighs her own, and it's his opinion that counts. She's dulled down like an often-used, unsharpened blade. Maybe that's what got her captured by the Syndicate in the first place. Maybe she's not fit to protect her brother at all.
Spirited dampened, but military posture unwavering, the young woman watches her superior expectantly as he quesions her on her sitrep. The subject of interrogations makes her attention fray a little, surprise sharpening the look in her brown eyes. Did she divulge any information to the enemy? The question is routine enough, but it strikes an unnerving chord inside her. It feels so close to the apparent truth of her past, and what she's chosen to hide deceptively from her comrades. But she never divulged Ikari intel to NESTS, not even once. Neither had she to the SS. But it doesn't make a difference, does it? Once a mole...
"Negative, sir," she replies firmly, her voice steady and strong. "I assure you the Syndicate failed to glean anything about our operations, nor would I ever freely offer them any such intel under duress." She pauses. "My particular interrogator... was less interested that I was an Ikari Warrior." And more interested that she was a woman. Just glancing back at that hatred memory darkens the look across Whip's face. Her lips twitch with anger. But she says nothing more about that.
Because Commander Heidern is already putting in an order. It seems her relocation to Southtown has been terminated. She has to return to South America.
Whether it's because of the personal ties she keeps in the city, or that she's just gone soft in the absence of the Ikari Warriors, but Whip looks startled to receive that news. Her lips part, and she looks so close -- so very close -- to questioning that order. To arguing it. In all the time she's served under Heidern, anything he's ordered of her has ever been countered.
...What would she tell K'? And Shurui? How could she break it to them that she has to leave? How will she convince K' that it's for the best? Is this even for the best? Will her brother be all right without her? Would he understand? Does she even want to go?
No, she'd be fooling herself to think herself immune from Ikari duty. She's as much as a soldier as she is a sister, and she can't ignore one responsibility for the other. She just needs to find a way to be able to balance them both. It won't be indefinite. She will see K' again. It should all be fine.
"Yes, sir," Whip replies obediently, snapping off another crisp salute. Her face is grim, her expression resolved... even if her eyes look a little unsure.
But the wistfulness smoothes away a little when her superior crosses over and sets a heavy hand down onto her shoulder. The young woman looks up, exhaling away a bit of her tension as she eventually returns his smile. "I'm glad to see you too, commander." She pauses slightly, being close enough to catch his flinch. And his blood. One part of Whip seems shocked; the other just feels proud. It's no small feat indeed to make Heidern bleed.
"--Do you need a bandaid for that, sir?" she asks, a little playfully.
His questions come without an inch of mercy, that one good blue eye of his intent on her features as he regards her with his own interrogation. Though he looks the part of just another suit on the streets, his demeanor--like his subordinates--is anything but casual. Sharp, precise, to the point; he is entirely business with Whip.
Ikari business.
His weathered features shift a bit, his only eye hooding discreetly beneath his brow. Her words are heard loud and clear, carefully measured by the imposing man before her. He nods once, a crisp and rigid gesture before his jaw seizes, teeth pulled tightly together behind his dry lips. Though he hears it, he doesn't necessarily LIKE what he hears. Her expressions aren't helping any.
"Understood, Whip," he replies. But there's more: he gives her orders.
Return to the Ikari. His eye does not leave her.
And it catches every slight, discreet nuance on her face, the slight, almost unnoticeable twitch of her lips, the way her features react. And though he observes, he says nothing of it; instead, he turns slightly on his heel once more, giving her a moment of silence to let the orders sink in. It has been some time since the Ikari CO has been actively present in the affairs of his company. Her surprise is expected, and likely was anticipated.
Her salute is met with one of his own, a sharp and formal gesture before he drops his arm. Quietly he paces forward, a hand applied. Though his orders are harsh and likely cruel, he offers kind words. He is glad to see her again, and so too is his subordinate. A faint grin cuts his lips.
Her observation earns her the faintest expression of muted bemusement, the man's one eye flickering aside as a hand reaches up. Running gloved digits across his prone neck, he draws it back, rubbing his index and middle fingers against his thumb. Blood? Slowly his gaze settles back upon Whip.
"I'll be fine, but thank you, Whip," he offers dryly, the corners of his lips tugging slightly in some semblance of a humored grin. But it doesn't last; his face drops mere moments after, his eye shifting elsewhere as he begins to turn. Slowly, his free hand reaches up and deposits into the deep pockets of his coat. It appears he's going to walk away--
But he doesn't move.
"Whip," His voice breaks the momentarily awkward silence.
"I'll give you one week to take care of loose ends here in Southtown."
He pauses, his head tipping back as he reaches up and places the black fedora atop his head.
"A plane will be waiting for you at oh five hundred hours next Sunday. That is all.
"Dismissed, soldier."
That warm grin from her commanding officer reflects in Whip's body language; the way she relaxes, the way she lets any residual tension from their previous, near-violent encounter ghost from her body. Her respect for Heidern is an absolute upon itself: he was the one who taught her the rules that outline her very morality today, and he -- though he doesn't know it -- is a powerful reason behind why she defected from the Cartel. Before the Ikari Warriors, Whip had never kept anything close to a warm relationship with her superiors. They were to be feared. They existed purely to hurt you if you did them any wrong. Any sort of authoritative fear that Heidern commands is never without an inherent sense of trust.
Mollified slightly, despite all the trepidations going on in her head, Whip lets the last traces of military etiquette relax out of her body, and when she assumes Heidern has turned to disappear as readily as he appeared, her attention begins to turn, her eyes flickering down at her fallen, half-forgotten parcel of groceries. She almost looks nostalgic in the way she watches produce spill slightly out of the paper bag; after all, inside it represents the life she was leading up until five minutes ago. It's now over. But she knows she would be fooling herself to think that she could spend the rest of her life like she has in Southtown... it is been fun, but she has other duties.
But it would be a lie to say she's going to miss this a bit.
Whip glances up sharply when she hears her name called, straightening reflexively in reply to Heidern's voice. She hears him out politely, as he instructs her to wrap up the entire life she had spent in Southtown in the matter of a week. His request may seem callous to some.
"Sir," she acknowledges, with another salute.
Whip turns then, disengaging to finally lean down and reach for her groceries. That's when she pauses shortly.
It may seem callous to some, but to her..
Heidern will have the time for a single step away, when Whip's low, quiet voice crosses the chilly air: "...Thank you."
She may be thanking him for giving her an entire week to say her good-byes, to spend Christmas with her friends and brother that she must ultimately leave behind. Or she might be thanking him for allowing her to have remained in Southtown for this long, where she was able to get to know her only family left in the world. Either way, Whip never reveals what. She doesn't need to. Instead, she shares a small, private smile, picks up her things, and slowly continues her way home.
Log created on 19:15:30 12/22/2008 by Heidern, and last modified on 20:55:04 12/24/2008.