[ChicletPrime]

Guten Tag

I used to think that picking blood out from under my fingernails was the worst part of things. Bad enough to have to resort to petty violence but then to have to be all hands on with it? How gauche.

Then again, perhaps if I’d been better at straight up magic I could stand at a nice safe distance and fry my problems with a nice cauterising electrical strike like a good little girl. My cousin Claudine had certainly taken to that side of things like a duck to water, tossing around static shocks like she’d invented the things; at least until Steven had put a stop to that particular piece of flaunt. The little quarter sized scar on her palm where he’d grounded her is a lovely little reminder that teachers are always on the lookout for prime opportunities to engage with their students over an object lesson.

But no, no. My particular gifts turned out to be less esoteric and much more kinetic and immediate. I’m like some sort of neanderthal throwback in the family line, only, you know, with nice lipstick and a killer wardrobe. I suppose it’s a small price to pay that sometimes I have to deal with a little cleanup.

Look at my nails critically one more time for any missed spots. I’ve gotten used to keeping them blunt and short at least, with a pretty little french manicure to make the best of a bad situation. The pale tips certainly make it easy to see if I’ve cleaned them properly between engagements. They seem passable for the moment and thankfully nothing has chipped this time which is a singular bright spot to this whole annoying week. I’ve been consoling myself with the knowledge that pretty Claudine wouldn’t last an hour out here.

Flip the small multitool closed and tuck its slim length back into my pocket where it makes a discreet line in the tailored fit. The late morning sun trickles down through the whispering trees, nearly masking the sound of the far away cries from the tunnel access as something dies or gets eaten or rises up or, let’s face it, all three at once. The bridge leading across the estuary to this forward base camp is littered with the broken bodies of those who tried to escape from the coast town and every so often, some of them keep trying to stick with that program. I guess you can’t blame them for trying. If I could keep going out of here, I know I would.

The rustling trees can’t mask the sound of chittering radios though, the terse conversations and occasionally barked orders as six or seven of them in loose uniform peel out to do heaven knows what, only the Eye knows where. I don’t know what it is but I’ve found there’s a certain odor to the military; something that’s carried like a stain in the folds of the camouflage patterns. A certain cologne made up of rubber coated wires snaking over trampled dirt and the flicker of digital displays, the musk of male intent maybe that has everything to do with the perception of domination and control, all lined up just like the cute little tents they’ve brought along for the occasion.

This carved out circle of hard packed ground, barely more than a biouvac with pretensions, is some sort of joint venture between the Special Forces and the Department of Homeland Security, although how that particular pairing ended up in army bed together is beyond me. Personally, this seems a rather stupid place for a forward camp, placed as it is at the thinning edge of a spindly forest at the base of the foothills next to nearly nothing of interest; I’d have sent them where the Orochi are putting identification tags on things at the bridge leading to the mainland. Perhaps this is an example of discretion being the better part of valour? Who knows how these things get decided.

Not my call, of course. I’ve just been taking advantage of it, since it’s here. Cleaning my nails, leaning on a set up table while I watch a few of them doing their morning calisthenics or punishment details or whatever it is that has a line of them doing push-ups on the ground. And let’s be honest, you’re not going to catch me complaining about the unexpected treat. There’s something atavistic about an exercising male; all that physical power with the overt flex of muscle, the slide of tanned flesh, the sheen to the skin with the tank tops they’re wearing moulding so very nicely to the attributes on display. The couple nearest to me keep looking out of the corner of their eyes too, which is gratifying. As a reward, I’ve made sure to stay in clear sight as incentive to the hormonal thrust and shove.

Interestingly enough the liaison between the two divisions is female and I’ve already forgotten her name which I guess says everything about how effective I think she’s going to be. Thankfully I’m not in this particular chain of command so I’ve already been out and back from scouting the local area this morning since nobody is going to pretend to give me orders. While I made a few bad moves that could have turned ugly, they didn’t and since nobody saw them, they didn’t actually happen. One hand clapping in the forest or whatever. I think Steven would have been proud of me on that last little piece of work too although it’s so hard to tell with the true elemental mages. I don’t think he’s ever really gotten over my lack of aptitude for the pure arts.

The lovely red sweater I’m wearing covers a multitude of tiny splashback sins and with my nails clean and perhaps a bite of whatever passes for breakfast around here, I suppose I could be ready for the afternoon’s little projects. Kirsten’s chipper dispatches from headquarters have been getting a little pointed, which can only mean I’m doing a good job and I’ve got no intention of letting my progress slide.

Onwards and upwards, as they say.