smelltheashes | (no subject)

Entry tags:

interlude

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She claimed a bunk early to ensure that she'd have a place to sleep. Her personal effects are carefully stowed. And she's taken a quick walking tour so she knows where everything is.

Eleanor Freeman is as settled in at White Forest as she's likely to get for the time being. Time to get to work on that hunter-chopper.

...just as soon as she finishes sorting through this box of cleaning rags and setting aside all the pieces of potentially usable fabric. Having a job to do is no excuse to be wasteful!

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"That's me," Shephard says. "I'm guessin' you're the mechanic? Eleanor Freeman?"

He and Dr. Freeman don't talk much if they can help it, but he got filled in on who'd be working on the chopper before heading down here.

"Just 'Eleanor' is fine." She picks up the box and strolls over to where the helicopter is parked. (She's a very petite girl, but the box weighs considerably less than it did before she started sorting through it.)

Shephard nods. "Fine by me," he says. "Thanks for comin' out here, by the way."

"You're welcome," she says pleasantly.

She slows to a stop when she walks around to the side of the hunter-chopper and gets her first glimpse of the alterations Shephard has made to the paint job.

She doesn't say a word, but her nose is wrinkling in spite of itself.

"Problem?" says Shephard, glancing from chopper to Eleanor and back again. "Didn't have much of time nor tools."

Of course, she could have picked up the Black Mesa survivor dislike for the Corps, but... well, he'll deal with that if that's the case.

"Just one more thing to tune up, I suppose," she says, smoothing out her expression again.

"I'll fix that part myself," Shephard says. "Would've done it sooner, if I'd got the chance." He pauses. "Shit. Probably did 'n I just didn't think t'do it. Gettin' lax in my old age..."

Eleanor frowns faintly. "How old are you?"

"Born 1979, put on ice in 2001, thawed out coupla weeks ago," says Shephard. "So it's been forty-two years since I was born but I only lived 'bout twenty-two of 'em."

Just like Gordon, muses Eleanor.

"May I ask why?"

Shephard's up-til-now congenial expression suddenly hardens.

"Some pisslicking sheepfuckin' dog bastard shit of a walkin' fuckin' cadaver in a goddamn grey suit rigged half the crap that happened at Black Mesa, and the son of a turdburner reckoned I'd seen too much'n might go tellin' someone what really happened down in that ballsuckin' pit... I ever see that ass-eyed G-man again he's gonna get his ass kicked so hard his stomach's gonna ask when the fuck he swallowed a boot."

Shephard does not have quite so many issues stemming from the Incident as Gordon. But the one he does have is the end-of-year twice-normal-size special with the special glossy color inserts and the index for the preceding twelve months stuffed into the back.

"..."

Yeah, that's all you're getting out of her.

"... sorry."

Once in a while he remembers to back up and look at his sentences from the point of view of someone who isn't him. Not often, but.

Eleanor manages a small, tight smile. (Gordon did mention the man in the suit to her, albeit without quite so much strong language. She's not about to mention that, though. If her uncle wants his secrets told, he can tell them himself.)

"Let's just get to work, shall we?"

"Yeah, okay," Shephard mutters, and makes a mental note to cut back a little around Eleanor. You don't want your mechanic taking a disliking to you, no you do not. "Want me to git started on the paint first, or there somethin' else needs a second set of hands? I know motorcycle engines, mostly."

"Just watch what I do, please," Eleanor says crisply as she walks to the tail of the chopper and starts unscrewing the bolts that hold the rotor in place.

Shephard nods and follows along as best he can. He'll be asking questions as they go, of course, but he's going to be quiet at least at first. You learn more by paying attention than by asking what you should've been paying attention to to begin with, in his experience.

* * *

A little over an hour later, Eleanor tightens the last bolt on the fuselage and wipes the sweat from her brow. "Okay, we're done here. Any more questions?"

"Not just yet," says Shephard. "Reckon I'll be askin' more the more I git to know, though. Fair warnin'."

"Of course." Eleanor tugs off her Seattle Seahawks cap and shakes out her hair before replacing it. "Did you want to work on the paint now or...?"

"No time like the present," says Shephard. "Where's the turpentine?"

He knows better than to ask for masking tape around here.

"Back inside, probably," says Eleanor, looking toward the door that connects the hangar to the rest of the base.

Shephard nods. "There ain't much room to adjust what I got on there as is," he says, "so I reckon the best bet's to git as much of that sh- that paint as I can off, let the thinner dry out 'n all, then start over from scratch." He rubs at his nose before adding, "Ought to git a lambda in there too, dunno if it belongs on the sides or the nose or more towards the tail, though..."

"It should be on both sides," says Eleanor. "If someone doesn't see it, you're going to get friendly fire."

A beat.

"On that note, we should look into painting a lambda on the Borealis as well."

"Yeah, point," Shephard says. "Ain't like we don't got enough paint. Won't bother puttin' it on the underside, though, half of that shit opens up for mine-dropping."

He considers the Borealis prospect, and nods. "Can't hurt. Up by the name, you think?"

Eleanor nods. "Possibly on the stern as well. She's a big ship."

"Makes sense. Soon as we git this done we ought t'go 'n let Ms. Vance know 'bout your idea, see if we can git started while it's still daylight."

Another nod. "But first--turpentine."

"Will do," Shephard promises, and heads for the door. It can't take that long to find the stuff, right?

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