The others called her stuck up, though. Bitchy. Cold.
“Why does she think she’s better than us?” Martinez asked, too loudly, at dinner one night.
Because she is, Francis thought.
And in being better, she had no friends, nor sympathy. She clearly didn’t want to make an effort in that direction, and if Francis had been smart, he would have left her alone.
No one had ever accused him of brilliance.
“Hi.” He stood at the edge of the sparring mats, as the rest of the recruits filed out, and Rose Greer sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, unpicking the tape from around her knuckles. Wilson left muttering under his breath, jaw already puffy and red; Rose didn’t have a mark on her, as usual.
Her hands stilled: capable hands, he thought, deceptively slender and delicate-looking. She tipped her head back and looked up at him guardedly through her lashes. Her face was impassive; she didn’t greet him in return.
Francis had the sense he would get only one shot at this, and he chose his words carefully. “I’m Gallo,” he said. “That is: Francis Gallo. Frankie. My friends call me Frankie.”
What friends? a nasty voice asked in the back of his mind. He had acquaintances, at best.
“Or Frank,” he added. “I guess that’s more – mature, or something.”
She stared at him.
Might as well get on with it, then. “I know you probably think I’m an idiot – most people do,” he said in a rush. “I’m too soft.” He couldn’t help but grimace. “But you’re good. Really good. And I was wondering if you would help me get better.”
She kept staring – but her brows twitched, once, and he chose to view that as a good sign.
“Help you?”
“Yeah!” Too enthusiastic, but oh well. “I mean – if you had the time. If you had some pointers.” He lifted his hands and struck a pose. “I’m all ears.”
She stared another moment, then tilted her head, examining him. He felt like a butterfly pinned to a board. “No, you’re all thumbs. Don’t tuck them in like that. That’s a good way to break one.”
“Oh.” He glanced down at his hands. His thumbs were tucked inside his fists. “So that’s wrong?”
“That’s very wrong.” She stood; seemed to unfold herself from the floor, impossibly graceful. She was shorter than him, by at least a head, but her aura was tall as she pinned him with a gaze. “You’re asking for my help?”
“Well…yeah. You’re the best.”
She waved, a dismissive gesture, and snorted.
“No, you really are,” he insisted. “They wouldn’t hate you so much if you weren’t.” He winced, after the words had left his mouth. You didn’t just go around telling people they were hated. “Sorry.”
But to his surprise, she met his gaze again, and the ghost of a smile touched her lips, briefly. “No, you’re right. They hate my guts.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Neither do they. They’re just petty and jealous.”
She studied him again – he had the sense, judging by the line that formed between her brows, that it was through a new lens. Like she was trying to really see him this time, rather than tabulating his potential as a fighter.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Will you help me?”
The line smoothed, and her expression slid one tiny fraction toward amused. “You’re determined, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been told it’s a real character flaw.”
That earned another bare flicker of a smile. “Alright, then. I’ll help you, Francis.”
“Frankie,” he reminded, “for my friends.”
“Frankie.”
ii.
Their instructor pinned their wings on begrudgingly, Francis thought, on the day they graduated the Rift Walker training program. Rose looked like she was holding back a smirk.
Francis had to pause in the act of packing up his footlocker, securing all his meager belongings for deployment. His breath came quick, and his head spun, and he felt full of sparks, half-nerves and half-elation. He stood up, and braced his hands on his hips, and his gaze went to the poster on the wall – to Tristan, the lines of him familiar now: his folded arms, and his stern brow, and the firm set of his jaw.
“Admiring your boyfriend again?” Rose’s voice asked behind him, and he jumped.
He could feel himself flushing red as he whirled to face her, and protested, by rote, “Not my boyfriend.”
“Not yet.” She offered one of her rare, fleeting smiles. “You getting all packed? We’re set to leave in a few hours.”
Something in her tone tightened his nerves; there was an almost sly glint in her eyes. “Leave for where?”
“Deployment,” she said, shrugging.
“Yeah, but deployment where?”
The grin came back, only a little diabolical. “I did some name-dropping. We’re headed for R Base, to join the Golden Knights.”
His heart stopped.
And then started up again at a gallop. “That’s not funny.”
“When have I ever told a joke?” she countered, expression growing serious again – normal, for her.
He let out a suddenly shaky breath, scrubbing now-damp palms down his thighs. “How did you – why would you – Gold Company? Really?”
“Gold Company is the best,” she said, matter-of-fact. She was obsessed with being the best – which, he reflected, was the reason she’d become the best. She’d graduated top of the class, no contest, and he was still stunned to have been right behind her. Competent, he’d been called. Teachable.
He knew he lacked Rose’s – well, her killer instinct, if he was honest. But he was proud of his proficiency; one that every one of his instructors had found to be a shocking contrast to the sweetness of his face.
Rose would have looked small and sweet, he thought, if the grief and anger hadn’t burned so brightly in her face. A beacon of ruthlessness, one that drew every eye, and pushed most away again. He’d caught glimmers of a softness, even a sweetness beneath the surface, but he thought he might have been the only one. She’d been kind to him, in her matter-of-fact way, and he’d been kind and supportive in return; he’d wanted, though impossible, to offer her some sort of comfort. When she’d finally told him about Beck – and he’d sensed he was getting a heavily-sanitized version – he’d told her of his own losses. She’d nodded, and he’d felt an unspoken closeness tighten their bond. He knew she was never going to cry on his shoulder, though.
“Get ready,” she told him, rapping her knuckles on the doorjamb on her way out. “We leave in an hour.”
He turned to contemplate his poster again. Tristan Mayweather, stern, strong…beautiful in his rough-cut, gray-shot way.
Butterflies filled his stomach, and he berated himself as he resumed packing.
~*~
By the time their transport – one of the ugly, boxy new ten-seater Workhorse helos – touched down at their new base, the butterflies had become hard, snarled knots in Francis’s belly. “Idiot,” he muttered, his voice thankfully lost beneath the steady thump of rotors as the Workhorse settled roughly on its struts, on the ground at last. Rain splattered the windows, and came peppering in as the door was rolled open from the outside. The whine of the motor shut off, and the rotors began their slow chug to a halt.