2007-08-08: DF: Lists and Drivin' Stick


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Summary: Life as a Saint is a thing of family… and apparently undue Jack influence. Oh, how his tendrils reach. And reach. And ….

Dark Future Date: August 8, 2009

Lists and Drivin' Stick

Somewhere in the Super Sekret Saints HQ:

… you know. Eric really needs to quit publishing those security logs. Last night, Ali went out /again/, just before the panic alarms went off; she came back late, and really hasn't slept since then.

But - you know, the sheaf of papers that represents the newest broadcast is filled with scribbles, and Ali's on her task chair, head on hand - apparently hard at work. Or. At least thought.

That slow regular breathing and faint snore? Yeah. It indicates DEEP CONSIDERATION for the matters at hand.

With events being and people doing what they are, Trina has largely fallen back into one of her more warm silences. This is not a time for talking. This is a time for action.

The sole exception to this rule is Ali, who should *only* be talking. Imagine Trina's dismay when, after reviewing the logs at depth for the Saints' beloved leader, she found McAlister's sneakiness betrayed. And so it was that the woman felt inclined to *do* something about it.

Setting a breakfast tray on a small field beside her, the mechanic is able to very quietly open the door. She lacks Jack's perfection at the art, but she does a passable job of it. Then she picks up the tray, filled with coffee and toast and butter and jelly and a few pieces of fruit, and makes her way inside. Without a word, she makes her way to Alyssa's table and then erects one more forcefield, just beside Ali, and perches herself upon it as though it were nothing more than a chair. And then she just casually watches. The acrid smell of black coffee should rouse the blonde soon enough.

And believe you me - it does. Ambrosia and nectar couldn't stir her - but coffee? Oh, coffee /indeed/. "Mmmrrrm." And eyes blink open - her cheek red from the leaning. And she - well. Quietly startles at both the food and the company before she offers a warm smile.

"Hey." And then then a really long pause, punctuated by a cough. "… uh." A flicker of embarrassment - and then a raised eybrow. "I didn't fall asleep in the.. no. Yes. Er." So it's a /leeetle/ disorienting to wake up with the boss's other half in your room with food.

There is no word initially spoken as Trina offers a small, tight smile back. Instead, she points simply to a stack of papers sitting on that tray as well, folded back against the staple that binds them in its upper right hand corner. On it, there are two entries highlighted. We'll let our darling reader deduce which two entries they are. An eyebrow arches. "I thought we talked about this."

"I.. " Ali rubs at her face, and then sits up, carefully. "I'm eating. That doesn't get me a free pass every once in a while?" It's light, but - okay. She knows she's in trouble. It shows. "I even had dinner. A salad."

Oh, hay, look, a distraction! "You heard Petrelli's speech, right?"

Trina will not be swayed or distracted. She can't do much, but she can follow up to make sure that their house is in order. "Petrelli's a fucker; ain't news to anyone. But nice try. Points for effort." Pulling her hand back, the dark haired of the pair pulls her legs up under her to sit tailor-style on that little raised platform of energy. "Repeat it to me. Tell me what we talked about."

"Stay put. Write speeches - " Ali frowns, "Get better. I am, ya know. Getting better." She shifts in that chair to look fully at Trina. "would you stop? Honestly? Could you just lay aside your tools and crawl into bed for a week or so?" It's a pointed question. "I'm eating. I'm sleeping, mostly. Louis has given me the evil eye every time I've tried to dodge a meal."

Careful. The voice is getting better. Means her brain's on higher function - "I can't stop working - anymore 'n you could. Or Jack."

It's worth mentioning that behind Trina, on that made bed? There's a dress box - containing actual /girl clothing/. Woah. Black dress. Shoes.

Trina crosses her arms. "You're doing the important thing. You can't do it here, then we'll make it so you can. Gene's a fuckin' genius. Eric's richer 'n God. Between the two of 'em, honestly, I'm surprised we haven't won the war. They can make it so you can follow orders and still do what you do best." Then her expression softens. "We ain't lettin' you follow Cass. Not without a fight."

Ali frowns - "I wasn't. Much. I asked around - and.. I brought some cash to Kitty, on the down-low." Yes. She said it. "With Bat Country in pieces.."

She coughs once - then nods. "I grok. The Voice is the one that can't shoot anybody - so she stays home." But there is sudden ferocity - "But if you think I'm /not/ going when we go to get her?" A threat? Yes. But how hollow it is, it's hard to say.

"I'll be good, Trina - I'll sit here and fret and pace - but on one condition. I go with. I don't mind riding the bench for a lot of stuff - I know I'm a liability. But I won't. Not on this one."

The sudden flash of fire and tight anger is uncharacteristic - Ali's usually a creature of smiles and much quieter resolve. "I can't. Not if me being there means even the smallest difference."

Trina lowers herself delicately to the ground, legs stretching out so that she can softly roll herself onto her feet before the makeshift chair dissipates. "You'll have to take that one up with Jack. I don't make the calls. I just make sure people follow 'em." A small, common frown then curls the mechanic's lips, creases cutting into the curners of her mouth. "M'sorry."

Ali, for a moment, buries her face in her hands.. then looks up. "What are you sorry for?" Composed. Smiling then, if sadly. "Stick around, if you want. You're supposed to make sure I eat this anyway, right?" And.. she offers her hand.

"I'm sorry. I'm keyed up - I feel useless. And I know it makes me stupid - it always has. I will be better - I got no right to make anybody else worry about me. that's just as selfish as … yeah. So I needed a little adjusting. Between you and Elena, I'm sorting it out."

"I don't *wanna* be the bad guy, Ali. Never did. S'all. Wish I didn't have to sit here and shake a finger. Lord knows, if'n you wanted, you wouldn't have to do a fuckin' thing I said. You could tear this whole group to shreds without battin' an eyelash if you had the mind." A shrug rolls Trina's shoulders. She's still standing, but not moving to leave. "S'why we gotta be able to trust you. And part of that means that we know you ain't gonna be puttin' on risks that ain't necessary. …Just try to think of it as an act of love. It is, in our way. Protectin' each other is the only way we got left anymore, seems like some days."

"I know." Ali looks up, still offering that hand. "I know. And I never would - and I still have the faith. I just get /really/ cranky about things when …" A slight shrug. "And it's /Cass/. And none of it's good excuses - I don't have one. So shake a finger and I won't blame you and /maybe/ I'll figure out that I deserve the shaking - and all the rest. You all don't need to be playing shepherd to my lost sheep anyway. And I'm sorry - for what that's worth."

"Still don't wanna," Trina offers back before lifting a hand to boyishly drag her fingers across her scalp. "Ain't you. Don't blame you. Just… yeah." It's a good thing that Ali's the one doing the speech writing. "Just gotta do it." It a lame ending to an even lamer speech, but are there points for effort? Even grading on a curve won't help the unfortunately uneducated half of the pair, what with Ali, Jack, and Elena BLOWING THE CURVE and all. Damn them and their speech making.

The two are at Ali's room, which seems to be a hotbed of roomage, these days. No, Eric hasn't been in it. Seriously.

There's a tray with breakfast - or brunch. Toast and fruit and coffee, at the very least. It's on the corner of Ali's desk, there in the corner, the DJ settled firmly in her chair, Trina nearby, the two talking of serious things from the looks on faces and the sense of IMPENDING DOOM - or at least uncomfortable fingerpointing - in the air.

On Ali's neatly-made bed is a box, containing a folded Black Dress and Shoes - the only thing out of place in the room, at the moment. Apparently, being somewhat stir crazy means that, at the very least, you clean.

The DJ grins up at Trina, though, abruptly warm and wry and pointing out, "So don't. Stick around while I eat and then lemme handle the dishes, and I'll.. I dunno. Come downstairs and hand you a ratchet or something. I can't get my head around this one anyway - I feel like Petrelli's speechwriter backed me in a corner, and there's liquid hate there for that. Seriously."

"Well, you could always just get on the waves and go FUCK YOU PETRELLI. WE KNOW YOU DIDN'T WRITE THAT. Short. To the point. …You could put it on repeat or somethin'." Ah, Trina, that valiant crafter of words. To emphasize the extraordinary clarity and grandiose nature of her handiwork, a thin hand goes up, as though etching the words upon the air with a sweep.

"Yeah? That might work. But it wouldn't … he played us. Me. The media. All of us." Ali snorts, and starts into breakfast. With toast. See? Eating. "We all were predictable - and I feel like I need to say something. Shake him out of it. And I'm thinking the sick angle might do /something/. Mmph. I dunno. I'll figure it out. So. Tomorrow. Going to teach me to drive a stick, right?"

That. Uh. Seems a serious question.

That actually warrants a grin. Trina's frown momentarily dissipates to make way for it. "Gimme a day. I wanna make sure I have a spare clutch." Learning stick is not an easy task sometimes, and parts hard to come by. Then… she pauses. "You *do* mean, like, the truck or somethin', right? Not…" A sniff as Trina jostles the waistband of the worn gray sweatpants she wears. "Not *stick*. Because if you're talkin' about that, you're completely on your own." To further illustrate her point, both hands come up, as though surrendering, to rest shoulder height.

Ali stares at her. Just.. stares. "I. What? No. Wait. /What?/" And then dissolving into helpless laughter, she points out three things in quick succession: "Uh. Trina? I hate to break this to you, but unless you know - you and Jack are /really/ different people than I figured? You're sort of ill-equipped. And. Uh. You're not my type. And… maybe. JUST MAYBE - I'm just saying here, you /may/ be letting Jack rub off on you just a bit too much. Just a guess. Kinda throwin' it out there for ya."

Trina's patented Unhappy Kermit face is back on her features at that, and she waves a hand dismissively. "You live with that man long enough, and it's bound to happen. AND I AIN'T GOT A PENIS. I wasn't talkin' about any hands on demonstrations, so just cool it."

"So you /don't/ think I'm cute?" Ali raises a brow - laughing still - "I'm crushed. Seriously." Apparently, the hook there? Trina's not getting let off it just yet. "And.. you're sure, right? 'cause you were really worried there for a minute…"

"Don't make me prove it," Trina offers back, one eye nearly squinting as she peers in Ali's direction. "And I was *not* worried." It's hard work being the straight man of this operation. Or woman, as the case may be. Despite the jokes to the contrary. "So. Maybe day after, f'I can get my hands on a new clutch. Just in case." Turning, the lean female is about to leave when she finally spies… The Dress. Her serious expression again makes way for a smile as she slowly turns around to peer back in the radio girl's diretion. It's a comedic turn, Trina crouching low as she reveals a nearly maniacal smile. "Sooooomebody goin' somewhere fun?"

"…. wh.." And Ali is /ill equipped/ to hop up and move quickly, though that is her first instinct. Instead, it's more like a careful stand and a hurried shuffle. "No! No. Nowhere." Top goes on box. Or at least she /tries/ to. Seriously. She even leans way out to try to reach around Trina to /get/ that box-top.

"It's nothing. Just a - thing. A present! Yeah. For. Uh. Elena!"

For the Voice of the Saints? She's a /really bad liar/.

Trina doesn't say anything. She merely straightens, and arches an eyebrow over one of her unpainted eyes and continues to smile. The look says that she is entirely unbelieving. No words are neessary, really. Her arms, left bare by her black tank top, fold over her stomach. She can be patient, so you might as well spill it, McAlister.

AHA! The box is /covered!/ And. And. So there! It's out of sight! And… it's now under the bed. This makes it doubly out of sight - so it should be true, right? Right?

And Ali is quick to say - "So! Right. Uhm. I should see about dishes, huh?" And she goes back to snag another piece of that toast. A sip of coffee. Nope! Nothing to see here, folks.

Trina… simply taps her foot and tilts her head. Still waiting. Patience is a virtue.

Ali tries a smile.

This fails. And then, she mutters - "Seriously. I am /meant/ not to win - it's like a given." And grumpily - she points that piece of toast at Trina. "If you tell /anybody/ I'm going to cut you. Swear to god." She grins, then, a bit sadly. "I still have to alter it - Jane picked it up for me. I just figured.." She kind of waves a hand at herself. "After Cass. Or so. You know. Maybe I could arrange an occasion, or something. I haven't been dancing in forever."

"Every girl should have one in her closet," Trina confides with a small smile. "Ain't a crime." Scrunching her nose at Ali, the brunette then shrugs and reaches out to snag the copy of the security report. "'sides. It's good to… to look forward to somethin'. Makes the days seem less pointless." Turning back towards the door, the mechanic seems ready to vacate. "I'm gonna hit the garage. Whenever you're done eatin', you can come on down." Let others babysit and micromanage McAlister's dining, Trina seems fairly confident that the time has past for such coddling. The food is delivered. The issue of her sneaking out has been addressed. Her work here is done.

"No problem." Ali grins, impishly, then - "Around here you just never know what's going to turn into a production." You know - she's guilty of that herself - "I'll come down. Pass tools around or something - after dishes. Right?"

"Sounds like a plan to me, darlin'. Take your time." With that, Trina's dark form disappears through the door. Time to go try not to worry about all the chickies that ain't in the nest. Some garage therapy is *definitely* in order.

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