"Last one. Give me your name, age, CTU, a strength and weakness, and something you miss from home."
"Oscar Burton, fourty-one, and I'm working with SAS."
"Okay, what's a strength of yours?"
"I'm great in close quarters combat. I specialize in... Hostage situations." He says with a odd grin. It made Ritual's hair stand on end.
"Much like myself." She clicks her tongue, snapping back slightly. "Weakness?"
"I don't have one."
"Right..." She says slowly, looking up for a moment. Cooper was right, this guy was weird. "And something you miss from home."
"There's nothin' back there for me."
Boring, Ritual thinks to herself with a small sigh, clicking off. "All done. Go relax." She dismisses and stands up, not even bothering with her notes. They both leave, with Oscar slinking off while the rest of the group sits on the couches. Ritual looks over the lot before going to the kitchen and leaning against the counter.
"Okay," The woman brushes her gloved hand over the counter as she swings around, resting her head on the other and looking over the curious men. "Since it's your first day, I'll be nice... Just do me a favor and finish unpacking your things while I make dinner. I want those empty crates gone."
"Yes ma'am!" They all get up and head to the lockers, excited to finally eat. The men chat along the way, making conversation as they unpack their belongings.
"It sure was nice of Rainbow to let us keep our weapons," Vyacheslav chimes as he places the last of his gear on the hooks before lovingly picking up his shotgun. He inspects it to make sure it's empty, checks for safety, and places it in the side of his locker.
"I got some new things," Beau inspects his factory issue P9 before putting it into the locker. "Hopefully it won't be so bad."
"Oho, see, I won't do new," Gunnar chimes. "A good gun for a soldier is like a horse to a gunslinger; that thing stays by your side until one of you dies." He carefully lays his weapons down. "They'd have to pry these out of my hands."
"Hey," Anton comes in last, pushing open the door with a crate in his hands. "Check this out."
"What is it?" Beau asks as the group turns to look at him over their locker doors.
"Good question," He sets it down on the bench before opening the flaps. "It's... Helmets?"
"Wait," Cooper peeks his head out. "Helmets? Actual helmets?"
"Oh hell yeah," Gunnar smirks. "Toss me one, large!
"Extra large for me," Vyacheslav chimes, grinning as the men pass the helmets around until they each have their size. They put the new gifts in their lockers and close up, getting ready to head out at the smell of food. All of them leave except for Gunnar.
He looks at the shield that hung on the wall, the only thing that remained on several empty hooks. It didn't look like something he would typically use, but if she saw potential in him, he'd try it. The black surface was battered and scratched, some areas chipping, and some fading. He knew it had to be Ritual's. He thought about what he knew of her. A strong feeling overwhelmed him, hanging over him every time he looked into her eyes.
"Are you coming, Gunnar?" Vyacheslav holds the door open, looking back at him.
"Yeah," he snaps out of it, standing up. "I'm coming."
The two walk out and see the rest of the men starting a new card game on the table. They sit to join them, occasionally looking back and watching Ritual buzz around the kitchen. She seemed to make no sound, only the crackling of meat on a pan and the boiling of a rich smelling broth, a knife on a cutting board, and the doors to the cupboards closing. It was as though they were haunted.
"Can one of you come and help me?" She speaks up after some time, her voice matching her ghastly movements.
"I'll help," Vyacheslav swiftly stands up, setting his hand face down.
"Thank you." She chimes. Gunnar lets out a small breath, disappointed since he wanted a chance to be near her.
"Actually," the woman starts again, looking back. "Gunnar, can you also come over?" She asks.
"What can we help you with?" He smirks slightly, though wondering if she knew or if it was mere luck, coming over.
"Vyacheslav, grab some glasses from up here," Ritual shakes the pan slightly as the man gets close to help her. He reaches over her to open the cabinet, pulling the glasses out carefully, and doing his best not to bump against her and break her focus. "And help Gunnar set up." She asks. The other man grabs plates and silverware from the drawer next to her, working to set the table for everyone. Ritual calls with a whistle.
"Come over, grab yours. It's better the next day, but it'll keep you warm in this bitter cold." The men line up and she takes the first of a stack of bowls, filling it with the hot stew she's made and handing it to Vyacheslav, who's first. He thanks her and grabs a piece of bread before sitting at the dining table. She repeats this until they all thank her and sit, before Ritual serves herself and takes her seat at the head of the table.
With a small breath, the woman's hand meets the mouth guard of her helmet and clicks it out of place, setting it onto the table. She loops two fingers under the balaclava underneath and draws it down to her neck so she could eat. As she licked her lips, tenderly feeling the deep scar across them, she could feel all of the eyes in the room sinking into it.
"Be glad I made them actually send us food this time," she jests, breaking the silence. "They usually make me live off of MREs."
"Eh," Cooper shrugs before dipping his bread into his soup. "MREs aren't the worst... Better than my old mess hall, anyway."
"Well yeah, I've had American MREs, they're packed full of more dessert than dinner!" Gunnar teases, earning a laugh from the rest of the table. It made him feel good.
"It's true," Vyacheslav chimes. "You Americans have, ah, 'sweet tooth'."
"No matter what's in them, you won't like MREs when they're all you eat for weeks." Ritual says after a spoonful of her soup. "And then they're room temperature? Ugh."
"Well thank you for such a nice dinner, Rit." Anton smiles.
"Did you call me...Rit?" She looks up. The men go quiet, all looking up with stiff expressions.
"Yes Ma'am." Anton gulps.
"Hm." Ritual scoffs, trying to hide her fondness. She liked this group. "Cute." The men resume eating when she does, occasionally making conversation until they're all finished. "Done, everyone?"
"Yes ma'am!" The men answer with smiles, happy and full--All except Oscar. He grimly stares into his half-empty bowl before pushing it forward. The rest of the men thank her once more as they stand up, each taking their own dish and washing it. The last one, Vyacheslav, takes Ritual's bowl as she stands there and washes it for her.
"Oh, thank you," she chuckles softly. "You don't have to do that."
"Force of habit, ma'am," he smiles and continues. "I am used to."
"Right." She replaces her mouth piece and turns around to face the room. "Do as you will until eleven, I'll be in my quarters. I won't always be as nice as today, so enjoy it, yeah?" The men nod, looking back to their paused game of cards as Ritual climbs into the loft opposite of theirs and opens the door to her room with her ring of keys.
Taking her helmet off as the door closes and setting it on her nightstand, she looks around the room she hadn't seen in ages. With a deep breath, she takes in the scent of the files and age old leathers. She strips of her tactical gear until it's just the pants of her Gorka 4 and a bra. She lets down her long, warm brown hair and fluffs it a bit, letting it fall onto her breast where it rises out of the cup. The mirror in her bathroom catches her eye.
It was no longer cracked, as it had been when she left. She could see herself clearly; her slightly curly hair, soft lips, and eyes round but still holding knives in those deep brown orbs. A scar, still pink, runs from her eyebrow down her cheek and all the way to her lip, creating a tiny y-shaped gap where she can see a glint of her canine tooth sticking out like a fang. She licks the tooth gently and the corners of her mouth turn slightly upwards before dropping to her resting face once more. She tucks a small fringe of hair behind her ear and watches her lone golden bullet earring sway gently. She sighs softly, sitting onto the bed and folding her hands in her lap.
She looks at them, no longer concealed by gloves. Her fingers were littered with scars, ranging from nearly invisible little slices to a gash on the webbing between her thumb and her index finger. Deep colored bruises still kissed her knuckles from her last fight. Her nails were shorter than she'd like, slightly pointed and kept clean from nearly never being exposed. She's interrupted by a reminder in her head to check the clock.
"I should go set up..." She sighs. "See what I get out of him."