A/N: *shifty glance* Alright. Done for a friendly war with the ever lovely, ever talented, Zoe6. And for the lovely BAMFettes who listen to me moan pretty much constantly. Love you, ladies.

Mechanical Animals

He's attracts certain characters, he'll admit. It's established, for whatever reason, that only certain soldiers (mercenaries) sign on for the Pandora project. Matters little in the long run; Quaritch remakes his soldiers as he sees fit, molds them into whatever he needs at the time. Rebellious bastards they may be but if there's one thing that's ingrained in those heads it's this: His orders are final.

It's a mutual respect that seems to permeate the whole of Hells Gate. His word is law; his orders are followed to a tee. Maybe it's fear, maybe respect or more likely some strange amalgamation of the two. The recruits slowly file into the room (some wide eyed, some smirking; doesn't matter, by the end of it they'll be precisely what he wants them to be), take their seats. He's a damn fine speaker, capable of whipping most any into a frenzy; inspires loyalty, devotion, almost fanatical in its intensity. By the time it's over, the majority are looking at him like he's some otherworldly creature, some hero out of an ancient epic.

One looks singularly unimpressed.

Very few things escape his attention (though few things demand it be so singled out) and she certainly does not. It's not unheard of for women to serve on SecOp's but it's rare enough for him to raise a brow; she's too young, certainly too alive.

Because the moment their eyes meet, he knows one thing. Her allegiance is not so easily bought (certainly not for little more than a pretty speech) and he does not have it. Dark eyes, still vivacious, something the military hasn't managed to beat out of her, stare back at him, perhaps amused, perhaps searching for something. He holds his arms out as if asking whether or not she's found it.

It earns him a chuckle and a shake of her head, messy hair falling in front of her eyes. A flawless record for a flawed individual, intriguing if little else; Chacon gives him a final salute (and if it's perhaps a little more flippant than usual, he makes no comment) before turning to leave.

It's the same look she turns on the next time they meet (a raised brow in response) and the time after. Whether or not he catches her matters little (because she honestly couldn't give a damn); what matters is what she's looking for. And the fact that she cannot seem to find it.

It leaves him smirking at her from across the hanger, pale blue eyes to midnight dark ones.

Leaves them both realizing they have no answers (don't even know the question).

Trudy's been here long enough to know the run of things. The lines she can and cannot cross. For the most part, it's a fairly live and let live operation they've got going. As long as she does her job, does it well (no one does it better), she has the run of her personal life, freedom in her rank.

The young Captain smiles to herself (better than back on Earth, though that isn't saying much), stretching as she walks; it earns her a few cat calls as she passes the boys but it's nothing new. It's tolerated because they all know there's nothing behind it. Not one of them will make a move.

She'd questioned it at first, welcomes it now (doesn't understand precisely what prompted it or why; doesn't care). She's one of the boys and nothing more than that. Good in a fight, good for drinks, good company. But they'll never push further than that.

Sometimes, she almost imagines she has it, has figured out why that's so. Sometimes, she imagines she's pinpointed its genesis.

But it slips away from her as easily as it comes (as easily as a pair of blue eyes).

Her momentary reverie is broken in the form of a hand closing around her shoulder, holding her back, holding her up, unshakable in its strength, undeniable in its origin. She's saved from walking into the man himself by that hand , that familiar smirk turning familiar lips. Quaritch quirks a brow at her (never ceases to make her feel small), that slow drawl of his coloring (dominating) the air between them, "Head still in the clouds, pilot?"

"Road's always gonna end somewhere, sir," she shrugs (doesn't miss that he hasn't removed his hand; there's a manner of control in touch and he has yet to relinquish it), unaffected by his words, "better you then the wall."

"Eloquent, Chacon."

"Guess that's why they pay me to fly and I'm not waxing philosophical with Augustine's crew."

Even the mention of the good doctor has the Colonel's hackles up (nothing terribly telling, just those blue eyes flaring to life); it's a nod rather than a response, a final squeeze to her shoulder before moving past her. No dismissal, simply turns her loose, the weight on her shoulder lifting. He's moved halfway down the hall before he turns to yell something after her, amused, "And Chacon?"

"Yes, sir?"

It'll never cease to amaze her, just how dramatically his features can shift. From cloudy to darkly amused (and back just as readily); at the moment, he's caught somewhere in between, eyes pinning her, something like a smirk playing at the left corner of his lips, "Try not to crash into anything."

It earns him an amused laugh, extends her arms, nods, "No promises, sir."

No promises and no answers.

Either because the universe enjoys irony or because she's done something piss someone off, Chacon finds herself assigned to Augustine's department; on paper it say she's their pilot; in reality she's their goddamn tour guide, a babysitter. She hears some of the boys muttering about it when the decision comes down from the top. It's not a transfer, not really, but it's understood that she won't be serving with them on active duty.

Giving up their girl (best damn pilot they've got) to fly some scientists around to look at pretty (dangerous) sights. It's another notch on the board housing the various sins of the Science Division. Two words, concise and to the point, "Took Chacon." The bastards.

It's enough to set her laughing, amusement pooling in her gut.

Live and let live, and she isn't going to fight this. Sure, it's a crap assignment but she's not as bigoted as some of the guys. She's certainly not going to go into this sulking, determined to hate their guts. She likes Grace (she's a surly bitch, all confidence and nicotine, and something like affection for her people if one knows where to look) and that Norm kid practically worships the ground she walks on. Not half bad.

And after a few months, she finds she enjoys it. Promoting life for once, study and science over death.

She's been at her new assignment for maybe five months before Quaritch approaches her (struck again by how much damn bigger he is then her; he isn't the tallest man but he dominates whatever space he occupies), looking all determined. Collected, but determined (it's always obvious to her when he's on a mission, every muscle in his body expertly coiled, not unlike a hunting animal) as he leans against her Samson. His gaze lingers on the tiger emblazoned across the side (a grim sort of smile; because it's fitting, isn't it? Tiger and Dragon), gives the side of her vehicle a pat. "Augustine running you ragged, Chacon?"

"Not a bit, sir.

He chuckles, "Maybe that's what wrong." The Colonel leans back against the vehicle, taps his fingers idly against the wing. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't a hell of a sight. Whether or not he's old enough to be her (grand) father is irreverent. There's a limited pool of men on board and most look like they spent their off time getting the shit beat out of them (by men like Quaritch). She may not agree with all his methods, she may not like his treatment of the Science Division but she won't say she doesn't enjoy the way he looks. She leans against the cockpit, arches a brow.

The man crosses his arms over his chest; still watching her with that same curiosity (takes a bit more effort not to look at his arms, because damn he has nice arms), as if she's something he simply cannot figure out. There's nothing more infuriating to a tactically inclined mind (like the Colonel's) then an outlier. They switch side's when you least expect it, cannot be planned or accounted for and are, in general, a goddamn nuisance.

Maybe she is and maybe she isn't and maybe she just needs something to decide her.

"You're better than this, Captain," blunt, to the point. He's not a man to beat around the bush and he doesn't have the time for honeyed words. Just the truth. "One of our best; shouldn't be flying those damn tourists around."

"Augustine needs a pilot, sir."

"Augustine could have any pilot, Chacon. Doesn't have to be you."

It's as near to an out as she's going to get. His eyes say as much (blue, fixed on her with that strange, particular, sort of determination. Judging her, weighing her); say this is her chance to get back in the action. It'll take a bit of doing, but he can get her transferred (can do whatever he damn well pleases, really). In her heart, she knows half (more) of the soldiers would jump at the chance (at having his personal attention), getting out of this situation.

Trudy can only shrug, the motion easy and light, "Think I'm good, sir. Never been one to dash out on a job. And," she chuckles (more to herself then anyone else), "Dumbasses need me; someone else'd crash em' out there. And I don't want Augustine's ghost haunting me; bitch is mean." But it's more affectionate than anything else (and it's noted by Quaritch immediately).

Because, in the end, she's choosing Augustine over him; the outlier, supposedly under his control, is aligned more closely with his self-professed enemy.

It's not disappointment that registers on his face however. Just that determination. He nods, gives her Samson another pat as he rights himself. Extends his hand to her; there's not a moment's hesitation in her acceptance. It would be weakness. Those long, elegant, fingers extend past her palm, folding around her wrist (another control mechanism), watching her, trying to categorize her (still failing), "Keep it in mind, Captain. Always have a place open for you."

She watches him as he goes, somehow feeling she's achieved something (odd, as she hasn't really done anything).

The kid's a nuisance.

It's really the only thing he can think as he watches her skitter about the docking bay. One of the guys (nearly twice her size) tosses his head, mutters something that has her laughing, swirling on him to give his chest a shove. It's playful and alive and he can't, for the life of him, understand how such a creature functions here. She switches so seamlessly between easy going and dead serious, the transition so abrupt it's enough to give a lesser man whiplash. She smiles more often than frowns, even when she doesn't mean it (especially when she doesn't mean it), always edged, ready to snap back with an appropriately witty remark.

It makes her difficult to predict, impossible to categorize.

And that frustrates (intrigues) him.

She's a study in opposites and that's only worse. Fiery and laid back; fiercely loyal (but not to him), intelligent but not quite driven; she's everything she fancies being at any one time, liable to change whenever it bests suits her (and never before). Any attempt to control her is met with an almost immediate repulsion, manipulation with a stubborn determination to ignore its master. It's bull headed and foolish and enough to get her killed.

But she's lasted this long. And she's damn good at her job.

She catches him staring one day, simply arches a brow (remembers giving her much the same look not so long ago), as if she's asking what he's looking for (and whether or not he's found it).

It infuriates him that he can't say he has.

"Gotta hand it to ya, Doc. No one else puts the fear of god in me like you," it's practically laughed out as she sends the Sampson swooping down under one of the floating rock masses (Norm's spouting the science of it over their comms but she doesn't really care to know the specifics; it's a nuisance to fly through and that's enough). Another one of the science teams mad runs, sending her throwing herself into this insane world. Quickly banks to avoid getting smeared across one of the hidden clusters of rubble.

There's more challenge in a few hours under Augustine then a month with Quaritch.

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourself, Trudy."

"Yeah, yeah, know that's why you drag me out here. Keep the adrenaline junky happy, you know?"

She almost imagines she hears the older woman laugh across the line (but it could just be in her head). She's enjoying herself, that much is true (more than she has in years). And if it gets her a few dark looks when she gets back, well, then it's worth it, isn't it? Can't even say that she regrets it.

Not even when it's the Colonel, staring at her in that special way she's come to associate with his contemplative moods. It's a look reserved solely for her and one she doesn't pretend to understand. It's simply there, like her flight suit, her tags, an omnipresent look that she's adjusted for. She's used to it, accustomed to it, and has one advantage.

Quaritch knows where he stands and, as a result, she knows where he stands. He's marked, unchanging, easy to figure out, easy to predict. He's a stabilizing force in the perpetual chaos of Pandora. He does not have the same advantage where she is concerned.

So it doesn't surprise her when she feels his eyes following her (even if she doesn't know the reason) and it doesn't surprise her when he asks (again) if she'd like a transfer. And it doesn't surprise her when they bump into each other near the mess (he's still searching and she feels like telling him there's nothing to find).

It does when she's reaching for her flight jacket and finds it missing. It's a nuisance. She's pinched a nerve in her back and movement of any variety is a damn pain. Leaves the young woman hissing as she turns too quickly, looking for the lost material; finds him with it, the thing hanging easily from one of his fingers. It looks small, unimpressive, in front of the larger man and for a moment she isn't entirely certain what to do.

"Left this behind in the mess last night, Chacon," not quite extended to her; she'll have to reach if she wants it. For some reason that seems like a concession; she lets it remain where it is. "Still got your head in the cloud after all these years?"

"Spend more time out there than ever, sir."

He's something miserably strong, a force of nature almost as wild as Pandora (and maybe that's why they're so well suited for each other, this place and him); he brings order to chaos.

And she is chaos, isn't she?

The young woman extends her hand, meets him half way. Ignores the undignified rush of warmth that is immediately sent washing over her nerves where their skin makes contact (that the blue of his eyes suddenly seems so much brighter in that moment). It leaves her momentarily off kilter, searching for something she knows she won't find (even if she isn't entirely certain what that is).

She collects her jacket, collects her scientists, and heads out into that chaos. Her natural habitat, if she were feeling poetic.

As she dips under another embankment she's forced to recognize one truth.

Out here is chaos, yes. Out here is home.

But eventually, sooner rather than later, it's back to base.

Eventually, chaos submits to order.

She's young and pretty but that isn't enough. There are plenty of pretty creatures eager enough to have him in their bed. It's less attraction and more fascination. Because in his perfectly structured little kingdom (Selfridge doesn't even bother to kid himself; when push comes to shove, this is Quaritch's show) she is one of the few outliers.

There's Augustine, of course, but she's openly defiant. The good Doctor makes no shows; she understands that she stands as his opposite and rallies to combat him with a vigor he can respect.

Chacon does so seemingly without knowledge. She is, on paper, his subordinate, follows orders perfectly. She is, for all intents and purposes, the perfect soldier. But she isn't his, not like the others. There's that omnipresent itch in the back of his head that says, were she pushed that extra inch, those precious values of hers put to the test, it won't be his side she ends up on.

After all these years, all this time, she still isn't his.

It's unheard of and infuriating (intriguing).

She's young and pretty but those are things easily put from his mind. She's youthful and vivacious but those things fade with time (though her spirit remains uninhibited and that is strange); she's talented, the best pilot, but there's always someone right on her heels. There's nothing that sets her apart as an object of fascination, nothing that justifies this.

But she's somehow (knowingly or not) a things beyond his control (even if she's under it). She's fascinating and new in a scenario that has rapidly grown dull.

So it's a returned jacket (a brush of their fingers), a hand on her shoulder as she passes (a squeeze, feels her tense beneath him though never in fear), a handshake held slightly longer than propriety dictates. It's a gaze perhaps too heated for a superior officer. On some level, it's another test. Too push her past that limit, watch her break.

Chacon never does, simply stares right back, those midnight dark eyes twinkling with something foreign (fascinating), holds his grip with the same amount of force. She's every bit one of those predators prowling the jungle of Pandora, every bit the tiger she's chosen to identify with. There are times, rare, admittedly, when he doesn't wonder if she's aware of his attentions, at least on some level.

And there are times, when she'll smirk at him, wicked and nearly fey and alive, that he knows she isn't so foolish. That she isn't blind to this. And that's she goading him on, waiting for him to find those answers for them, for the brave, lauded, Quaritch to take that final step. It's a challenge (one she doesn't expect him to make good on). His hands tighten instinctively on the railing in front of him, smirking as she shoos her charges into the Samson. She turns and offers him a flippant little salute, back to her task (a mark of her dismissal of him).

It's a challenge and one he readily takes.

Dragons, after all, hunt just as well as tigers.

She isn't expecting him when he finally comes for her (the jacket he'd returned to her months ago dangling limply from her finger like a prize), her dark hair hanging in front of her eyes, escaping the lazy tail it had originally been bound back in.

It's nothing so dramatic as grabbing her, shoving her into the nearest closet. He's many things but that isn't one of them and he won't trivialize this hunt, this victory, in such a way. She smiles at him as he nears (a real smile, not one of those barbed ones), silently questioning him.

The unopened bottle of whiskey (a damn fine year, if he does so say) is his answer. Something flashes behind her eyes (fight or flight, because, on one level or another, she knows what this signifies) and for a moment, he doesn't wonder if she'll refuse. That freedom bristles within her.

Foolish, as he has no desire to control, only curb.

But she's still nodding, following him. Nothing as dramatic or wicked as leading the pretty young thing back to his bedroom (it'd be difficult to explain that one). It's drinks in his office, Command abandoned. It leaves them with a nearly haunting view, the landscape illuminated in its vivid purples, blues and green, casting fascinating reflections of the less forgiving steel of this place.

He'll admit the lighting does flatter her. Far better than the harsh overheard fluorescents.

They drink but they never come close to approaching drunk (both are exceptionally familiar with their limits and tonight is not the time to push them). They talk, but the subjects are kept on carefully even ground. It's a hand through her hair (freeing it entirely), shedding her coat. It's her feet on his desk (doesn't move them when he comes around to her side); it's the hand that comes to rest on her leg instead of the metallic surface (she doesn't even blink).

It's blue eyes searching dark ones for something and finally finding their answer (at least this once).

She's halfway out of her seat by the time he's reaching for him, arms around his shoulders as his hand instinctively moves to clutch the back of her neck. The young woman smirks against his lips (as if to say it took him damn long enough), rallies as desperate a fight as she can manage to meet him. She tastes of whiskey and something he cannot categorize (comes to associate with her and her particular brand of chaos), clawing at his shoulders in an attempt to find purchase. The disparity in their heights is quickly solved; settles her on the desk.

It isn't (and will never be) love. He isn't even sure it's lust (at least not in its traditional form).

If it's an attempt to own her, it fails. She lets out a long groan when he's eventually inside her, almost like relief but hardly surrender. Smiles when he chuckles, tightening her heels to dig at the backs of his thighs, a reminder that she still has some say in this. Those brown eyes will meet his, still twinkling with that bizarre light that's entirely her, that's impossible for him to categorize (and that he'll never quite figure out).

If it's an attempt to break her, it fails. She lets out an airy hiss, biting down hard on his shoulder, nails tearing down the already scarred muscles of his back, leaving her passing marked on his skin (more telling, perhaps, then the ten, small, circular bruises left dug into her hips). When she eventually cries out, head thrown back (alive and defiant and somehow beyond him), tightening around him, it catches him off guard. That military control falters, if only momentarily, sends him tumbling after her. Leaves them back on even ground.

Chacon favors him with a wicked smile, nipping at his lower lip as he braces himself on either side of her, their heated breath mingling in the shared air. Her hands trace invisible patterns down his abdomen before sliding around his back. Almost holding him to her but not quite.

"Head in the clouds, sir?"

It earns her a laugh (perhaps not entirely friendly), as he dips his head to nip at her throat (revels in her pleased little moan). Throws the familiar words back at her, "Spend more time out there than ever, Chacon."

The pilot snickers and catches his lips again, free as she ever was.