THE FIRST TIME 2/?
First Reconnaissance
Firefly fanfiction by Brandywine00
Rating: PG-13/T
Part two of a series of "Firsts" for each of the crew. Zoë's never been in a situation like this….
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, just like to let Joss's folks play around in my brainpan.
Special thanks to jellie_rayneluv for her help on this!
*****
She was deep in unfamiliar territory. Glancing to the left, then right, the tall, dark-skinned woman slid into the oncoming stream of people, attempting to blend in. Reaching her destination a mite sooner than she'd expected, she paused and attempted to reach her calm center.
For the first time in a long time, the warrior woman questioned her ability to complete her objectives.
Nothing for it now, but to get it done, she told herself. Squaring her shoulders, Zoë Alleyne drew her spine straight, exhaled harshly through gritted teeth and stepped calmly into the building.
An unsettled feeling queased about in her stomach, alternating between sharp and dull, but ever present, as her sharp eyes scanned the environment within. Taking in each face, she habitually sized up each as to level of threat and potential strengths.
Seven purple-belly soldiers, sitting at various points throughout the room. Off-duty. Three of them glanced her way. No immediate risk. They were more concerned with the vid screen than the ex-Browncoat corporal slowly working her way through their midst. Of course, her current clothing of choice concealed her prior military affiliation. That was all for the better, as at present she had enough to concentrate on without drawing their attention.
What the guay had she gotten herself into this time? No mission had ever shaken her like this, not the cool-headed career soldier who could silently slit an enemy's throat, patch up a fallen comrade, and call in a blistering air-strike all before lunch. This should be a cake-walk for her, easy-peasy, as Mal would say. She had survived the post-war prison camp, and more horrors during the war itself that didn't bear thinking on.
Do the job, she told herself. She stifled a grimace at what the Sarge would say if he could see her right now. Despite her carefully schooled composure, he'd have picked up how anxious she was in a second, and assuming she survived this night, he'd laugh his gorram ass off.
Zoë was thankful he wasn't around for this particular sortie, the first foray into this uncharted land. Focusing on the present, she concentrated on easing one long leg in front of the other, and on maintaining balance, her dark eyes searching for the assigned location.
She found the agreed-upon booth in the corner. He was already there, waiting in the dim lighting, appearing almost as anxious as she felt. Can't let that show, she reminded, maintain control of the situation or who knows what trouble will follow.
Allowing a faint smile to curve the corners of her mouth, she smoothed her clothing as she approached, trying to put him at ease. No need to scare him to death, when all she wanted was intel.
A simple reconnaissance mission. Get the facts. Determine his objectives. Conclude the evening and get back to the ship, ASAP. Easy-peasey.
She nearly had herself convinced she could pull this off, when the blond haired man rose respectfully to assist her into the booth. She almost congratulated herself on keeping her carefully constructed façade in place, until he turned his hopeful blue gaze on her.
The dull-sharp ache in her midsection intensified. A bit of the shell she'd carefully drawn around herself started to chip as he hit her with a lopsided, quirky smile. Unfair tactics! Open and honest, completely disarming. Zoë knew she was in real trouble now.
But then again, when had she ever shied away from trouble, she reasoned, tilting her head so slightly to the side and allowing her countenance to soften just a bit.
"You look… like an Amazon Goddess," he breathed, reaching across the table to take her hand. "I mean… you're stunning every day… but that dress… that…dress…"
Zoë felt herself flush from his nearly babbled words, and ducked her head almost coyly. Where had that move come from?
"Thank you, Mr. Washburne," she said, keeping her voice low as not to carry to the other tables. She smoothed her fingers down the bronze fabric of the dress, grateful again that Serenity's resident Companion had been generous enough to loan her the slinky garment. Zoë always chose slink over fooferal, and apparently the ship's persistent pilot approved the choice.
Serenity's hot-shot pilot beamed like she'd told him he'd won the Londinium Lottery.
"Wash," he said. "Friends just call me Wash."
Definite trouble, Zoë told herself. Then again, trouble's just another form of challenge.
And she always did love a challenge.
***
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