The flight to the R.A.F.T was long. Turbulent, rainy and scary kind of long. Meara was sweaty and shaky from the helicopter ride there, her knuckles white from gripping her seat like a child terrified of the dentist. When they landed on the interior heli-pad she almost couldn't stand. One of the soldiers offered her his elbow, but she shook her head and gave him a pathetic smile, holding up a hand signaling for him to give her a minute. She lets out a hefty breath and wiggles her toes, bracing herself to stand. Her hair was a windblown mess and her complexion a ghostly shade from fear. She is not a flyer. Once standing, she began to walk like a baby deer to the group, slowly and calculatingly. Secretary Ross greets her with an open hand to have her stand with them.
"Rough flight, but we made it," he smiles at her "I'm very excited to get started on our progress with you, although a good night sleep is in order. Lieutenant Harvey,"
A man wearing all black tactical gear, helmet and goggles blocking his face from view salutes and stands to action. Machine gun sleek against his side.
"Sir," Lt. Harvey responds almost robotically.
"Show Miss Meara to her room." Ross answers. He begins to walk away, back curved and looking at mounds of files in his hands. Meara becomes anxious as she wants to talk with him further about her mother and her father's research and so many things that she couldn't express on the death defying trip here.
"Mr. Ross, sir," he doesn't respond but keeps walking. Meara trots forward to catch up, tripping slightly as she has yet to gain her full composure. "I was hoping, since we couldn't say much on the trip, that we could maybe talk?" He continues to walk; she insists to be heard and jogs up to him. "I just have some questions and-"
Ross cuts her off. "There will be plenty of time for that, not to worry," he shuffles his hand up to 'shoo' her away. She stops dead, eyebrows furrowing and she lets out a snort.
"Whatever," she says under her breath. Her protest fell on deaf ears as he was too fixated on his files and ignoring her completely.
"Let's go miss," Lt. Harvey was about to grab her arm when Meara roughly spins away from him. His hand closes on the ghost of the arm he was to grasp.
"I can walk," she responds. Head in the air, and follows the lieutenant closely beside. This encounter has put her in one of her moods.
The R.A.F.T was a spectacularly boring place. Everything a dreary grey. Grey walls, grey floors, grey air ducts that mimic a busy cities' overpasses. Complicated highways of ventilation that seem to go on forever. She observes the multiple storey high ceilings with mindless curiosity, she follows the tubes back down to eye level. The landing area was cluttered with fighter jets, helicopters and mounds of machinery that Meara couldn't even imagine their purpose. It was loud and foreboding in the main landing area, no sounds of music, birds or waves. Although the whole building itself seemed to shift slightly from the stormy, ocean waters, which gave her an inkling of pleasure in this depressing military hole.
When they arrived at her room after navigating a series of intricate hallways, she frowns. It's a small, also grey room with a tiny circular window as decoration and a single bed. Meara cannot for the life of her remember the last time she slept in a single bed. Lt. Harvey stomps his feet in salute which makes Meara jump out of her newly found melancholy.
"Jeeesus," she rolls her eyes. "Do ya got to do that every time?"
He ignores her response. "Secretary Ross welcomes you to the R.A.F.T. Meal times are 530, 1200 and 1600. You are not to go to any areas marked restricted without proper protocol access." His voice stomping on the line of being a recording. Meara turns around and eyes him, curious to see if he is human or not. She waves her hand in front of his goggled eyes, he does not falter. "You're pick-up time is 0445," he makes a sharp turn to the right and marches down the hall way. Meara is dumbfounded.
"445AM! Are you joking!" she yells down the hallway. The lieutenant just keeps marching away. "Ugh." She sighs and shuts her door, leaning up against it and sliding to the floor. All her bags have been delivered, piled neatly next to her single bed. She begins to bite her nails, chewing nervously. She's beginning to get home sick. The room not only looked foreign but it smelt like bleach and metal. No cozy blankets or smell of tea in the air. She pushed herself up to go through her things, placing them in the white dresser facing the bed. When she sits on the plastic mattress her knees almost touch it. What has she signed up for, the military? She lies roughly back onto the flat pad, arms above her head. She eyes the bathroom area. It's a pristine white toilet and shower both hidden by a foggy, plastic curtain. She sighs again like a child and rolls over to face the cold, concrete wall. She traces it's rutted edges with her newly chewed nails and shuts her eyes. This place feels like a prison. Even though her frustrations keep her mind awake, the subtle rocking of the structure begins to take her to a more colourful dreamland.