Xenotober 2024 Frye & Irina part 3 (no prompt)
a/n: Frye and Irina bid farewell to the Repenta. Alcohol and lies.
Irina exited the Repenta with the grace of an empress wearing full hoop skirts and with the care of a new recruit trying to pass a field sobriety test. Which is to say, she bumped into only two tables on her way out, giving the startled occupants a gracious wave as she continued onward. Frye darted around her like a hundred kilo humming bird, doing his best to block the server with the laden drinks tray, the bar babes taking a group selfie, and above all the manager. If no one said anything out loud, this night never officially happened. The bouncer behaved perfectly, opening the door promptly but without a hint of eagerness.
And they were out.
The night air had the opposite of a bracing effect on Irina. She sagged against Frye. "I know what you're doing," she hissed. "You're fooling nobody."
"I'm just grateful for the favor. Big time," said Frye, starting to sweat as he propped her up. If she figured things out, realized that his whole story was based on whatever he could pull from thin air (or elsewhere), then she might take offense. If he was lucky she'd use a sharp knife when she chopped him into tiny pieces.
"I bet you're making it up, all of it," she pronounced.
He swerved the pair of them towards the transport plane. He couldn't risk the long walk back to the Administration Alley giving her more time to think. "I'm on the level," he swore. "Gotta get those credits, save my hide, win for the team. Interceptor pride, right?"
"Nuh uh," she said, hanging onto his neck. "Prospectors," she whispered in the direction of his ear. "It's about the Prospectors."
Frye didn't correct her. What could he say? She had spotted the lie that Frye had forgotten he was telling.
a/n: Short because that's how life is somehow. Irina is Guns Empress in my heart. Cliff hanger!
Next up: Get in the robot, Frye.