(well, I wasn't expecting that to catch my eyes O.o) TW for mass murder?
-
Jilly likes to think that she's organized--that she knows down to the second everywhere she's supposed to be, and everyone she's supposed to meet. And she is, she has color-coded folders, and printable labels, and a brain that can remember ridiculously tiny details--anything to get the job done.
But organization means nothing when the lists of the dead cross her path. When she skims a finger-tip past so many names a part of her that she'd thought dead lurches. Jilly thinks in delaying and publicity tactics, even as she swirls water in her mouth to stop the taste of the bile climbing her throat. People are a commodity, it's what she's always believed. She's made a deal with the devil and the hard place, and none of the names on the list should mean anything to her (some clerk somewhere, might get fired for letting that list fall into someone else's hands. The military and their paperwork efficiency will always be their undoing).
The water goes down already too-warm from her body heat. She thinks about spitting it out, but that wouldn't be lady-like, and maintaining her appearance of calm is everything.
Even now.
Johnson, Kim. Johnson, Robert. Jones... Juarez, Vera. Her finger continues down, before she stops. Frozen, barely able to think, Jilly's eyes track back to that tell-tale line.
There had been something with Dr. Vera Juarez, some spark that had made Jilly chase her more than she had others. Something special about the woman that Jilly'd been hoping would become more than just client-doctor privilege. It's not like Jilly's had time to sleep lately, but even in her fifteen-minute power naps, she sometimes wakes from two-second dreams and remembers Vera Juarez doing more than just smiling at her.
Now she's dead.
Jilly's heard rumors, about how they're making the dead stay dead. Her hand closes on her water bottle and she raises it for another drink, then feels rage snap through her. The bottle slams into the wall.
Lock it down. You have a job to do. The momentary explosion smooths away, Jilly's hands are shaking, but she's got a client meeting in fifteen minutes--they want her best strategies for dealing with clean-up should the list make it to the news. Someone will be bound to leak it. No one's going to sit on a gold-mine like a list of the executed that points fingers at every government agency in existence. This has Nazi Germany, Hitler, and Blitzkrieg written all over it.
Well. She's certainly had more difficult stories to spin. Her fingers are steady as she scratches down an outline for the counter-attack.
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timeasmymeasure
Torchwood: Miracle Day - Jilly/Vera, PG - Mourning for a love that never could be...
Date: 2012-07-02 08:55 pm (UTC)-
Jilly likes to think that she's organized--that she knows down to the second everywhere she's supposed to be, and everyone she's supposed to meet. And she is, she has color-coded folders, and printable labels, and a brain that can remember ridiculously tiny details--anything to get the job done.
But organization means nothing when the lists of the dead cross her path. When she skims a finger-tip past so many names a part of her that she'd thought dead lurches. Jilly thinks in delaying and publicity tactics, even as she swirls water in her mouth to stop the taste of the bile climbing her throat. People are a commodity, it's what she's always believed. She's made a deal with the devil and the hard place, and none of the names on the list should mean anything to her (some clerk somewhere, might get fired for letting that list fall into someone else's hands. The military and their paperwork efficiency will always be their undoing).
The water goes down already too-warm from her body heat. She thinks about spitting it out, but that wouldn't be lady-like, and maintaining her appearance of calm is everything.
Even now.
Johnson, Kim. Johnson, Robert. Jones... Juarez, Vera. Her finger continues down, before she stops. Frozen, barely able to think, Jilly's eyes track back to that tell-tale line.
There had been something with Dr. Vera Juarez, some spark that had made Jilly chase her more than she had others. Something special about the woman that Jilly'd been hoping would become more than just client-doctor privilege. It's not like Jilly's had time to sleep lately, but even in her fifteen-minute power naps, she sometimes wakes from two-second dreams and remembers Vera Juarez doing more than just smiling at her.
Now she's dead.
Jilly's heard rumors, about how they're making the dead stay dead. Her hand closes on her water bottle and she raises it for another drink, then feels rage snap through her. The bottle slams into the wall.
Lock it down. You have a job to do. The momentary explosion smooths away, Jilly's hands are shaking, but she's got a client meeting in fifteen minutes--they want her best strategies for dealing with clean-up should the list make it to the news. Someone will be bound to leak it. No one's going to sit on a gold-mine like a list of the executed that points fingers at every government agency in existence. This has Nazi Germany, Hitler, and Blitzkrieg written all over it.
Well. She's certainly had more difficult stories to spin. Her fingers are steady as she scratches down an outline for the counter-attack.