Sebastian Caine. Proof that Brilliance does not conform to a schedule.
Case in point. It's now 1:00, and he's looking for a beer on his lunchbreak. His rationale behind that it's five o' clock in most Asiatic countries. He'd name them off, but food is kind of crucial.
Sebastian Andrew Caine! Watch your language young man! The good lord did not invent mouths so that you could profane him!
Sebastian reels. Bad memories of Catholic school.
"....Sorry sister." he lowers his head, genuinely chagrined "-I just-did Frank move the bar around this isn't-" He waved a hand, "...This isn't my usual-where I-lunch place."
She looks at him, her gaze neither approving nor disapproving but somehow... heavy. Hard. She had seen the dead walk and she had had to fight for her life and the lives of children put in her care. She had fought them. She had not taken lives, but she had watched bodies fall to her blows, to her bullets. And while she is kind and while she is loving, that stain is upon her always.
"I am happy to be anywhere. As anyone should be. To live is a gift."
Sebastian catches that look. That's a little heavy for a nun. That's the kind of look that the Pentagon guys fix on him whenever he announces that he needs more time.
Definately unnerved here, "...Yeah. It's great. Except for traffic jams and daily reports. It's a fuc-"
She shudders, remembering the sound of the jams...
Hundreds of cars pilled up on the roadways, and one in every ten of them holding a Zach. Some had broken windows and, as she'd looked out of the helicopter, she'd seen the limbs flailing, reaching out to her, to the children. And the moaning. Always the moaning. It never ended, never. And the sound of it, a low and never-ending counterpoint to the Iron Maiden, to the blasting music and the blasting barrells and--
She shakes it off, but the glassy, lost look in her eyes doesn't go away. It was still too raw, too recent. She couldn't help it. Instead, she bows her head and says a quick "Our Father", drawing strength from He who never fears.
"Daily reports. Traffic jams..."
She sips her tea. Says a "Hail Mary" in spanish, as she'd learned it as a child, under her breath.
"Daily reports are a gift, even when they bring bad news."
Now she laughs, but not in a mean-spirited sense. Another pat.
"I am not 'nunzilla', I promise. No sparks."
She still has one. It had been in her bags, a present from her brother as a joke that she'd forgotten she had. It was treasured now, as her brother was dead. His family had gone north, as they'd instructed early in the Panic. She was unsure of what had killed them, or even if they were dead, but there was no way to tell. Everything was still so disorganized and there were more important things to handle.
"...Horrible memories of Catholic School." Sebastian leaned back, a bit more at ease, " The Nuns were more like Marines in they took the "ours is not to question why, ours is but to do or die." A little too literally."
She winces, though there's a nod as if to agree with his assessment.
"There is a place for such feelings. I must say that such training for hardship and my beliefs saved me and my students from much worse. But I've never believe in corporal punishment."
She smirks.
"How strange to teach peace and yet strike a child."
Case in point. It's now 1:00, and he's looking for a beer on his lunchbreak. His rationale behind that it's five o' clock in most Asiatic countries. He'd name them off, but food is kind of crucial.
Only-this is not his usual washington DC haunt.
"-What in the fucking he-"
A Nun.
In a Bar.
A Nun.
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"You might watch your language, sir. There are children about."
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Sebastian reels. Bad memories of Catholic school.
"....Sorry sister." he lowers his head, genuinely chagrined "-I just-did Frank move the bar around this isn't-" He waved a hand, "...This isn't my usual-where I-lunch place."
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"Nor mine. This is somewhat..."
She looks around, obviously nostalgic for something.
"Nicer, I am sad to say. And not nicer, in a way. There is no closeness here. That is... one of the few things we gained."
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Sebastian Caine is intrigued.
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"I am happy to be anywhere. As anyone should be. To live is a gift."
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Definately unnerved here, "...Yeah. It's great. Except for traffic jams and daily reports. It's a fuc-"
Rewind, "-A regular picnic."
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Hundreds of cars pilled up on the roadways, and one in every ten of them holding a Zach. Some had broken windows and, as she'd looked out of the helicopter, she'd seen the limbs flailing, reaching out to her, to the children. And the moaning. Always the moaning. It never ended, never. And the sound of it, a low and never-ending counterpoint to the Iron Maiden, to the blasting music and the blasting barrells and--
She shakes it off, but the glassy, lost look in her eyes doesn't go away. It was still too raw, too recent. She couldn't help it. Instead, she bows her head and says a quick "Our Father", drawing strength from He who never fears.
"Daily reports. Traffic jams..."
She sips her tea. Says a "Hail Mary" in spanish, as she'd learned it as a child, under her breath.
"Daily reports are a gift, even when they bring bad news."
Because then, at least, you know.
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They say it often.
But he's really not asshole-he just doesn't work well with people. He's actually very caring and sensitive.
Hence the sudden What'd I say? look that crosses the man's face, "...Are you okay Sister?"
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"Yes. Yes. I'm sorry."
She smiles and shakes her head a few times, as if to shake the images from her mind.
"My apologies, dear. Sometimes... the images."
She shakes it again and sips her tea.
"Memories."
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If his scientific team saw him now, they'd probably laugh.
"...Can I get you anything? um-" a pause, "-A priest? Um-Water? Biscuits? Something like that?"
He looks distinctly uncomfortable.
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"No. It is a wound that will heal in time. Your concern does more to help than even cookies might."
She smiles at him now and reaches up to pat his cheek.
"You're a kind man."
Her eyes roll in amusement.
"Even if you do curse like a sailor."
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He flinches, "-I ah-thank you?"
His face? beet red.
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"I am not 'nunzilla', I promise. No sparks."
She still has one. It had been in her bags, a present from her brother as a joke that she'd forgotten she had. It was treasured now, as her brother was dead. His family had gone north, as they'd instructed early in the Panic. She was unsure of what had killed them, or even if they were dead, but there was no way to tell. Everything was still so disorganized and there were more important things to handle.
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He grinned, "-Question why, and you get smacked."
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"There is a place for such feelings. I must say that such training for hardship and my beliefs saved me and my students from much worse. But I've never believe in corporal punishment."
She smirks.
"How strange to teach peace and yet strike a child."
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