March 2007, Company girl

[ellectrical]

There's nothing that can be done about the jacket; the hole rips right through its sleeve, and there's no real point in trying to salvage it. It's easy enough to burn. The blue sleeveless blouse, however, is fine except for the large blood stains around the right side. That's something Elle knows how to take care of, and as they're still in the field, she's the one who does it.

It was dark when they returned to the hotel, Elle's arm bandaged and set in a blue sling by the doctor who repeatedly dissuaded her from touching or rubbing the wound. Her father didn't speak to her much, and the one time he'd reached out to her, trying to check on her arm as she drove them to drop off Suresh, she'd pulled away. Before today, Elle would have done anything to see her father look at her like that, reach out to her, show concern if not approval.

And today she pulled away.

By the time she gets around to it, her father's asleep in a room across the hall. She turns on a light in the bathroom and twists the faucet to start a rush of cold water. The materials for field work include plenty of rounds and at least two extra handguns, a taser, a small knife, and the right combinations of soap, detergent, hydrogen peroxide, and other chemicals that remove those stains beyond any tracing. She uses a hotel washcloth, as she can burn that as well, after she's done.

She takes her time padding the stain, her blouse laid out across the side of the sink as she gently rubbed the soap into blood. During this part, it looks as though she's only getting the washcloth bloody as well. But she isn't in a hurry to move on, to dip her hands in the pool of cool water that's waiting. Elle comes up with every excuse, if only for herself – it's taking longer with her left hand; her arm still ached and occasionally itched; she's tired. But she's not tired.

It hits her as she just finished dabbing at the stain. She knows she's not tired. And her mind floods with the image of Bennet watching her, face unreadable, you poor -

Elle snatches the blouse and plunges it into the cold water. Blood floats up in tiny spirals, spreading onto the water now as well. The spray from the faucet begins to lessen the color in the blouse, forging it into a delicate purple at first.

She turns the fabric over, glancing away, idly to the door she's left ajar, and thinks for a moment about closing and opening it and seeing if it would let her get the hell out of here. But she's not sure what's worse: her father's eyes her arm or so many others. And she'd fucked up. She doesn't want to explain it.

For some, she doesn't want them to even see it.

The purple bleeds out into blue.

(She turned up three days ago. Well, what was left of her, anyway.)
She's not dead.
(She went out of contact, so we looked into it.)

She can give that to X.

Elle pulls the blouse out of the water and tosses it over the side of the bar holding up the shower curtain, drying her left hand before turning off the faucet. The bloodied wash cloth she balls in her hand and throws a few feet in the air, sending a small but strong surge after it, enough that it flames up and floats toward the sink in ashes. She wants to scratch at her arm, but in this moment, tries to restrain herself.

It won't last long.

But she washes the ashes down the sink, careful to make sure there's no other sign of blood in it or on the floor. This is what she's supposed to do – clean things up. Erase messes, smooth out ruptures like they never happened –

(like someone took them away)

Elle clicks off the light.



Company agents know how to get out blood.