Never According to Plan

[Kara Hawkins]

Jerkface aside, the sight of the helicopter made her smile. And not that fake kind of smile that you had when you wanted to be nice. This was one of those stupid grins that was threatening to take over her entire face.

And she hated it. She wanted to play cool, to be so disinterested that soldier-boy would be bummed out the rest of the day.

Damn it. And damn him.

"I'd love to see them try and tell you 'no'."

[Michael Beckett]

Michael's eyes narrowed. There was absolutely no denying that the girl was intolerably stubborn; unforgivably so. And yet, there was something strangely likeable about it when you weren't on the recieving end. That in itself was annoying.

So was the reluctant grin as she looked at the helicopter. That was annoying because he wanted to be doing the grinning in that situation, but he'd managed to muster the self control not to. Now, if he indulged himself, or if his efforts to keep the grin off his face wound up failing, it'd look like he was copying her. Or maybe like he was infected with her grin; smiling because of her; at her. It was damned face cooties, and he was determined not to catch it.

The helo pulled in close, the pair of smaller-than-normal enclosed blades still kicked up a hell of a windstorm as it lowered itself onto a relatively flat patch of rooftop, but they lacked the same scary-as-shit blades of death ominous look that other such aircraft had. It made it look more robust somehow, too; less flimsy. It was like a flying pick-up: not necessarily pretty, but you know that if you crashed into something by accident, you were probably going to make it out of there okay.

"After you," he called; his voice was raised, cutting over the higher-than-normal pitch of the faster-than-normal twin rotor blades and their double drone. He waved a hand in the craft's direction for emphasis, just in case the words hadn't made it through.

[Kara Hawkins]

A futile attempt was taken at controlling her hair. It was utter epic fail and she eventually just gave up. Thankfully it wasn't a long term issue. A doorway slid open to the chopper... a black hole of darkness compared to the stark sunlight of the outdoors.

Well... wasn't that damn ominous.

And she was going to go first. Enter the guys with more guns who were going to shove a black hood over her head. Still, what choice did she have?

With a deep breath she stepped through the threshold, half wondering if she was ever going to see the dismal blight that was Arizona ever again.

[Michael Beckett]

Michael followed her in, a booted foot levering against the skid of the UH-73, and vaulting him inside with practiced ease. He landed in one of the bucket seats that Treadstone Industries had incorporated into the design's passenger incarnation: a little more hotrod than most military aircraft perhaps, but a damned smart move on the comfort front when you considered the kind of long-haul flights that the craft was designed for, and the turbulence it was likely to come across en route.

With a heave, he slid the side hatch closed. It was dark inside with the door shut, but that was intentional: the worst thing you could do to soldiers on night deployment was ferry them around in a brightly-lit box, decimate their night vision, and then shove them out into pitch blackness to wander blindly to their deaths.

He leant forward, reaching towards an array of headsets hanging from the centre of the passenger compartment. He settled one on, and instantly the roar of the rotor blades vanished: high tech noise-cancelling technology was yet another innovation from Treadstone to make life a little more comfortable for the average GI. He settled the mic into place over his mouth, and gestured for Kara to follow suit.

"New York, and a burger," he instructed to the pilot, with a sidelong glance that was laced with mischief thrown towards the rampant tangle of ginger curls that his apprehended target was attached to. Michael was many less-than-likeable things, but being a man of his word was one of his few virtues. "Burger first."

An acknowledgement came back through the headset; normally pilots would query that sort of thing, but apparently someone had warned this particular pilot that Michael was Canadian, so he had been prepared for all manner of odd requests. As he eased back on the controls and pulled the helo gracefully away from the Arizona rooftop, Beckett felt a tug of jelousy: a few years ago it would have been him sat in the cockpit; and at times like this he felt like a cab driver being forced to hitch a ride in a taxi. This just wasn't where he was supposed to be sat.

Forcing his discomfort aside, he shifted a little in his seat, turning his attention to Kara. She looked ridiculous with her hair half-flattened by the ear defenders that dwarfed her head, but Mike had to admit that there weren't many people who could pull off that look and still seem cool.

"Beckett," he said at last, extending a hand in her direction. "Sergeant Michael Beckett."

[Kara Hawkins]

Ok... so he may have won some points for being the only guy in existence to actually listen when a girl offhandedly mentions something.

But well, considering his deficit, Soldier-boy had a long way to go to make up for everything. Strike that... Sergeant Soldier-boy.

And what the hell was she supposed to do with his name and rank all offered up like they had just met? A pleased to meet you sure as fuck wasn't going to happen now.

The supreme bitch in her mind wanted to just nod as if she was only going to acknowledge his name. The halfway decent person at least wanted to take the hand that was offered in thanks for the future going-somewhere-to-eat-even-if-I'm-paying-for-my-own thing. And the genuine nice girl who was often fed cake to keep quiet was saying that maybe she had him all wrong.

The middle child won out.

After grasping his hand and letting the usual firm-but-not-manly shake pass from her end she sighed and leaned back in the bucket seat she occupied.

"So... I don't suppose I get any sort of heads up about what this is all really about, do I?"

[Michael Beckett]

Michael blinked in confusion, as if a handshake was the last thing he was expecting. In truth, it maybe wasn't the last thing he was expecting, but it was certainly a long way down the list. He kept it there after her grip released, hoping that maybe she'd have better luck on her second attempt.

His brow furrowed, and he almost forgot to even contemplate an answer to her question. He managed a glib answer, though not a particularly original one. "Not unless you want me to shoot you," he replied. "They don't trust me with one of those Men in Black mind deleting flashy things, so I'm not allowed to tell you anything that we might need you to forget."

He grimaced a little at that. Even he thought that cult reference was bad. "We're the good guys," he tried again. "We're peacekeepers. International peacekeepers. NATO. That sort of thing. We work for SHIELD, not that I expect that name to mean anything to you."

He trailed off, his eyes settling on his hand. He gestured with it again. "Can I have my gun back now?"

[Kara Hawkins]

The halfway decent person was now plotting all sorts of horrible things with the bitch while the nice chick was even a bit taken aback. Though this time around, Kara wasn't sure if she should deduct the points from him for continued asshattery... or herself for not seeing it coming like a freight train.

She rolled her eyes and pulled the gun from where she had tucked it behind her and held it out for him. As she felt the weight of it leave her she leaned back again, this time crossing her arms across her chest in the best stand-offish way she could muster.

"Nope. Doesn't mean a damn thing. Petty crime doesn't really count as terrorist actions in this country last I checked so I haven't really run across you guys before." Terrorism. The word left a bad taste in her mouth, but really after he said 'international peacekeepers'...well, who else would they fight against?

"Guessing a lot of that keeping-the-peace means saving the normals from people like me?" Kara sighed moved her eyes away from the Sergeant and to one of the pitifully small windows in the craft. She couldn't see a damn thing other than a small wedge of blue sky but it was better than looking at him right now anyway. "Shouldn't you guys be mopping up what's left of Disneyland rather than whisking me away to New York?"

[Michael Beckett]

"Yeah, well."

Mike's attention was focused mostly on the oversized pistol now cradled in his fingers. He couldn't make out too much in the dim light of the cabin, but it didn't seem like her trip across the rooftop had been too damaging; maybe a superficial scuff here and there.

I'm sorry, baby, he thought at her. But don't worry. I bet it'll buff right out.

He finally climbed his attention back to the redhead, tucking the pistol back into the webbing that normally held it. "Believe it or not," he said, replying to her question, "This is the clean-up. Problem with these Brotherhood types is that they're a damned stubborn stain to remove, and we just don't have enough of the right kind of mop."

She wasn't looking at him, but that didn't matter. He strugged at her anyway. "With that hair of yours, you're the most mop-looking person I've ever met, so I guess you're as good a place to start as any."

[Kara Hawkins]

Fuckkk thisss guyyy... that's how the song in her head started. And she certainly didn't mean in that get-to-know-you-beter way. She meant it in the if-I-ever-have-to-talk-to-this-guy-again-it'll-be-too-soon way.

"Right..." Kara barely managed to avoid glaring daggers at him, settling for tiny little needles she wanted to bore into his skull.

"So, what? Your bosses are planning on fighting fire with fire, so to speak?" Ok, so it probably wasn't a bad plan. You couldn't just toss regular folks at mutants and ask them to keep up most of the time. Still didn't explain what she was doing there. Kara was no damn superhero.

[Michael Beckett]

"If it weren't classified, and if you had already signed the non-disclosure paperwork, then I would be able to confirm that yes, that is the plan. At least, vaguely the plan."

He threw a shrug in ginger mop's direction. Sure, he was running his mouth off now, revealing stuff that technically he shouldn't be revealing. But come on. For starters, she was going to get told anyway. And on top of that, she was a psychic. It wasn't like she couldn't just rummage around in his head and pick the information out anyway. And that was exactly what he intended to tell the General, when he inevitably got in trouble for stealing his thunder and teasing the big reveal before she got there. Or something along those lines. Probably a version that heavily implied that she had rummaged in his brain, and he was just the poor innocent victim in all this.

"Since it is, and you haven't however, I can neither confirm or deny the existance of any kind of NATO task force developing new strategies and approaches to dealing with mutant-related threads."

He shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. It had taken a while, but empathy was starting to kick in. He remembered when he'd been brought into the circle of trust on this little project; he'd been a soldier, with orders, and that was fine. This girl though: she was practically still a kid. Sure, she was a petty crook of a kid, and had only popped up on their radar because she'd broken her way out of lock-up after being rightfully busted for her crimes; but that didn't prepare her for this world-inverting situation.

"Hypothetically," he said slowly, "If NATO were to have something along those lines, it wouldn't necessarily about fighting fire with fire. And I don't mean that in a pyrokinetic versus pyrokinetic sense. I mean -"

He trailed off. Sighed a little. Tried again. "Think about it. Every day there are soldiers all across the world getting shot at. Every minute wasted is another minute during which they can get killed. It'd be totally irresponsible for us not to do everything we can to speed up the way the military does stuff, right?" His brow furrowed. "Well, what if we captured someone with vital information? What if they knew the location of an enemy stronghold? Or what about a weapon of mass destruction in downtown Los Angeles? What if, instead of hours of interrogation, cutting deals, and pushing paperwork, we - hypothetically - had ourselves a little redhead who could read minds?"

He leant back in his chair, and focused his gaze intently on the opposite wall of the passenger cabin. "I'm just saying... picking pockets and stealing pin numbers? If I had powers like yours - if I had powers at all - I wouldn't be using them to screw around. I'd actually be trying to make a difference with my life. I'd be trying to do something worthwhile."

[Kara Hawkins]

Ah. Now it made sense. Well, maybe not entirely, but it started to lift the fog off the situation at least slightly. And truth was, Kara wasn't sure what to make of it. The word opportunity stuck out, but it was conflicting with all sorts of self-righteous conspiracy theories about how she wasn't going to have a choice in the matter. Government mutant slave was the title she was prepping herself for. But hey, it was better than serving real time in a prison somewhere, right?

Kara couldn't bring herself to reply what was probably a rhetorical statement anyway. Leave that sort of soul searching for when she inevitably spoke to solider-boy's superior. Instead she just gave a half-hearted "hmmph" before turning back to the viewless window...or viewport... whatever it was.

Somehow this time solider-boy got the hint and seemed to settle in his seat for the long flight, leaving her alone with her thoughts... which were running rampant as hell, even if they continued to go in a seemingly endless repetitive spiral of the day's events so far...and what was to still come.

Damn she couldn't wait for that burger.

[General John Heller]

Fort Hamilton, NY

General Heller had abandoned his desk the moment he'd recieved word that UH-73 was ten minutes out. It wasn't an act of desperation to urgently leave a particularly unpleasant stack of paperwork, or anything untoward: more of a meticulously timed operation to bring him out into the sunlight of the landing field precisely as the helo came into view.

It was a damned weird looking contraption, he had decided: more like something you'd expect to be flown by a child with a remote control than a member of the military. But, the options had been weighed and carefully balanced by engineers and accountants and other officers far more knowledgable about such things than himself; and the Treadstone craft had been chosen by SHIELD as it's intra-continental transport of choice.

These ones in particular had been borrowed from ACT HQ in Virginia; and Heller supposed that he should be mildly impressed by the technological innovatation it represented. It was, at the very least, better than flying in one of those nature-defying jet planes that SHIELD had also bought. How those things managed to stay in the air was beyond him. If it were left up to him, he'd rather travel everywhere by tank.

The down-draft from the rotors ruffled his uniform; he stood firm, solid as a rock in defiance of the forces acting on him. He allowed himself a minor concession, narrowing his eyes against the breeze, but his grizzled face turned it into more of a trademark scowl. He watched as the skids settled against the floor; watched as Sergeant Beckett heaved the helo's sliding doorway open, and tumbled out like the scruffy and undisciplined Canadian that he was. In his wake came the miscreant, her copper locks as unruly and disobediant as her record suggested he was. Heller felt the muscles of his jaw bunch in disapproval.

His posture crushed slightly by the rotor exhaust, Beckett made a beeline for his commanding officer, an all-too-casual salute tossed in Heller's direction. He snapped one back swiftly; more an effort to stop the Sergeant from making a fool of himself than a genuine reflection of respect.

He regarded his operative with dour scrutiny. "You didn't screw up," he observed. He made no effort to adjust his voice to battle with the noise of the helicopter as it's engines began to spool down: Beckett would hear if he put the effort in to listen; the impetus was on him. "I'm pleasantly surprised."

His head turned, and for a silent instant he sized up their potential recruit. ACT had submitted her name and details, spewed out by some computerised system or other. His teams had sprung into action, and now here she was. But that was as far as he allowed things to go without his direct control: that was the point where the reins went tight. This girl could be Wonder Woman for all he cared; unless she managed to impress him in the next ten minutes, he'd toss her out and dump her on the next train home himself.

His gaze returned to Beckett. "Bring her inside," he instructed; and then without another word turned on his heel, and set off back towards his borrowed office in silence.

[Kara Hawkins]

Yay! More grumpy people! Not that Kara had really expected otherwise, but it was nice to wish. And if wishes were horses...

She didn't need someone to lead her in, despite the order given. Kara could follow just as well as any grunt... though she did begin to wonder if it was the General who had directly called for her... or someone higher. He certainly acted like even considering being in the same room as her was far below his pay grade. Nice.

Kara wanted so badly to cast one of those are you sure about this? glances at someone. Only problem was that someone was solider-boy and well, he'd probably just mock her. She was alone here. Not that that was any different than normal, but for some reason as the outside world was left behind for cold concrete and steel, Kara actually felt it.

[Michael Beckett]

Surprised? Nice. Love you too, sir.

Beckett would have scowled and grumbled to himself if he could have got away with it, but he knew better than to get on the wrong side of the General. The guy was scary. And not in a kill you in your sleep sort of way: more in a kill you right in the face while you're awake and paralysed by fear sort of way. He had an air of menace and terror that demanded respect; and while okay, maybe his beard wasn't quite as awesome as Michael's, you had to respect a high ranking General who had a fuck you attitude towards uniform regulations.

Now free of any of his responsibilities as captor, Beckett was really starting to feel sorry for the poor kid he'd hijacked. There was a lot to like about her, once you got past the whole crime thing, and the little altercation with the telekinetic television and the exploding fire extinguisher. For one thing, she had good taste in burgers. She wasn't one of those stupid poncy girls who ordered a wrap, or asked if she could have salad instead of fries. Who did that? Who walked into MacDonalds and thought: Actually, I won't have the meal that this restaurant is famous for, I will buy into their cheesy gimmick food instead, without being even remotely ironic?

Also, she was pissy. Pissy people were awesome people to be around, provided you could manage to stay behind them. It was glorious to watch, and the rebuttal she'd levied at the brainless moron at the cash register had won Mike over enough to get him thinking idly about their hypothetical sarcasm babies.

And while yeah, she clearly wasn't particularly fond of him - yet - she was actually mildly entertaining on the verbal sparring front. Too bad that she was about to get slaughtered gladiator-style in the conversational colossus of a chat with the General.

"Don't worry," he said quietly, hoping to offer some small amount of solice as the girl marched towards her doom. "I don't think he actually likes anyone."

[Kara Hawkins]

"Thanks..." I think.

The sincerity in his voice actually threw her off more than if he had offered it with a dash of sarcasm. It made her double think exactly what she had agreed to. Maybe she wasn't too off with her initial horrible concepts after all...

As the hallways were walked through, she didn't bother trying to keep a mental map of the twists and turns they took. There wasn't any real need to. There really was only two outcomes to all this, she figured. Either - she would be leaving on her own accord with the blessing of the rather imposing General. Or... she'd do things her way and pull her exit route out of any number of people within the building. Of course, only problem with that was that they weren't actually passing anyone. And of course... there were all those little tidbits that Beckett had lobbed her way in terms of consequences to her running again.

Not that this whole lead up had been particularly fun, but she was dreading what awaited her. The feeling only grew as their little entourage came to a stop in front of a door.

"So... is this the part where I start trying to talk my way out of seeing what waits for me?" She tried to keep her voice level, laced with her signature bite... but there wasn't hiding the apprehension that had taken hold.

[Michael Beckett]

"You're in the middle of a US Army base," Michael explained helpfully. "No amount of talking is going to get you out of here. Hell, your psychic juggling routine probably won't help either."

He hesitated, wondering what more answers he could offer. General Heller was the kind of commander who didn't just embrace the idea of need-to-know mysteriousness, he full-on bear-hugged it; and so his briefing to Michael had been enigmatically, well, brief. Still, Beckett wasn't quite as stupid as Heller seemed to think he was; he could do basic arithmetic, and it didn't take a genius to work out that two plus two plus X equalled 5. When SHIELD started pulling in useful mutants from across the globe for some top secret Initiative, there was only really one logical conclusion to draw.

"Just... hear the guy out. If you don't like what he has to say, you'll probably be free to go."

He shot Kara a flash of a smile. "And if you aren't free to go, I'll drive a tank through the wall and rescue you with my thrilling heroics, or something."

[Kara Hawkins]

An eyebrow raised at the comment. "Oh really?"

Her voice went up a few octaves as she continued, pouring a simpering look into her eyes that batted at him. Incorrigible, she even went so far as to press a hand delicately to her chest in some fashion vaguely reminiscent of what movies would have you believe a bashful Southern girl might do. "You'd do that for me?"

A beat, a moment... and it was dropped like a sack of bricks. "And here I thought your thrilling heroics involved a stun gun and being out run by little girls."

Kara didn't bother to look for any sort of reaction to that as her attention shifted forward again. It was like some sort of reflex when faced with the unknown or uncomfortable - which this was certainly both. Words were some sort of armor that she'd always put up between her and other people. It wasn't much protection, but it sure as hell was better than nothing and armor was exactly what Kara felt like she might need when the door to the General's office opened. If he was menacing on the helipad, he was downright threatening somehow as he sat at his desk. Enough so that she wasn't even about to try getting a feel for what mood the man was actually in - some part of her was afraid that it would echo the permanent scowl his face far too much.

[General John Heller]

Though General Heller was far from being a young man, and had considerably more years behind him than ahead, he was also a soldier and a father: and that trained and honed your senses, particularly when it came to covertly eavesdropping on petty bickering between a pair of children. He'd fought to keep a faint flicker of a nostalgic smile off his face as he'd listened to Sergeant Beckett and Miss Hawkins - after all, smiling was hardly in keeping with the gruff exterior he'd worked so hard to perfect - squabbling between themselves just like Phillipa and Tristan had done back when they were still at home, and before the family had fallen completely to pieces.

Back when Elizabeth was still with us, he mused silently to himself, God rest her soul.

That grim memory was enough to keep the natural scowl his features had wrinkled into firmly intact, and reminded him of what this was all about in the first place. Elizabeth had died at the hands of a mutant, but he held no grudge against them as a subspecies: mutants as a whole were no more prone to crime than the left handed, the blue eyed, or anyone else who was categorised based on aspects of their genome. Instead, he rested the blame on three specific sets of shoulders: the lone, individual mutant responsible; himself, for failing his family by not protecting her; and the world, whose insistence on prejudice and persecution forced the mutant population into a rationale of us and them.

Fear of that persecution was what gave birth to groups like the Brotherhood and their ilk, and what drove people into their waiting arms. America, Britain, and so much of the rest of the world sought to solve their problems by throwing guns and soldiers and restricted liberties at the mutant population, but that was like throwing gasoline on a forest fire: too much of that, and you'd find yourself watching the whole world burn. Targeting high profile terrorists like Saladin and Hurucan was like cleaving the heads off a Hydra: more would always take their place unless you had the foresight to cauterise the stumps. Most people might choose to do so with fire or acid, but there were other ways.

Kara Hawkins was one of those stumps. She was bright, capable, and powerful; but also misguided, misunderstood, and impressionable. She set herself apart from society already: she saw herself above their laws, because of the advantages her mutation gave her. They could, and in theory should hand their surveillance data over to the authorities, so that the Justice Department could lock her up for whatever they deemed to be an appropriate period of time. But to her, it would always seem like she was being judged not for what she did, but for how she did it; and with that mindset, and the fact that prison so regularly wound up turning borderline offenders into hardened, repeat offenders, a few years down the road they could very easily end up with a much worse scenario on their hands.

So, here she was: sitting in front of a General instead of in front of a judge. Military service was a tried and true alternative to typical incarceration for certain young offenders, and while everything her file said about her painted a very un-soldier image: General Heller had one hell of a will, so there was most certainly a way.

He flipped open a cardboard file on his desk, and tugged out the clipped-together sheets.

"This," he explained, attention on the paperwork rather than on Kara, "Is everything our surveillance gathered on your unlawful activities."

He turned in his chair, posting the papers into the top of his shredder, supporting them just long enough for the machine to start chewing them into thin strips. He pulled open a drawer, and pulled out a US Army branded memory stick, and placed it on the desk in front of Kara.

"And that's the only digital copy we have."

He reclined back into his chair, fingers lacing together as he regarded her with a furrowed brow. "I am a soldier, Miss Hawkins. I care very little about law and order: my responsibility is to keep the peace. Sending a young woman to prison for a few minor crimes does not benefit that objective, and so I am not particularly inclined to help make that happen."

"What would be of benefit, to myself and to my colleagues the Supreme Headquarters: International Enforcement, Logistics, and Defense, would be having someone with your particular abilities assisting us. You are here," he explained, his voice careful about it's specific choice of words, "To negotiate the terms of your employment."

[Kara Hawkins]

Kara had been watching the shredder, eyes flicking back to the General as he spoke, taking it all in but doing her damnedest to not have to meet eye-to-eye with the man. It all sounded like a bunch of made up words and government techno-babble... just like she had expected it might. Well, that was, until that last bit.

Somehow she had suspected it was something like that. But the term that was expected was more along the lines of Indentured Servitude. Not... well...

"Seriously?"

Ok so, it was unnecessary to speak considering the look the General was giving her, but still. If her voice failed in completely reflecting the disbelief she felt then the look on her face had to seal the deal. She could feel an eyebrow arching as she looked at him just slightly from the side and Kara was sure her mouth was doing that stupid just-barely-open-like-you-have-something-you-want-to-say-but-your-brain-is-kaput thing.

Recovery from the whole thing was practically instantaneous as she finally let her gaze train on the man in front of her as she crossed her arms over her chest in a weak display of defiance. As she leaned back into the chair, Kara eyed the flash drive on the desk.

"So, how much..." She paused, going so far as to free her hands for the finger-quotes for the next word, "'Negotiating' do I really get to do here?"

[General John Heller]

"Allow me to put it into context for you, Miss Hawkins."

His voice was gruff and firm, same as always, but it took on a strange new tone: the voice he'd used when addressing his children, except it sounded less like a father and more like a stern school principal. It had been the tone that had always succeeded in encouraging Phillipa to be the obedient and respectful daughter; though of course it had backfired and turned Tristan into an insolent, disrespectful disappointment. The fault had always been on the part of his son there, though: John Heller knew for a fact that his approach to parenting was just fine, because that's exactly how his father had spoken to him, and look how he'd turned out.

"We -" He gestured around him. "- work for S.H.I.E.L.D. For the uninitiated, that is the central command for NATO: a military alliance of twenty-six European nations, as well as the United States, and Canada. I am a four-star United States General, the commander of S.H.I.E.L.D and, by extension, of EUCOM: all America's military forces deployed in continental Europe. I literally have an army at my disposal; a navy and a air force as well."

General Heller let out a slow breath. "On the other hand, you are a twenty-one year old young offender, whose education history shows a lot of promise and latent intelligence, but very little actual academic success and qualification. Your mutant abilities are useful, and my scientists tell me they are remarkably well-honed for someone as young and inexperienced as yourself; but they are hardly unique. We want you, but we don't need you."

Leaning forward in his chair, he splayed his fingers on the desk, focusing on the writing surface for a thoughtful moment. "To provide an analogy, we are the New York Giants; you're just a kid with some natural talent and a half-decent throwing arm. We'd prefer to have you on our team than not -" He turned his gaze back to her. "- but don't push it."

He cleared his throat, regarding his desk once more before he settled back in his chair. "I am prepared to offer you a salary as a civilian specialist working for the United States Army; the same sort of pay grade as most other people your age who find themselves in military service. You will thus have access to military healthcare and our education programs should you choose to take advantage of them; and I am prepared to make allowances for your accommodation, upkeep, and whatever other fringe benefits seem, and you feel, are appropriate."

He paused for a beat. "No, we will not give you a car." His eyes flicked to Sergeant Beckett, who looked like he was about to make the mistake of chiming in. "Or a helicopter."