Lt. Helga Sinclair (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notasuggestion) wrote2010-08-24 02:56 am
notasuggestion) wrote2010-08-24 02:56 am
- Desert Heat -
Helga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
819 words
Business as usual in the Southwest.
The unrelenting July sun beat down on the flat, open desert in the middle of New Mexico. Miles from the nearest town, a ranch stood. Any grass castle might once have grazed on was gone, and the iron gates stood wide open. A steer’s skull stared out across the vague path leading up to the main building. Across the sign bearing the grim marker, well-displayed words read “Carnaby’s Trading Post.”
A heavy, Army-issue truck sped toward the post, leaving a cloud of red dust and clay lingering in its wake. It jerked once before easing into a full stop. The engine growled for a moment, as if to complain about the speed or driving conditions, but the key turned in the ignition, silencing its protests.
The passenger left the vehicle as the debris in the air settled. The tall, broad man brushed off his carefully pressed military slacks and retrieved his jacket. His discarded dress shirt remained on the seat. He shrugged on the coat and buttoned it over his damp tank top.
The woman behind the wheel, six inches shorter than her companion even with her boots, got out. Her hair was soaked with sweat, and her tank top clung to her slim figure. Every inch of exposed skin was coated in dust. With one gloved hand, she pulled on her green overcoat and smooth it out before she popped the trunk’s hood.
“You coming?” the man asked.
“In a minute,” she replied, waving him on. “I need to check this out. Ramirez’ll kill me if I ruin this thing.”
After a brief look over, the blonde woman decided she’d had enough of the heat and sun, so she abandoned her task and stepped into the post.
Two couples looked up at the military woman’s entrance, associating her immediately with the man in conversation with the shopkeeper. The woman took a moment to examine the artifacts on display. Some were, as the owner loved to say, “museum grade.” Others, however, were nothing more than modern replicas, cheaply made and sold for authentic prices. She neglected to tell the couple fawning over a sculpture that, to a trained eye, it was clearly only weeks old and made with modern tools.
“Well,” the post proprietor drew the word out when he saw the woman approach. “There’s Missy Sinclair. I was jus’ askin’ Lyle where you got to.” The short, round man laughed and tipped his large cowboy hat to her.
Helga Sinclair managed a terse smile. “You said you had business for us, Mr. Carnaby?”
“Damn right I do. Got it all cozy in the office, jus’ waitin’ for ya’ll.”
Ashton Carnaby led Lyle Rourke and Helga into his office. Five crates waited, four filled with pottery, jewelry, statuettes, and other items fresh from excavation. In the middle of the room, the fifth crate was empty but surrounded by packing materials.
“So,” Carnaby began, “what’s the game, Lyle?”
Rourke looked at Helga and nodded.
“Simple swap,” Helga replied. “Two crates we’ve got in the truck for our pick here.”
“An’ how do I know ya’ll aren’t pullin’ a fast one? Not that I think y’would, mind, but a man’s got—”
“We don’t pass off junk as priceless,” Rourke cut in.
Helga smirked. Years of working with Carnaby through Whitmore and freelance had proven that the people-pleaser persona her commander often adopted was useless here. Here, he was all military. She chuckled and shed her coat. Even the breeze of the air conditioner Carnaby kept for his office couldn’t make the outer layer bearable.
Carnaby watched as the woman knelt down by a crate. What her shirt left to the imagination, he imagined. Vividly.
“Two glasses of water,” Rourke said, removing his jacket. He rolled his shoulders and briefly fixed Carnaby with a look that said everything. When the salesman scurried out of the room, the military man took a moment to admire the blonde before he joined her.
“Junk,” Helga muttered, discarding a pot. She held a bead necklace to the light before throwing it aside. “Worthless.” Next her deft fingers retrieved a small statue. She showed it to Rourke, who nodded. The woman seized a piece of newspaper and wrapped her prize.
Three hours later, Helga, back in her long coat, hauled two crates out of the truck before loading the one full of the items she and Rourke had selected. Rourke and Carnaby shook hands.
“Pleasure doin’ business. Now, don’ be strangers. Ya’ll come to visit more, y’ hear?”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Helga replied. She wiped her brow with the back of her glove, but even that was wet.
“Lieutenant,” Rourke said. “Keys.”
“Commander?” Helga looked at him.
“I’ll drive back to town.”
Helga passed the keys to him without complaint. As she climbed into the passenger seat, she heard a coyote howl in the distance.
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
819 words
Business as usual in the Southwest.
The unrelenting July sun beat down on the flat, open desert in the middle of New Mexico. Miles from the nearest town, a ranch stood. Any grass castle might once have grazed on was gone, and the iron gates stood wide open. A steer’s skull stared out across the vague path leading up to the main building. Across the sign bearing the grim marker, well-displayed words read “Carnaby’s Trading Post.”
A heavy, Army-issue truck sped toward the post, leaving a cloud of red dust and clay lingering in its wake. It jerked once before easing into a full stop. The engine growled for a moment, as if to complain about the speed or driving conditions, but the key turned in the ignition, silencing its protests.
The passenger left the vehicle as the debris in the air settled. The tall, broad man brushed off his carefully pressed military slacks and retrieved his jacket. His discarded dress shirt remained on the seat. He shrugged on the coat and buttoned it over his damp tank top.
The woman behind the wheel, six inches shorter than her companion even with her boots, got out. Her hair was soaked with sweat, and her tank top clung to her slim figure. Every inch of exposed skin was coated in dust. With one gloved hand, she pulled on her green overcoat and smooth it out before she popped the trunk’s hood.
“You coming?” the man asked.
“In a minute,” she replied, waving him on. “I need to check this out. Ramirez’ll kill me if I ruin this thing.”
After a brief look over, the blonde woman decided she’d had enough of the heat and sun, so she abandoned her task and stepped into the post.
Two couples looked up at the military woman’s entrance, associating her immediately with the man in conversation with the shopkeeper. The woman took a moment to examine the artifacts on display. Some were, as the owner loved to say, “museum grade.” Others, however, were nothing more than modern replicas, cheaply made and sold for authentic prices. She neglected to tell the couple fawning over a sculpture that, to a trained eye, it was clearly only weeks old and made with modern tools.
“Well,” the post proprietor drew the word out when he saw the woman approach. “There’s Missy Sinclair. I was jus’ askin’ Lyle where you got to.” The short, round man laughed and tipped his large cowboy hat to her.
Helga Sinclair managed a terse smile. “You said you had business for us, Mr. Carnaby?”
“Damn right I do. Got it all cozy in the office, jus’ waitin’ for ya’ll.”
Ashton Carnaby led Lyle Rourke and Helga into his office. Five crates waited, four filled with pottery, jewelry, statuettes, and other items fresh from excavation. In the middle of the room, the fifth crate was empty but surrounded by packing materials.
“So,” Carnaby began, “what’s the game, Lyle?”
Rourke looked at Helga and nodded.
“Simple swap,” Helga replied. “Two crates we’ve got in the truck for our pick here.”
“An’ how do I know ya’ll aren’t pullin’ a fast one? Not that I think y’would, mind, but a man’s got—”
“We don’t pass off junk as priceless,” Rourke cut in.
Helga smirked. Years of working with Carnaby through Whitmore and freelance had proven that the people-pleaser persona her commander often adopted was useless here. Here, he was all military. She chuckled and shed her coat. Even the breeze of the air conditioner Carnaby kept for his office couldn’t make the outer layer bearable.
Carnaby watched as the woman knelt down by a crate. What her shirt left to the imagination, he imagined. Vividly.
“Two glasses of water,” Rourke said, removing his jacket. He rolled his shoulders and briefly fixed Carnaby with a look that said everything. When the salesman scurried out of the room, the military man took a moment to admire the blonde before he joined her.
“Junk,” Helga muttered, discarding a pot. She held a bead necklace to the light before throwing it aside. “Worthless.” Next her deft fingers retrieved a small statue. She showed it to Rourke, who nodded. The woman seized a piece of newspaper and wrapped her prize.
Three hours later, Helga, back in her long coat, hauled two crates out of the truck before loading the one full of the items she and Rourke had selected. Rourke and Carnaby shook hands.
“Pleasure doin’ business. Now, don’ be strangers. Ya’ll come to visit more, y’ hear?”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Helga replied. She wiped her brow with the back of her glove, but even that was wet.
“Lieutenant,” Rourke said. “Keys.”
“Commander?” Helga looked at him.
“I’ll drive back to town.”
Helga passed the keys to him without complaint. As she climbed into the passenger seat, she heard a coyote howl in the distance.