Posted Aug. 13, 2021, 6:45 p.m. by Civilian Mirembe M'Ahar (Director of Terraforming) (Trin S)
Miremebe relinquished her sac to the floor and flipped her wrist to consult the time. 17:01. Spurts of dry, chagrinned laughter crept up her throat, but she managed only a slight smile. An hour stood between her and Bree’s arrival, and she had little more than tousled hair and a vexed cast to show for it. Wonderful. Mirembe took in a slow, ragged breath and all but punched in her access code. Surely an hour was long enough? Visions of a sharp, keen blade slicing through fresh veggies and dark olive oil slathering raw steaks filled her thoughts as if manifesting the prep she expected to have already done. Instead, a marbled counter greeted her with nothing but an array of spices and gadgets to offer. She shook her head and released the groceries to join them.
Before her fingers graced the hilt of a nearby knife, Mirembe felt a familiar presence behind her. She turned to find a brindle pitbull sitting with a greying face tilted expectantly toward her and an eager tail sweeping up bits of dust and hair from the floor. Eo. What possessed her not to say ‘hello’? Surely he wondered the same thing. Had she forgotten about his daily behind-the-ear scratches? Or the bowl of lamb-flavoured chow he savoured at night? Mirembe would assure him that wasn’t the case, but she doubted reassurance would substitute a long-awaited pet. Kneeling, she brushed off her hands and rubbed his face.
She swore a smile touched those flappy lips.
Having grown up around her intrusive companion, Eo paid no heed when IAN came to fetch her. He wanted her undivided attention. And he wasn’t about to share with some pesky metal ball. On any other day, Mirembe would be inclined to agree; but she had plans, and sitting around would only hurl her closer to disaster. Reluctantly pulling away, she dismissed Eo with a treat and promptly got to work.
The swift movements of a wood-handled knife and the wafting smell of herbs and roasting vegetables propelled her through the hour. When finally she lifted her gaze, the clock mocked her with a bright, accusing 17:49. Eleven minutes. Hastily, she released the last dishes to the sink and sped off to make something of her dishevelled appearance. She wasn’t often bothered by the way she looked, but she doubted oil splatters and tired eyes would make all that great of an impression on her colleague. Then again, maybe Brianna didn’t care. She wasn’t particularly inclined to find out. Miremebe managed only a quick shower and costume change. But when she emerged, she felt marginally better equipped for the task at hand. Now, all she had to do was wait. And hope she gave O’Harra the right address.
— Mirembe M’Ahar
© 1991-2024 STF. Terms of Service
Version 1.15.11
RSS Feed