The Chocolates Gently Down on the Terrain

Captain Monsoon had never liked this holiday—ever. It was nothing more than one of America's terrible attempts to belittle something as treasured as the concept of love to him—something he'd never known.   

Something he'd never wanted to know.

Love, to the misanthrope, wasn't impossible for someone like him but it was assigned as something extremely dangerous. In the occupation of an assassin it was equivalent to giving your enemy a loaded gun.

Monsoon had killed many, many people in years past—men, women, and children alike and without remorse. Even with that said, he was no fool. He knew these people had families—that they had lived their own lives that he had prematurely ended. It may have been nature running its course, but that meant little to any victim's grieving family.

This was something he'd learned a long time ago.

He still remembered the first time that he'd had someone attempt to take his own life out of such grief. He would never blame them for their attempts—if anything, he understood their drive better than anyone. That being said, he would not just stand there and die.

Thoughts of years past were interrupted when a knock came to his office door. Holiday or not, paperwork would not stop for it's benefit.

"Come in," the Desperado Captain grumbled slightly.

"Something the matter?" came an unmistakable female voice. French tones twined with the French-Algerian's supple tones.

"No," came a swift enough reply.

"Heh," she almost cooed at to the Cambodian in her typical flirtatious manner, "If you say so, mon ami."

Today the wind of France was in her own civilian body, much like himself. His conclusions drifted over her being in Denver for one of three reasons: a) she was here for maintenance, b) she had just returned from an escort mission that required usage of her civilian body or c) she had come in her typical attempts to impress the senator. Either way, it was really none of his business.

Tired oceanic blues drifted over to sensual teal, "Did you need something, Mistral?"

If the first were the case, because of her rank, she could come and go as she pleased—it wasn't as though he would have to sign release papers for her to return to duty.

By now, Monsoon had drifted out of his desk to a cabinet with a good stack of papers that he began to file.

"Actually, I did." He could hear the smile in her voice.

He didn't turn.

"That would be?" he asked with perhaps a lingering curiosity in his tones. As flirtatious as he could be at times, today he had not been in the mood and that was apparent.

He could hear her take a step towards him—her high heels could be heard against his hardwood floor as he turned. She were close now, but not to any uncomfortable level.

Her arm was extended when he did finally turn, but what he had expected to find caused his brow to furrow, "What are..." his voice awkwardly crept out.

"Happy Valentines Day, Monsoon."

The misanthrope was at a loss of words for a long moment as he looked from the box of candy in her hand back to her face. The confusion on his face would have been endearing to any passerby who knew anything of the cyborg.

"Why..." he swallowed sharply trying to hide away the surprise in voice and features alike. At times like this, he wished he were in his combat body—facial features hidden behind his visor. His composure was something he valued the most; to be thrown off over such a simple act of kindness were unlike him.

"Because you looked as though you'd enjoy them. I do remember you saying that you could eat in this body of yours," she said leaning in to playfully jab a finger against the nice suit that covered his stomach. "So why not enjoy some of life's guilty pleasures a bit? Need I reason more?"

"I suppose not..." he reasoned.

He wouldn't press any further. They were both hired killers there was nothing more to it than comradery, correct?

With that, the Frenchwoman turned towards his door, "Bonsoir, Monsoon. I have a flight to catch," she said with a genuine smile devoid of typical shameless flirting. Every once in a blue moon the winds had a moment of this nature and it was never to be forgotten. It was a reminder to a man who cared little of the people that riddled this world with disease that what fleeting moments of kindness there were to be had should be treasured.

"Good evening...Mistral and have a good flight," the Cambodian purred in his own tones that indicated a better mood.

As she turned on her heel, however, one of the rugs caught her footwear as she started to teeter over. Without even a moment to think on it, candies were scattered 'round them and a strong arm locked around Mistral's waist as he caught hold of the long-legged woman.

A playful grin crept his features as he helped her back to her feet, "You should watch your step in those things..."

Mistral, not one to be embarrassed, smiled back as she reached upwards and gave his cheek an appreciative pat. Typically this was a very serious action to the assassin with what scaring ran down artificial eyes. Since the loss of his eyes, he did not like others around his face—Mistral was one of very few that were an exception to that rule.

"I'll just have to remember that there is a rug there next time, mon cheri," she chuckled as teal eyes glanced all of his fallen sweets.

"You should learn to not make such a mess when you try to catch me," she teased.

Monsoon finally realized just what he'd done and made a small face, "I'm sorry...I just..." he started.

"Do not think anything of it....knowing you, you'll still eat them..."

His grin turned cheeky, "You'd be right...hurry now, you wouldn't want to miss your flight."

She simply laughed at this, "Of course."

Without a pause in her sensual sways, she left the door—careful not to crush any of his gifts under foot.

Monsoon said nothing and soon he were alone again the the solitude of his office as he leaned over onto his knee grabbing the box that had haphazardly landed close by as he began to pick up the chocolates.

There was a serene softness to his features now as one-by-one the other wind's gesture were plucked from the, thankfully clean, hardwood floor.