Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA

[Jane Hartman]

Hartman shrugged. "They're all hell." It hardly mattered who the enemy was. The losses always hurt the same. At least, that was what she told herself. In truth, it had been a long time since a casualty report had made her feel anything other than numb. Perhaps it should have disturbed her, but that emotion too, had long since been exhausted. Resolve. Resolve was all that was left.

Still, it felt good to have someone believe in her.

" 'Still got fire?' Someone else said that to me a long time ago." Over a decade, now. "I think you've got a few battles left in you yourself, old man. You're still here." She smiled. "We both are." It wasn't a great deal, but damned if it wasn't something. They'd both been fighting for so long that it was a small miracle of probability that they were still breathing. War had a strange way of bringing people together, she thought, regarding the still-smirking man across from her. The two of them had faced down everything from rheinland fleets to lost transport captains. In some ways he was more her brother then her real siblings ever could be. Perhaps, just perhaps, someone she could trust. Her brain took that impulse and ran with it. Hartman glanced at the door. "Is your bird docked? There's something I'd like you to see."

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