Chapter Text
Franky reaches her watchtower while the October sun sets against the back of her neck.
It’s barely 9pm and still hot out, that she’s sweating through her tank top and flannel shirt by the time she reaches the top of the winding staircase up to her latest work post, and out of breath. Fuck, but she might have just gotten herself way in over her head, she thinks, as she leans against the white wooden frame that encompasses the outer porch of the watchtower. Up this high, she can see above the canopy of trees, the stretching bushland with its rivers and its creaks— the distant mountains and the shadows that they cast when the sun slips behind them.
Lush yellow-green countryside basks in a lazy orange sun, stretching in every direction, and Franky stands alone above it all.
Her stomach sinks.
From here, Franky can barely make out the path that she’d hiked through to get where she is, lost to distance and obscured by trees and the occasional cluster of rock. Her body aches from the journey, but it’s nothing that she can’t get used to, and so Franky tries to settle the bubble of nerves in her stomach that wonders if she’s as cut out for this job as she’d made herself up to be, seated opposite her Parole Officer and exuding confidence as well as she could.
She wonders, not for the first time, if she couldn’t have taken her sentence of community service and stuck with the litter pickers or garbage collectors that she’d passed every day on her way to work, before this whole shit show ruined any degree of normality for her. Sure, the neon orange jump suit might not have done her figure any favours, and the work would have been monotonous at best (gruelling, beneath that hot summer sun, at worst), but she’d have gotten through it with ease.
Instead, Franky had leapt at the opportunity for a challenge.
Or, at least, a change of pace.
Sit in a watchtower, lookout for signs of a bush fire, alert someone if she saw anything suspicious.
How difficult could it be?
Staring out over the perch, now, she can’t help but scoff at her own naivety.
“You’ve really landed yourself in the shitter now, Doyle,” she whispers to herself, squinting into the distance.
Pushing away from the wooden railing, she digs out the set of keys that she’d been issued with back at the main national park’s welcome centre, and tries the door. She has to wiggle the key in the lock before it’ll give, but it otherwise swings open with ease, revealing the makings for a basic, if rustic, looking bedsit. Three-hundred-and-sixty degree windows fill every wall but the space where the door has been fitted, providing a goldfish-like view out into the world.
As far as roofs above her head go, it’s certainly not the worst Franky has ever had.
Easing out of her rucksack, Franky steps over the threshold and lets it land with a dull thud.
She flicks on a light switch to illuminate a small kitchen-come-dining area, a single bed, and the resources that she’ll need to complete her work here. A single cupboard holds all the cooking equipment and utensils that she’s been given for her stay, and the fridge-freezer looks recently stocked, that she doesn’t worry about what she’s supposed to be eating while she’s out here. A bookshelf no taller than her hip carries a few frayed looking novels, as well as a bunch of basic looking survival and nature guides. Franky thumbs through one of them without interest as she crosses her new living space, but tosses the book aside as she reaches a desk.
The drawers don’t bring up any surprises – stationery, a flare gun, binoculars, a compass.
She sets a small but well supplied first aid kit to one side, and then pulls out the desk chair, dropping herself into it.
Feet spread apart and slumping, Franky rests her elbows on the armrests and tips her head right back, closing her eyes. She’s almost dozing off, too, when a sharp crackle from the desk startles her awake again.
Straightening, Franky rubs a hand over her face and skims the desk for whatever had caused the noise. She’s still blinking her vision into focus when the walkie talkie on the far left hand side of the desk crackles again, this time in a distinct ring for attention. Frowning, Franky pulls it from the little charging dock that it’s been set into and switches it on.
Forgetting whatever protocol she’d picked up in the brief training that she’d been given prior to her arrival, she squeezes the speak button and brings the walkie to her mouth.
“What?”
She figures it’s the main welcome lodge checking up on her, making sure that she’d found her station alright, or that she hasn’t already done a runner. When the walkie next crackles to life, however, it’s with the sound of surprised, if muffled, laughter and a voice that scratches all the way down Franky’s spine.
“I thought I saw the light come on. You must be Francesca Doyle. I’m Bridget Westfall, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ll be helping you to learn the ropes, so to speak, or just to keep you sane. This job’s not for the faint of heart, if you can believe it.”
Franky stares at the walkie talkie, frowning.
“You’re not my boss?”
“More like your neighbour,” Bridget says, and Franky can hear the smile in her voice. “Look North. That watchtower in the distance is mine. We’re close enough to reach the same frequency on these walkies, so feel free to keep in touch as and when you need.”
Franky feels an itch of annoyance in her gut. “They didn’t tell me I’m being shadowed.”
“I wouldn’t think of it like that. It’s not my job to keep an eye on you, it’s more like— professional courtesy?” She says it with an amused trill that has Franky setting her jaw. “I’ve worked this job for a couple of summers, now, is all I mean to say. I’ve seen people come and go. It’s the isolation that gets to you; human beings weren’t built to spend so much time in solitary confinement, it’s not good for us. So, if you ever want to chat—”
“Yeah, I kinda came here for the peace and quiet, actually, so don’t worry about it,” Franky lies, and there’s a telling silence from the walkie.
It lasts all of five seconds.
“Noted.” And, she still sounds so damn amused, Franky notes. “But the offer still stands, Francesca.”
“Franky,” she barks, wetting her lips. “And, thanks, but I don’t need it.”
“Well, if you change your mind… Goodnight, Franky.”
Ignoring the walkie, Franky sets it back onto its charging dock with a little more force than is really necessary, and stands. She’s about to leave the desk completely but indecision roots her in place. With a sigh, she digs around in the top drawer again for the compass, and holds it up to the light until she finds North. Dead ahead. Lifting her head, Franky squints through the windowpane directly in front of her, but it isn’t until she tries the binoculars that she spots the watchtower in the distance.
A glint of light makes it near-impossible to miss, like a beacon meant to draw her eye, a pole star.
A long ravine sits about halfway between them, separating her watchtower from Bridget’s and hinting at no easy direct route from point A to B without an arduous trek.
Still, Franky’s lips twist with annoyance.
She knew this community service offer had been too good to be true.
Get out of the city for a while, top up her tan, that’s what she’d thought. Of course, she’d taken the offer seriously – this was just the break from home that she needed, and she intended to do the job justice. She thought she’d hit a lucky break in being considered for the position, instead of typical community service work with a Parole Officer breathing down her neck, and yet…
A twist of uncertainty warns her not to judge this Bridget Westfall too soon, but Franky is stubborn in the face of her own frustration.
Of course, they’d have someone checking up on her.
She supposes she shouldn’t be so surprised. There’s a reason she’s here, after all.
With a sigh, she leaves the binoculars and compass at the desk, and grabs her rucksack.
She’d passed a little outhouse and shower downstairs that she supposes she’s going to have to become intimately acquainted with sooner or later, and there’s no time like the present.
When Franky wakes, it’s with a stiff neck and a shock of unfamiliarity.
It’s not the scratchy blanket or the woodsy smell that blindsides her, but the way that the entire watchtower lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree as soon as the sun begins to rise. Fuck, but she misses her blackout blinds all of a sudden.
Groaning, she contemplates shoving her head beneath her pillow for another hour or two, but the idea leaves her wanting.
She’s awake, now, she might as well do something.
So, Franky rises, stretches, scratches her back and rolls out the kink in her neck. She grabs the kettle from the stove and slips on the pair of sliders that she’d brought with her before exiting the watchtower. The trip back down to the ground is much quicker than the climb up, and once down there Franky uses the outhouse and gathers water. If nothing else, she’ll be in better shape by the time she returns home, that’s for goddamn sure.
Back in the watchtower, and fully awake, Franky brews herself a cup of coffee and takes it out onto the surrounding porch with her.
This early, she can appreciate the summer sun without being scorched by it. She’s high enough up to feel a breeze against her bare arms and legs, where the shorts and t-shirt do very little to keep it at bay, but it’s a pleasant kind of cool. Franky closes her eyes and feels it against her face. She takes a sip of coffee and sighs a hot breath back out into the air again.
She doesn’t remember ever being anywhere so quiet.
As if a higher power had tuned into her thoughts – God, fate, karma – a familiar crackle sounds from inside.
Franky almost considers ignoring it, but even she can’t justify fucking up on the first day of work. She returns to the watchtower with a roll of her eyes, and sets her mug on the desk before grabbing the walkie talkie from the dock.
“Checking up on me, already, or did ya just wanna know how I slept?”
“Franky.” Bridget’s voice sounds warm and amused, even this early in the morning. “Guilty as charged. Do you always wake this early, or are you just missing your curtains?”
“What do you think?”
“I think someone skipped their morning coffee.”
“You interrupted it, actually.”
“Well, I am sorry about that.”
“Sure, you are,” Franky scoffs to herself, not relaying her derision over the walkie. She pulls the desk chair out and takes a seat, again, resting her legs on top the desk. Comfortable, she reaches for her coffee mug and takes another mouthful. It burns pleasantly down the back of her throat. Into the walkie, she says, “So, what are you doing up so early?”
“Checking up on you, of course,” Bridget says, and Franky recognises the teasing tone, the goading, even as she sets her jaw. “Actually, I’ve been awake for a while. It’s difficult not to rise with the sun, out here, but by now it’s just become habit.”
Franky chews at her bottom lip. “I almost just put my pillow over my face and went back to sleep.”
Bridget’s laughter scratches out of the walkie in her hand, and Franky shivers.
“Tried it,” she says, and the following groan suggests a lack of success. “Actually, you should drop by the supply box nearest to you, if you haven’t already. The last lookout might have left some things behind that you could find useful. Do you have your map?”
Franky glances around for it, but makes no effort to do a proper search. “Yeah.”
“Good. The rangers back at the welcome lodge should have marked off where your closest supply drop is. That’s where any drop-offs you request will be left. When it comes to food, they like you to pick it up immediately.”
“Don’t feed the wildlife, I get it.”
Bridget hums across the walkie, amused. “The code to get in is 4-3-2-1. It’s the same for every other box, too.”
Franky snorts. “Secure.”
“Yep.”
“Well, if that’ll be all…” She holds the walkie up expectantly, waiting for Bridget to get her last word in.
No doubt, she will.
Right on cue, the walkie crackles back to life, and Franky can’t help but smirk to herself.
“One last thing,” Bridget begins. “I’m really not here to oversee you. I’m in no higher position than you are, I’ve just had previous experience on the job, and I know what it can be like. I’m sorry if I overstepped last night, but I was just offering to help.”
Franky lets the line sit quiet for a moment while she considers that.
If they were face to face, maybe she’d be able to tell for certain if Bridget were lying or not. As it is…
Franky releases all her breath in a sigh.
“It’s whatever, yeah? I’m used to being on my own. A break like this is just what I need to clear my head.”
The line holds quiet for a moment longer, and Franky wonders how believable she’d sounded.
“Alright, Franky,” Bridget finally returns. “But I’m here if you need me.”
Franky rolls her eyes at the walkie talkie and tosses it to the bed, where it lands in the unmade sheets. Putting her feet back on the floor, she downs her coffee until the mug is near-empty, and stands.
“Yeah, I don’t fuckin’ think so, mate,” she mutters to herself, drawing her t-shirt up and over her head.
Franky finds the supply crate with ease.
She’s never really had to use a map and compass like this before, but she’s a quick study, and she’s always had a decent sense of direction. Call it a nifty little superpower picked up from having a childhood with no decent adult available to run her from place to place. She thumbs in the code and the padlock opens as expected.
Inside, the supply box holds a spare torch, some loose batteries, and a notebook, amongst other items. Franky picks up the notebook and thumbs through it, but it’s barely filled and there’s nothing of any particular interest. Seems the last person who had her watchtower was some kind of artist, as different flowers and trees fill the first handful of pages. After that, there’s some indistinct chicken-scratch notes, and the remainder is empty.
After a second thought, Franky shoves it into the little travel-sized backpack that she’d brought with her, along with the torch and batteries.
If nothing else, she supposes she could always pick up journaling.
On the lid of the supply box a vague map of the land has been stapled. There are faded notes and marks over certain areas, where past fire watchers or rangers have marked off local points of interest, and areas to be wary of. Franky spends the next few minutes copying the notations onto the map that she’d brought with her.
Other than that, there’s little of interest in the supply box, and so Franky locks it with the padlock again, messing up the combination.
She’ll have to trek back out here when whoever’s in charge of making sure she doesn’t starve to death does a proper food drop, but for now she leaves it well alone.
Her job description states that she need be in the watchtower at all times, give or take, on high alert for any bush fires, except for when she’s actually checking out a potential threat or suspicious activity. Still, Franky itches to explore a little. It’s still early enough that there’ll be plenty of light for the next few hours, and if she sticks to open spaces, she’s likely to see any signs of smoke almost as well as if she were back in the tower.
With this in mind, she makes a long arc around the watchtower, sticking to the sparser bushland terrain.
She doesn’t meet a single other person on her walk, although that’s about as peaceful as it is unnerving, if she lets herself think too hard on it.
She completes her arc before the sun begins to set, heading for the watchtower that’s still easily within sight. There’s sweat down her back and a strain in her legs by the time she reaches the bottom of the staircase winding up, that she just stands there a moment, shielding her eyes from the sun and wincing at the inevitable exertion.
No other way around it, she decides, and begins the climb.
She’s almost halfway up when she hears something out of place in the near-silence of her own panting.
Squinting, Franky stands still to catch her breath, and listens.
The indistinct noise becomes a voice— a voice, she suddenly realises, that’s shouting her name.
“Shit.”
Franky’s eyes go wide, and without thought to her aching muscles, she pushes into what she can manage of a run. She reaches the top of the watchtower within seconds, and bursts through the door— only to find it completely empty.
“What…”
“….Franky!....... Franky, hello, are you there?!.....”
The walkie!
“Fuck,” Franky hisses as she dives onto the bed, pushing the sheets aside until she finds the little device lost in amongst them. She almost drops it in her haste to bring it up to her mouth, and is sure she sounds panicked and out of breath when she answers. “I’m here— where’s the fuckin’ fire?”
She pushes herself up onto her knees, better to see out of the windows surrounding the watchtower, and twists in every direction, frantic.
She is not expecting the scoff of outraged laughter to come over the line, and it surprises her enough that she sits down on the bed, frowning.
“You’re fucking kidding,” Bridget sighs, and Franky can hear the relief in her voice, even if she doesn’t understand it.
“Do you see something?” she presses.
“No, Franky.” Clipped. Angry. Oh? “I just thought you might have died on the fucking job already. Did you seriously leave your watchtower without your walkie?”
Ah.
“No,” Franky lies. “I was just outside when I heard you going boonta and ran in here.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not—”
“Do you realise how stupid that was?” Franky’s jaw drops with offence. “Anything could have happened to you, and nobody would have known. I was this close to calling for a ranger. Don’t you ever do that again, Franky. That walkie talkie goes wherever you go, no excuses.”
“Jesus,” Franky huffs, her cheeks turning pink. The sting of mortification is sharper than a knife’s tip, but Franky’s always been good at redirecting unwanted emotions into one that she is far more acquainted with. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not my mother – you’re not my fucking boss, either, so where the fuck you get off on telling me what to do—”
“Really, Franky?”
“Yeah, really. If you weren’t such a nosy cow, I wouldn’t have left the walkie behind in the first place. Just back off, Bridget. I don’t need you looking out for me, alright? I’m here to do my fucking job and go home at the end of it, that’s it.”
Silence holds the line – for long enough that Franky thinks Bridget won’t respond.
Well, good.
“Don’t fucking bother,” she whispers to herself, clenching a fist.
When Bridget reappears over the line, her voice is octaves calmer, but it’s a forced kind of control that makes her sound hard. Hurt. Pissed off.
The sound of it makes Franky grind her teeth.
“Alright, Franky. I’m done. You know what frequency I’m on if you need me.”
Like that, the line goes silent.
Franky glares at the device in her hand until the urge to smash something almost overtakes her. She draws her arm back as though to launch the walkie talkie through a window, but something stops her. She stops herself. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to five. Count to ten. Count to—
Changing direction, she pummels the walkie talkie into the bed, instead, where it bounces straight off the mattress and clatters to the floor.
Noisy, almost satisfying, but not broken.
Franky turns her light off early, that night, but struggles to fall asleep.
The mattress beneath her is firm in places and far too soft in others, and she’s sure it’ll do some kind of damage to her back, eventually, but can’t yet find it in herself to care. Even with the light off, moonlight finds a way in through the surrounding windows and makes the inside of the little watchtower visible. Franky curls up onto one side, an arm beneath her pillow, and blinks into the darkness.
Her gaze settles onto an indistinct shape beneath the dining table, and it takes her a moment of scrutiny to realise that it’s the walkie talkie.
She hadn’t gone looking for it after her little outburst, earlier, and it’s only with vague relief that she’s happy to have found it without effort.
Turning onto her back, Franky closes her eyes and wills herself to sleep, even as she already knows that she won’t. She feels restless. She feels cooped up. She feels— pretty fucking stupid, if she’s being honest with herself. She wonders, not for the first time, how easy her life would be if she was any more of a bastard than she already is.
Rolling her eyes at herself, Franky sighs and gets out of bed.
She crouches on all fours to reach the walkie talkie, and brings it back to the nest of blankets with her.
She considers that it is, perhaps, far too late to be attempting any kind of communication.
Before she can talk herself out of it, she pushes her thumb into the speak button.
“Uh, hey. You still awake?”
No answer. Franky holds her breath.
“C’mon,” she pleads. “I know you’re there. I’m sorry for being a dickhead, earlier. I was… embarrassed. I forgot all about the walkie. I only meant to go to the supply box, like you said, but then I wanted to stay out a little longer. I just felt so cooped up in here. But, I didn’t go far, and the watchtower was in sight the whole time, so—”
“Franky?”
Franky startles, almost drops the walkie. “Y-yeah?”
“I was sleeping, actually.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Mm…”
“Sorry?”
A yawn. “It’s fine.”
“And, uh,” Franky clears her throat. “Sorry. Again. For, you know.”
“Being a dickhead?”
“Right.” Franky rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. She doesn’t really know why. “I won’t leave without the walkie again. Scout’s honour.”
Bridget scoffs. “You were never a scout.”
“How the fuck do you know? I could have been.”
“But, you weren’t.”
“Nuh. Guess I wasn’t.”
“You scared me, today.” The admission is said quietly, sleep-dazed and soft. Franky wonders if Bridget would admit to as much, if she hadn’t just roused her from sleep. “It’s so easy for something to go wrong out here. If anything would have happened and you couldn’t get a signal out, you’d have been fucked. It could have been days before anybody found you. Could have been longer.”
“Yeah,” Franky agrees, blowing out a sigh. “But, I could always just start a fire. A real big one. That’d get everybody’s attention.”
Bridget laughs, unamused. “Don’t you dare.”
“No promises…”
Bridget groans over the walkie, and Franky laughs to herself. She bites at a blunt thumbnail and thinks she should probably end this conversation, now, while they’re still on amicable terms. She should let Bridget go back to sleep, and she should try and get some herself, too, while her chest isn’t feeling so heavy.
Instead—
“So, what made you come out here, Gidget?” she asks, and smiles at the exasperated noise that sighs out of her walkie talkie’s tinny speaker.
“It’s Bridget.”
“I prefer Gidget.”
“I’d prefer to have this conversation when the sun is up. Preferably, after a full night’s sleep?”
“Oh, c’mon, I’m curious now. If you don’t answer, I’ll be up all night wondering… unable to sleep.”
“And, that’s my concern, why?” Bridget asks, voice teasing.
“You said you wanted to help me, didn’t ya?”
A scoff. Franky’s smile broadens until she licks it from her lips.
“You said you’ve worked here before,” Franky presses. “How often?”
“The last two summers.”
“What made you take the job?”
A brief pause, and Franky wonders how honest Bridget will allow herself to be when she answers her.
“I wanted a change of pace. Something out of the city, away from my work.”
“What made you come back?”
“I thought it was peaceful.”
“Was that a dig?” Franky asks, grinning. “’Cause that sounded like a bit of a dig, Gidget.”
Bridget groans again. “Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s late. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.”
“Oh, so when the shoe is on the other foot, eh…?”
A beat.
“Is that what this is?” Bridget asks. “Payback for being a nosy cow earlier?”
“Maybe.” Franky tongues at the corner of her mouth. “Nuh, not really. I’m just curious. What kinda work do you do?”
“What?”
“Your job. You said you wanted to get away from your work in the city— doing what?”
Franky imagines Bridget rolling her eyes, tucked up in bed in her own watchtower, perhaps even smiling.
She wonders, briefly, if Bridget’s workspace is as much of a mess as her own is.
Perhaps she’ll do something about that, tomorrow…
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Oh, Christ.” That husky, nails-against-her-back laughter sounds again, and Franky bites her lip. “That explains a lot.”
“Hm.”
“So, I’m stuck out here with a shrink.”
“And, who am I stuck out here with, Franky?”
Franky’s smile dissolves on her lips.
For a brief second, she considers lying. Omitting the truth. She doubts she’ll ever even see Bridget face to face, never mind in the real world, where they could bump into each other amongst regular society. And, what does it matter, anyway? Franky Doyle is who she is, and she’s not ashamed of herself. She’s too goddamn stubborn for that.
She presses her thumb down on the speak button, and then just holds it there for a moment.
Hesitates.
Will Bridget think any less of her?
(Does she care?)
“I’m… actually only here on community service.”
Bridget’s “oh?” is convincingly surprised.
“Yep.”
“How long have you got?”
“The month.”
“Ouch.”
Franky hums a laugh. “Not gonna ask what I did to deserve it?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
Franky… considers that. No, she thinks. She wants to end the conversation and go to bed. Sighing, she already knows that she won’t. She’d always been one of those kids who picked her scabs off before they were fully healed, unable to leave well enough alone. As an adult, it seems, she’s no different.
“Assault.”
Her walkie remains silent.
Just as Franky begins to sweat, it crackles back into life again.
“Well, it couldn’t have been too bad, if they sent you here.”
Franky’s face pales at the memory.
“Yeah,” she agrees, swallows tightly. “Could have definitely been worse.”
What she means, of course, is that she’d tried to do worse, in the moment.
Had brought Mike Pennisi to the floor and was about to do something royally fucking heinous, when she’d been restrained.
The intent, in that split second decision, the sheer strength of her own anger had terrified her.
By the time she’d realised how close she’d come to throwing boiling oil into a man’s face, she’d vomited until she couldn’t breathe, and accepted her assault charge like it was a slap on the wrist. It really could have been much, much worse.
“Franky,” Bridget says, reminding Franky that she’s there. “Please don’t take offence, but I’m going to fall asleep.”
And, just like that, Franky’s smile returns.
“Bored you to exhaustion, have I?”
“Just about…”
“Cheeky.”
“Goodnight, Franky,” Bridget intones.
Franky can hear the smile in her voice, and can’t help but match it.
“Yeah, yeah, go the fuck to sleep already.” She licks her bottom lip, captures it between her teeth, and smirks. “Gidget.”