circle7 | of politics and assholes named weiler

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of politics and assholes named weiler

The ceremony was dull - as was expected of political events. But the welcoming of the new Senator of Caponor, a very large city on Gladsheim, was quite important for many reasons. Gladsheim Military Forces would be there to represent themselves and start a good relationship with the Senator, and hopefully, he would relay this good relationship to the masses. (The funding didn't hurt, either.)

Locke was attending as a Gladsheim soldier under his commander, Iva Gearhorn. She was to meet the senator personally to discuss Very Important Matters. The reception of the event had since started, cuing a lot of noise, eating, drinking, and overall difficulty in keeping track of the moment when the Senator and Commander would have their chat in private. Watching from the general cheese tray area seemed the best course of action, simply appearing as a quiet, trained soldier in the background.

The fancy cheese certainly helped the time pass less painfully. In fact, everything was fancy. Locke was quite enjoying the spread of gourmet finger foods, drink, and even the building - the roof was glass, showing off the soft red, Gladsheim sky at sunset, and bouncing off the marbled walls across the upper walls. The paintings of the lower floor, where the party had been set up, seemed to soak up the sunlight. (A clever direction of light designed by the architects.) The rest of the floor was lit by soft chandeliers and sconces.

Locke made sure not to spend too much time admiring - he was on the look out, despite his handful of biscuits and cheese.

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"Ah~, this one tastes like goat," said a voice to Locke's left, coming from just a little distance around the large, rose-pink marble pillar he was standing near. Immediately after, a stray cube of cheese, no doubt laser-cut to be exactly even on all six sides, went sailing across the air, landing somewhere on the polished floor behind the pillar with an inaudible splat, where it would no doubt trip up some official's arm candy later on. A toothpick stabbed directly into the center of another unfortunate cheese sample, raising it into the speaker's line of sight.

It was a politician, or at the very least, someone with a politician, judging from the perfectly tailored suit on his frame, money sewn into every invisible seam, into every taper of a lapel, into every glimmer of a polished cufflink. Other than the atrocious manners and the very un-politician-like show of saying what he actually felt, the other man lingering by the refreshment table looked like any other suit-and-shoes getup in the area - slicked back hair, slicked-back attitude, the sort that set an intuitive person's heart at unease.

The suited man promptly stuck the cheese into his mouth, rolling it around, judging from the chipmunk-like way his cheeks deformed. This one, he thankfully swallowed. "That one tasted like parsley," he told Locke seriously, drawing out his S's and dulling out his harsh T's. He tipped his head in the other man's direction even if he didn't lift his gaze from his plate, which housed, upon closer inspection, a literal mountain of complimentary delectables, shingles of crackers paneled over a perfect pyramid of cheese and coldcuts. "Bit strong for my taste."

Locke watched the man with narrowed eyes. He was no doubt rude - probably not far from how most of these politicians actually felt, but acted painfully sugar sweet on the outside. It stirred some conflicting feelings to see a politician (or someone most likely with a politician) behave that way. On one hand, he didn't like sucking up more than the next guy, but on the other, there were things known as manners.

He settled on the idea that maybe he had one too many drinks.

"You won't find anything that's not overwhelmed by some sort of flavor," he advised cautiously, his posture becoming even straighter. It made it look as though the formal military uniform had been ironed on him. "Supposedly that's what makes it 'gourmet'."

"Oh? You are an expert in the culinary arts?"

The man twirled a small cut of sausage on his toothpick this time. Its red casing and its pinker interior had long since lost its just-boiled sheen. It looked a little soggy, truthfully, but there were rumors that some of the Cinclaflorians liked their meat overcooked just like this, and there were certain places in the solar system where rumors were considered just as good as truth.

The Perhaps-Politician bit down on this bite as well - his teeth white and a little jagged, like somewhere down the line he had carnivore in his roots. He followed that up with a simple saltine cracker, which he managed to eat in three bites without sending a crumb anywhere - neither on the floor nor anywhere on his immaculately black suit jacket. He finished chewing before speaking.

"You are not, by any chance, the chef?"

The soldier watched, the only sign that he was both revolted and confused by this man's eating habits being a twitch between his eyebrows. How he managed to be both careless and careful all at once baffled him.

"I'm afraid not," Locke answered, hazarding a bite of the biscuit he had been holding.

"Oh, be careful with those. I saw the chef drop one of his scales into the batter," said the man, perusing the contents of the table from afar.

A frown dipped from under his mustache.

"And for what reason would you be in the kitchen, exactly, sir?"

For the first time, the Perhaps Politician turned to look at him. He had a smile to match with his image - a smile that curved most severely at the corners of his mouth, like a cat. "To make sure no one poisoned anything, of course. Herr Wallabin is very particular about his poison, you see. He only takes it in the form of smoke and drink."

He held his hand out. "And please, no need for formalities. Call me by name. We are all friends here, no?"

Politely, Locke took his glove off, sticking his hand firmly into the man's. Even if he did give a hesitant glance to his hand and back up to his face. It didn't look like the sort of face you should trust.

"And that name would be?"

Both brows rose in tandem, though curiously enough, the movement seemed to occur without affecting any other features of his face, as if he had precise control over every muscle as its own individual entity.

"Oh, they didn't tell you," he mused aloud, drawing his hand back to his toothpick and spearing through four pieces of cheese and cured ham at once in one quick, merciless motion. He ate them two at a time, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing after each bite, clearly feeling no inclination to put a waiting man out of his misery. When he finished, he set the plate down on a passing waiter's silver tray and took an olive-topped martini from it instead, cradling it between his middle and ring finger.

"I'm Milo Eberstark. The senator's secretary-slash-personal-assistant. You are familiar with the senator, at least, yes?"

"Of course," he answered, tilting his head up, as though to say he was better than this incredibly testing display. His hands retreated to his back, clasped in orderly posture.

"Call me Avery, if you must."

Milo tilted to the side - that is to say, the entirety of his body angled at a fifteen-degree incline off of ninety-degrees, rooted at his feet - and glanced behind 'Avery'. Somehow, not a cracker managed to shift, perhaps held in place by the friction of the tactile brie smeared on the bottom of the porcelain plate. "Oh, your posture is wonderful," he commented, his 'wonderful's sounding like 'vonderful's, before straightening. "You are not...a politician. Are you someone's arm ornamentation?"

"I am here to represent Gladsheim Military Forces with my commander," he said, not moving a centimeter from his position. His brow dipped again in confusion at Milo's mannerisms. "We are offering our greetings and good wishes to Senator Wallabin."

"Ah yes, yes, for his recent engagement," Milo agreed, looking over to where Wallabin was striding around the area like he was born for it, looking ever the more prestigious for the blonde beauty attached to his elbow, a good thirty years younger than the graying, rotund man but perhaps just as money-hungry. They were a good match, in that regard.

"Or maybe for his recent backing of your planet's political agendas," Milo mused again, certainly eccentric enough for the public political sphere, though people seemed to recognize him, occasionally dipping their head in greeting as they passed by, even if none of them initiated much confirmation. That made him a familiar face, but not an important one, as expected for a personal assistant.

"Your commander...they are which one?" he asked, accent heavy as he scanned the area.

'Avery' made no comment on his assessment, simply looking across the large room to where Senator Wallabin was, surrounded by supporters and enemies alike. Among them was a stocky, short-haired blonde woman in similar uniform to his own, but with more adornments, and fitted to the feminine physique.

"The one to the senator's left," he answered, nodding in her direction. It was rude to point, after all. "Commander Gearhorn. The other blonde over there."

From their vantage point, the only view they were afforded of the three people in question was of their backs, and though there was a lot to be said about a person based on how they carried themselves (like the military strictness in the snap-rigid line of the Commander's shoulders, the opulence in the pudgy bulge under every shift of the Senator's expensive suit, the arrogance in the upward tilt of his fiancee's chin), there wasn't really much to observe. Milo spent most of his work day watching after the man, after all, and considering how often his bride-to-be dropped by in order to convince the inter-system press that she wasn't just a gold digger (she was a gold-digger and a smart one, thank you very much), he really saw enough of them to bother looking now anyway.

"Ah~, she looks a mean woman," he said anyway, "I am always so intimidated by people like that."

Then, "It must be very trying, tailing her."

"She is a rather difficult person to keep up with," he said with no hesitation, though his glance did switch to Milo, giving him a look up and down. "And mean at that."

Milo seemed to have been expecting the glance, considering he was already grinning at 'Avery' when the other man turned to look.

"But I hear you're very good at it," he commented, voice deeper and without even the faintest hint of an accent. "Or so they say."

"Well, Mr. Eberstark," he said, now understanding the irony, a smirk hiding under his mustache, "I am, if I must say so."

"Oh, no, no, that won't do," Milo said, leaning backwards in that full-body sway of his. His entire face scrunched up as if he had just eaten something very sour. "It's very poor form to compliment yourself. You have to let all the sycophants and political backers do that for you, or the press will call you pig-headed, you see. I had to remind Senator Wallabin of that just the other day, in fact. Had to bribe a pretty penny to a journalist to make sure it wouldn't leak, either."

Without skipping a beat, he added (like it was a natural part of the flow of conversation), "They didn't tell you that there'd be another of us here?"

Before Locke could point out that he was of no importance to an event like this,and complimenting himself really didn't matter when the Gladsheim Military was known for their pompous attitudes anyway, Milo was already changing topic. The Circle certainly hired interesting people. Sometimes, Locke couldn't help but question their choices.

"The less I know, the better, at times."

"The less others know, the better, at all times," was the answer.

Milo was still rummaging around on his plate, upsetting the cheese tower and piles of crackers with the tip of his toothpick, though he seemed to have lost his atrocious appetite between one word and the next, or maybe that, too, had been a show. Whenever someone passed within earshot, like the fellow in the tailcoat stepping by now, he would pick up the cue right where he left it, commenting loudly on the state of the food with an unrelenting lack of relevance. "Oh, that champagne's at flat as the ground, Mr. Avery. I wouldn't suggest that!"

"Locke, is it? I've heard interesting things about your name," Milo continued, flipping over a piece of aged Gruyere. His voice was naturally low and dry now, like it belonged to another person entirely.

"I'm sure you haven't," he said, as one dismissively says 'I'm fine, thank you.' While people-watching and cautiously choosing their words as they approached, Locke had accrued another plate of his own cheese. The asiago was actually rather good, he found.

So it was true, then.

'Milo' laughed to himself, a muffled giggling sound that held a secret, innate sense of 'I know something you don't know' to it, which made it all the more irritating. It must have been difficult to work in the military with a name like that, which meant that it was also true that Locke wasn't half-bad at his job. That was good - informants had to be skilled or they weren't informants for long at all. A good number of them ended up at the bottom of alien seas, floating out somewhere in space or, even, at times, doing both.

"Haettenschweiler," he said, the German accent heavy in his voice for that one word in particular. "Call me Weiler."

Locke didn't acknowledge the laugh at all. Over the years, he learned not to. That just opened you up for teasing. Like children, the other party tended to get bored if you were unfazed by their taunts.

Upon hearing his real name, he did finally glance up from his cheese, nodding.

"Pleasure, Weiler."

"Not really, I'm sure," Weiler replied pleasantly, neither offended nor flattered. A man grew impervious to such things in the world of politics, of course, but before that, a man grew impervious to it when his means of living required the accrual and spread of rumors and slander. "Though if Herr Wallabin has his way, we'll be seeing each other much more often, so we will have to get used to it? My sincerest apologies for making you neglect your military responsibilities."

An insincere smile played on his lips, but at the very least it was a polite one, and kept up the appearances of normal conversation between two completely unrelated men. The thought of having to see Weiler time and time again was a little troubling, but the Circle was very good about hiring those who could be trusted. Locke planned to trust him until proven otherwise. (Even though no one in their right mind should trust that face - the politician area truly suited him.)

"Believe me, the military will make sure they get their way as well. My responsibilities haven't suffered," he assured.

"Ah, that's what I'm afraid of. Inside sources, you see, tell me that Herr Wallabin and the Gladsheim military's 'ways' are quite in sync. The problem, as you will conclude, is that therefore, they are quite out of line with ours," said Weiler quietly, raising a fine, pale brow at Locke. The distinction was fine but clear - it needed to be. The Circle was allowed no gray areas in that regard.

Locke fell silent. He gave a careful glance around, and brought himself a subtle step closer to Weiler.

"Daijia will be clear when that line is to be drawn," he assured. It was difficult to work under conflicting orders, but it was part of the job. There were very rigorous tests for Seventh Circle members to test their abilities and loyalties. Maybe rejections were caused by hesitance to obey. At times, though, part of the job was knowing when you shouldn't obey orders. "Until then, we must simply continue to stay part of the scenery."

Locke smiled again, still cautious in making their conversation appear normal. You never knew who was watching.

"And what lovely scenery it is, isn't it?" he added as a small group of important looking people passed through, who all gave a polite (and slightly drunken) nod at Weiler.

"Smiling and stepping closer - my, sir Locke, you should only be so forward after you've gotten me a drink," Weiler replied, slowly fanning himself in mock surprise, though the look on his face was anything but shy or innocently coquettish.

"Someone advised me that the champagne had gone flat. I should say I'm doing you a favor," he jested.

"Flat champagne? At a party of this magnitude? I'm personally offended for the arguably important political figures that I represent," Weiler drawled, leaning back against the pillar with a raised brow. "But haven't you a reputation of your own to keep within the military?"

There was a subtle roll of his eyes under his brow.

"I'm but a soldier. A good one, but not renowned."

Weiler seemed either highly impervious to the exasperation of others, to the point where it was a question to be posed indeed if he even registered it anymore. He sighed, a deep, exaggerated expulsion of breath that made his eyes slip shut and his entire frame sag as the air left him. "Alas, a good ol' low-beat soldier with a promiscuous streak on the side. I suppose that is the norm," he commented, as if the fact of the matter was that it really couldn't be helped. "You soldiers are all the same, don't know the right way to treat a girl."

His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert. "A good disguise."

Locke raised a thick eyebrow at him.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." He half-meant it, too.

Mindless of Locke's confusion, Weiler winced, looking somewhat non-plussed. "I don't really favor the moustache, but c'est la vie, il n'est pas la peine si elle n'est pas difficile," he said, eyes straying to the center area of the hall, where Senator Wallabin was looking around him like a dog chasing his own tail, clearly having forgotten something of import or, by the looks of the unhappy set to his fiancee's perfectly red mouth, having forgotten something of hers, like maybe a gift jewelry or other such forms of bribery that she traded for whatever favors she offered in private.

Just on cue, Wallabin came to a full circle and then looked up, eyes lighting on his personal assistant by habit before his white brows drew together and up. He was no doubt wondering what his secretary was doing with a member of the Gladsheim military, speaking so quietly and so intimately considering he hadn't even quite made his play on the Gladsheim conflict for power yet. Then, his brows drew down in a little 'V' of suspicion. He was probably jumping to conclusions now, wondering if Milo Eberstark was giving him away. Ah, what a bother, these paranoid men with feeble holds on power. Now he was going to have to explain himself.

Reaching up without really looking, Weiler grabbed onto the front of Locke's uniform lapel, pulling him down directly in front of his face. "Help a fellow out, will you?" he said with a grin, before placing a solid less-than-modest kiss on the soldier's mouth. A moment later, he let go and simultaneously slipped out from between pillar and man, brushing his own pressed suit free of wrinkles as he headed towards his boss, who now looked more surprised than angry. "Danke," he called with a waggling-fingered wave, "Bis später, Herr Avery."

The whole succession of the scene was really less than ten seconds, hardly enough time for the average man to react. But within the Circle - particularly the Seventh - you learned to act on cue.

But to say he wasn't surprised would be a lie. It still wasn't everyday you played partner to another man. Much less spontaneously, with a direct kiss on the mouth. It was typically more subtle. Although, given what he learned about Weiler today, he'd say the man was light years away from subtle. This probably seemed normal to anyone who knew him.

His lack of reaction - apart from tilting his head just enough to make the kiss look like a natural motion to him - was mostly in part that it was incredibly unprofessional of a military soldier to display such affection out in the open. Locke still managed a fond smile and nod as Weiler left, playing the part until he was out of view, and no one would see it fall right off his face.

That man is insane.

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of politics and assholes named weiler

FUCK YOUR NAME TOO CUPID

heh

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