The Waiting Room

[tactician]

Being led to the waiting room was more akin to being brought on a full-scale tour of the floor than any beeline route. The layout of the Senator's office was linear in nature, with one winding passage through the space that passed by nearly every single room in succession, designed probably with the mindset that a person could follow only one path and turn off into their desired destination sooner or later. It was aesthetically and theoretically sound, but architecturally and practically wasteful, making it perfect for a politician.

At the very end, two large polished doors, painted to look like archaic mahogany (if that species still existed in this day and age). They glistened with the evidence of a very good cleaning crew and swung inwards to reveal a square, stately room, lit in the center by a low-hanging crystal chandelier. An ornamental rug lay on the ground, covering most of the floor space, and upon it rested two plush couches and a low coffee table, adorned with a contemporary vase of some sort. The couches, made of black leather, shone dully in the warm light, and atop one of them was the Senator's secretary, sitting cross-legged with a cigarette hanging from two of his fingers.

Weiler looked up as the doors opened, raising a brow minutely when he saw who entered. He then put out his light on the nearby ashtray and swept himself to his feet in one fluid motion. "General," he greeted, voice smooth despite the vice. When addressing military personnel, it was best to be militant - being to-the-point would suffice. "The Senator is waiting for you in his personal office space. He assured me that you would appreciate the privacy."

Comments

[aphelionix]

The room was amazingly old-fashioned. Locke couldn't help an impressive look around, though kept brief. His eyes went back to general Iva Gearhorn. His job here was to be her bodyguard, after all.

"Thank you, Mr. Eberstark," General Gearhorn said as she walked up to Weiler, wasting no time. She turned to Locke, who stood with his hands behind his back. "If you'll excuse me, Locke."

Locke gave a curt nod, and she left to the back of the large room to a smaller, but equally impressive door. After a couple knocks, the senator appeared, allowing her in. It shut heavily behind them. Locke let his gaze pull away from the door to Weiler.

[tactician]

Weiler, in turn, let his hand pull away from his body as he swept it in the direction of the couches. "Please, Mr. Locke."

With his other hand, he made a shooing motion towards the employee who had shown the Gladsheim representatives the way to the office. Weiler clearly ranked above him - the woman nodded curtly and, drawing her papers and clipboard closer to her chest, pivoted on her heel and left the premises as swiftly and via the same exit as she came. Those doors shut behind her petite frame as well, sealing the two of them inside the waiting room.

"What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Locke," he said, all smiles. "Senator Wallabin thought you might not mind waiting here with me while he carries out the talks, since we're so 'well acquainted', quote unquote."

[aphelionix]

Locke's chin raised a bit indignantly, lips pursing together. He sat down, straightening his jacket.

"Indeed," he said, watching Weiler. "Left me high and dry there, though."

[tactician]

Holding his hands folded against the small of his back, Weiler circled around the coffee table until he was standing in front of Locke and leaned forward, teetering on his feet. The position cast a shadow on his face and onto Locke, but it wasn't difficult by any means to see his fox-like smile. "Oh? Did you want a repeat performance, Herr Locke?"

[aphelionix]

"Isn't 'herr' a little formal, considering?" Locke stared up. "And aren't there more important matters to discuss?"

[tactician]

Weiler fell.

His hands flew out from behind him and grabbed onto the top edge of the back of the seat before he could collapse on Locke, however. The motion was just in time to catch him a few inches short of literally smacking face with the other man, his legs bracketing Locke's knees. "That's right," he said off-handedly despite the proximity. "We're very well acquainted, supposedly."

He leaned down until his mouth was level with Locke's ear. More quietly: "The other room is bugged, but this one is clean. You can do your own sweep if you'd like."

[aphelionix]

The soldier was certainly caught off guard, his hands flying up to catch him - only to land on his waist when Weiler caught himself. After the initial shock, Locke sighed, begrudgingly letting his cheek rest against Weiler's.

"Do you do this with all your coworkers?" he asked.

[aphelionix]

The Gladsheim military base was a different kind of impressive than the Senator's home. It too was enormous (practically half the size of a city), but not nearly as glamorous as a politician's home. Rather than chandeliers, there were neon lights embedded in metal walls. Replacing glass walls with beautiful views were dead ends. No, this wasn't a place to feel an escape from the world; it was where people were hardened into war machines by force.

And, Locke bitterly remembered, a place where soldiers were now trained to serve a grubby politician because he had money and face. He sincerely hoped someone would assassinate the bastard, but it was much too soon for it. His new closeness with Gladsheim was too advantageous for the Circle to ignore, especially with Weiler right by his side every step of the way. Locke worried about that, but he trusted him.

"Here is the training ground of the third quadrant soldiers," he continued on their rounds of the base, gesturing down from a balcony over a large arena. Men, women, and non-humans alike were down below, teeming like bacteria in a petri dish. Weights were being lifting, others jogged around the arena itself; but the most impressive thing in the arena was an extensive obstacle course stretching the length of it. A very dangerous one - spikes, electricity, heat - that conditioned soldiers out of making errors.

"I'm sure the military's reputation doesn't need speaking for, but many hours of the day are spent here. I've been informed that this quadrant in particular will have a segment sanctioned to you, senator Wallabin, for your protection."

[tactician]

Wallabin strode through the Gladsheim halls like a man with purpose, hands folded behind his back and taking his own time regardless of what pace Locke did or didn't set. He seemed content to make someone wait if he fell behind, seemed perfectly at ease with the idea of someone speeding up if he got ahead. At the very least, though, he followed the path Locke laid out, rather than wandering around on his own. As he did so, he remained stubbornly unaware of the curious, sometimes even spiteful stares the soldiers threw his way. His nose was quite possibly stuck too high in the air.

Weiler followed dutifully behind him, much more modest since the circumstances clearly did not welcome confidence. He didn't draw attention himself, but on a military planet, non-military types stood out like a sore thumb. He still garnered his fair share of curious looks, but they were more of an afterthought, like collateral damage after their attention slid off Wallabin's impervious back.

As was unforgivably his nature, Weiler almost always waved back once he caught someone staring, meeting their eyes with a playful smile and a waggling of fingers. Most of the reactions to this ranged between being mildly surprised and dumbly staring back to outright returning the impish greeting with a wink. The former, of course, was much more common than the latter.

Obliviously, Wallabin nodded as Locke explained the surroundings. "Yes, yes, very good."

[aphelionix]

Now and again, Locke spared his own stares at Weiler. Was he flirting? All right, so he was a little more bold than he had given him credit for. He would've informed him that it wasn't quite the right place for it, but... Well, he'd gotten around. He knew how these people were. Maybe it was an incredibly right place for it.

"This way, then," Locke continued, steering their small group back off the balcony. He stopped to gesture to their right - a long hallway with many doors, branching off into more hallways. "Down this way is the soldier's quarters." And then to the left. "And the cafeteria. Nothing particularly interesting."

[tactician]

Wallabin's lips pressed together in a muted expression of displeasure. "Do Gladsheim soldiers not mind such cramped quarters? I can't imagine that so little sunlight could be very good for anybody," he murmured half-rhetorically, although he was clever enough to only voice his concerns aloud after stepping into the otherwise-empty hallway.

"Perhaps they're just used to this, sir. To my understanding, most military barracks are similar in architecture and structure," Weiler said unassumingly, to which Wallabin merely sniffed and nodded, not entirely convinced but seemingly appeased enough.

"Do you also sleep here, Nicholas?" Weiler continued with a grin.

[aphelionix]

Locke's posture straightened, as though the use of his first name were unfamiliar. "As a matter of fact, I do not," he informed. "I'd be happy to show you, though, should the two of you desire a break."

[tactician]

"That's quite all right," the Senator said quickly, seemingly snapped out of his own contemplative stupor by the sheer power of thinly-veiled innuendo. He coughed politely as if to hide his awkwardness and made a grand show of pulling out the embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab daintily at the corners of his mouth. "I wouldn't want to disturb your private quarters. We're imposing on you enough as it is with this grand tour of Gladsheim's...facilities."

Weiler slanted his eyes away in resigned acceptance, a perfect mix of obedience and disappointment. "Of course, sir. Didn't you say you wanted to see the war room instead?"

He hadn't, in fact, said that (at least not during his time in Locke's company), but Wallabin did light up at the mention. It was a topic that had apparently been discussed before. The Senator clapped his hands together once at chest level and nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, that's right. Mister Avery, you do, in fact, have one of those? I have heard it's quite an important location for superiors to gather and discuss strategy."

Welcome to Space Burger's, Home of the Space Burgers, can I take your order?

[tactician]

The term 'casual' had been mentioned once or twice in the conversation, but this was quickly slinking out of 'casual' and into Did You Just Slop Here In Your Pajamas territory. Weiler's idea of dressing down only extended so far as a pair of informal slacks and a button-up with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, which already far outclassed the general populace of Space Burgers Inc.

Thankfully, he took to most new environments with a sense of grace. While Wallabin may have thrown a fit or demanded to speak to the manager about the less-than-pristine eating area, Weiler strode in and took a seat after wiping off a dried root-fry from the enamel surface of the bright-red stool, a raised brow the only indication of his feelings on the matter. He may have been used to a higher-class lifestyle, but he wasn't above a normal one.

Waiting by the window, the employees seemed to not care one way or another if its patrons were loitering more than dining. Locke hadn't arrived yet, so this gave Weiler ample time to simply observe the populace of Gladsheim's non-military environments (because clearly, a fast-food joint was optimal for that sort of thing). Most of the people here were probably soldiers on leave or, in some way or another, supported the army with their jobs. Here, however, they seemed perfectly content to act like the rest of the starving, ridiculously-messy, chewing-with-open-mouthed human race.

we're all space dudes HEY!

[aphelionix]

While certainly not Locke's first choice, it was a safer one. Many of the soldiers on base treated themselves to Space Burger's, delighting in the absolute badness of it to your health. (The base's food choices were incredibly lacking, and also incredibly fitness-wise. Strictness is discipline, and discipline makes obedience, after all.) It looked natural for Locke to choose such a place, and he was certain that the base never really lost track of where you went; they just couldn't listen anymore.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," a voice next to Weiler announced, and Locke sat down next to him. While Weiler was still somewhat formal in his casual attire, Locke was far from it. He wore a simple white shirt with a slightly scooped collar and a brown leather jacket - much like those old-fashioned pilots used to wear. (He was a big fan of them, actually.) A maroon scarf hung around his neck, tucked under the jacket. "Been here long?"

[tactician]

"Is that a pick-up line?" Weiler quipped without even missing a beat. He glanced up from his seat and shortly afterward swept his eyes down in a measuring look-over. It was the first time he had ever seen his coworker in anything other than a formal military uniform, after all. He had half been expecting that the entirety of his closet was composed of identical suits. In comparison, that scarf-jacket combo was almost...startlingly stylish.

[aphelionix]

"If you'd like," he answered, with a small grin. Locke caught the glance down, raising a brow. "Enjoying the view, Mr. Eberstark?"

[tactician]

"What are you wearing?" Weiler asked at last.

[aphelionix]

"Clothes, I should think."

[aphelionix]

The bar Locke brought Weiler to was much nicer than Space Burger Joe's. It wasn't as exquisite as the man was used to, he was sure, but it was many steps above the average grungy club. Its patrons ranged from well dressed business folk to soldiers like Locke himself. (They were the loud ones towards the back of the bar, watching some kind of sport on the television.)

The bar counter was a large circle in the center of the room, illuminated by floor lights in blues and greens. Circular shelves in the middle displayed their alcohols, almost glowing in the back lighting. The bartenders were well dressed (pinstripe vests; both classy and classic), and just provocative enough with their button-ups not completely fastened (men and women alike) to draw in extra tips.

Locke stepped right up to the bar, leaning against the counter. "So what will you have, Milo?"

[tactician]

As opposed to the fast food establishment (if it could even be called something as kind as 'establishment'), Weiler took to the bar like a fish to water, slipping into the dimly-lit quietness of the bar seamlessly. He cast a speculative glance around the room - at both the people and the decorations - with a small smile before turning back to Locke upon prompting.

"Whatever you're having," he answered, the words of a person who was used to seeing traits in a man through their choice of drink. There was no need to speak louder than normal - the bar seemed easy-going and private, which was much preferred to the chaos of a club or after-dinner hangout.

[aphelionix]

Locke nodded to a bartender, who swayed her way over with a smile.

"Two gin and tonics," he said, and with a nod she set to making the drinks. Despite the technology that came with restaurants these days, bars were the most likely to stay old fashioned, voicing orders rather than placing them digitally. Locke was rather fond of it.

[tactician]

"So you're a highball kind of man," Weiler said, watching with a small smile as the bartender swayed away with a pleasant cant to her hips. That was the purpose of having good-looking staff, after all, so it never really quite hurt to look. "How very much like a soldier."

[aphelionix]

"Have to keep up appearances, don't I?" he responded with a smile of his own. "What's your usual?"

[tactician]

"Whatever the client is having," Weiler said and it wasn't technically a lie - it was his usual. His preferred, on the other hand, was a whole other matter completely, but 'German' Lager was rare. Most bars in the galaxy didn't even know what it was and half of the ones that did only handed over the thick, regular malted stuff as if that was a suitable substitute. Then, it was an additional matter of having the freedom to enjoy his drink as opposed to being obligated to cater to the politician-of-the-day's tastes. The opportunity was rare and far in-between.

Weiler seated himself down on one of the bar stools lining the bar and tapped his fingers against the enamel surface as he waited for the bartender to return with the orders. He made a gesture at the adjacent seat with his other hand, expression business-like and amiable. "Sit."