circle7 | The Waiting Room

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The Waiting Room

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."

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And lean forward he did, stabling the cigarette between his fingers. It was an indulgence he didn't take often, if only because he lacked the time. He found it made the buzz more pleasant, though.

"I think I had enough champagne earlier," he said before inhaling slowly, puffs of smoke leaving his mouth before he leaned back again, the ember of his cigarette brightening as he took a longer inhale. He propped one foot on his knee, giving a small nod. "Danke."

Weiler brightened, looking thoroughly pleased at the sound of the word in a native tongue. He clapped a hand against his knee and chuckled. "Ah, schon gut."

The lighter clicked shut after he lit his own cigarette, leaving the two of them to listen in on the conversation in peace once again. Weiler kicked his polished black shoes up onto the equally polished coffee table, no doubt scuffing the surface - but that was a menial issue that some anal-retentive cleaning employee would see to and not a matter of importance right now. What was important was Senator Wallabin's proposal to bring up the concerns of the Gladsheim planet at the next inter-Federation council meeting. Right now, he was running down what seemed to be a list of affairs that either party deemed necessary to bring up. They were currently on number three - the issue of administrative chaperoning officials being present on the planet or not.

"It's absolutely not necessary," the General pressed, voice strict.

"You must understand, the Council will not see eye-to-eye with you regarding no overseeing whatsoever. You'll have to propose a compromise," said the Senator, sounding sympathetic.

"A compromise, sir?"

"Hm," said the Senator. Weiler frowned, knowing that sound anywhere. It was the self-satisfied hum of a man who knew that he was going to get his way somehow, the sort a spider would give after ensnaring a fly in its web. The Senator was a haughty man; he probably thought he had some kind of imaginary upper hand, but he was vastly underestimating the Gladsheim resolve. "Yes, say - perhaps we can argue for a limited presence, say, with a particular figure that Gladsheim itself approves of. A familiar face, perhaps, one that it won't mind having around."

A pause. "A face like yours, you mean, sir."

"Ah, yes, maybe even a face like mine."

Locke glanced sideways at the other man, noticing the following frown. If this part of the deal when through, it meant Weiler being dragged around more. While he was probably used to it, Locke couldn't help but wonder himself if he could tolerate having Weiler around on his planet. It would be advantageous to their true work, though, so that trumped any complaints he might have had immediately.

Just as Weiler understood his tail's subtle shows of emotion, Locke knew his. The general sat back down heavily, with a quiet swishing sound that he recognized as her palms rubbing together in thought.

"And what compensation are you proposing, with putting you there rather than an unwanted face?"

"If you ask me, it's a win-win situation for everybody," said the Senator, trying to sound amiable while clapping his fat hands together with a light smack. Weiler could hear the oil in his voice, the slick in his words, and he sat up straighter, pushing back against Locke's arm without remembering that it was even there. Focused and working, Weiler was not at all like the persona he displayed in any social gathering, big or small. This was the Circle member, underneath all those clothes, all that polish and grease.

"Ah, I don't much like your planet~," he commented idly, eyes rolling towards the ceiling as the Senator began to discuss trivial details such as accommodation, what say he had, what he wouldn't disclose, what he could. They were greedy but not overly-ambitious demands - it would not be difficult for one disadvantaged planet to see to the needs of only one selfish man. It was techincally a win-win situation. Gladsheim would gain someone to lobby for them, and the lobbyist would gain one more grounding point in his inter-system bid for power.

"What's your weather like?" Weiler asked.

Locke listened until it became small details, thinking about how his own agenda would be changed. Not just on the military base, but as part of the Circle. Once the council and military board approved everything, things were definitely going to get busy.

He leaned back with a low hum.

"Dry. Cold."

Weiler closed his eyes with a deep sigh, blowing out a thin wisp of smoke from his lips. "I hate the cold. What a pain."

"Then it sounds like we may have an agreement, sir," said the General, with slow, measured steps that brought her at least two paces away from the Senator's desk. "As soon as I report this back to my superiors and receive their informed approval of the terms, I will send word to arrange for your transport immediately."

"Take as much time as you need to get things ready on your end," said the Senator with a deep chuckle. "I will be lobbying to the rest of the Council for their support in this endeavor, and you do know that they're a bunch of old, senile fools. It may take a week or more at the rate they move. For now, let us discuss the particulars of those aforementioned accommodations. First of all, as I've mentioned, I'll require-"

"What a ham," commented Weiler on the Senator. "He sure likes to toot his own horn. Yours like that?"

"Only when drunk," he answered, putting his own cigarette back to his lips and sucking in. Locke exhaled heavily, smoke clouding out much less gracefully than the wisps Weiler expelled. He at least had the decency to direct it away from him. "You should see her angry."

Weiler smiled wryly, glancing at Locke out of the corner of his eye. "Don't tell me - she ties you up and makes you call her 'daddy?'"

Locke actually smiled under his mustache.

"I wish it was that mild."

Turning in his seat, Weiler fixed Locke with his full attention, deceptively wide-eyed. "Mommy?" he asked with mock-shock, before he dropped the pretense and with lidded eyes, prompted, "And then she rides you, cowboy?"

Locke rolled his eyes, wondering if Weiler even knew what a cowboy was.

"No."

Most likely not - it was an archaic term, one that had long since lost its true meaning and was now simply a small part of a turn of phrase, though Weiler seemed to take great pleasure in reciting it. He did, however, then look disappointed at Locke's answer. "Oh," he said, brow knitting together. "Sometimes that's what politicians do."

Turning his eyes back up to Locke, Weiler pressed on. "Corporeal punishment isn't illegal on Gladsheim, I hear."

"You can thank our lobbyists for that," he said.

Weiler looked amused, taking a slow drag. "Kinky, you Gladsheim bastards."

Locke gave an equally amused nod.

"Kinky bunch indeed."

Pulling the hand with the cigarette away, Weiler craned his neck forward and leaned to his right, putting him snug against Locke's chest and three inches at most from Locke's face. "You should show me some time."

"They're awfully quiet out there," said the General, paranoid by nature and occupation - and for good reason, too.

"Probably preoccupied," Senator Wallabin dismissed easily, clearly of no mind to discuss others when his own profit was on the table. "Come, let's hammer out these remaining details..."

A beat or two passed before Weiler pulled back with a shrug. "False alarm."

It was kind of strange, getting used to this so easily. He wasn't even surprised anymore. When the general grew suspicious, even he moved in a bit closer.

"My general is going to ask about you, you know," he said.

"Is she jealous?" Weiler responded flippantly, giving Locke a light pat on his cheek.

"Nosy," Locke answered with an exhale of smoke. "And suspicious of you. But she doesn't like politicians. She had a fit before getting here."

Weiler grinned. The conversation droning in their ears only consisted of inane chatter regarding compensation and numbers. No doubt the figures would be a nightmare later when tax season came around and it came to sweeping illegal transactions under the rug, but that was a good five months away. "Everyone hates politicians," he said, "But the question is: is she worried that the dirty secretary is going to swindle her poor soldier's heart or money?"

"Money, information," Locke said with a shrug. He leaned forward, putting out the stub of his cigarette in the fancy, glass ashtray on the table.

Suddenly, Weiler pulled himself to his feet, hands slipping into his pockets easily with the air of a man with something to hide - the air of a stereotypical politician, of course. He smirked at Locke over one shoulder. "Information tells me," he said, "that Gladsheim doesn't have much money to swindle."

The soldier smiled back up, allowing himself to relax now that another man wasn't nestled up against him.

"Another large reason we're here."

He turned on his heel.

"Then your master shouldn't have anything to worry about, Herr Locke. What could she possibly suspect about me?"

"Master?" He quirked an eyebrow at him.

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