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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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.

Weiler lifted both brows back. "Dodging the question."

Locke shrugged. "I don't know what goes on in her head."

Weiler's eyes narrowed and all the easy, sleazy grace in his body seemed to suddenly cut short into something abrupt and hard-edged, like someone took an image in motion and then snipped every blurry edge out. "But," he said, voice low and devoid of any joking tint. "It's your job to."

Because this was important - if he was going to be in such close proximity to an influential figure like the General, he couldn't afford to be viewed as a potential threat for too long. He couldn't afford to be in such limelight, couldn't afford to be under such scrutiny. It would put a damper in all of his responsibilities, both true and acted, and there was nothing Weiler liked less than proverbial speed bumps. The last thing he needed was an enemy officer breathing down his neck.

"Would she feel better if we weren't theoretically involved?"

"Not quite what I meant." Locke's slapped his hands on his knees, pushing up to a stand, where he stepped close enough to speak quietly and still be heard.

"She'll like it better if it seems I trust you. I don't trust easily," he continued. "But the general will probably worry about you tagging along everywhere with the senator on Gladsheim. She doesn't like people knowing or seeing too much who don't have to, so she may try to alienate you from him. Also..."

Fingers tugged Weiler forward by the belt loops of his pants.

"We're being checked on," he whispered by his ear, having noticed the sound in the earbud going silent.

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