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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."
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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"Especially since we'll be working quite closely together from now on, feel free to consider this place as if it were part of your own," Weiler finished as they finally reached the elevator chute. Just as the chute reached their level with the quite sound of displaced air, he threw a pointed smile in Locke's direction, where Gearhorn would surely see.
"After you two."
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Locke's hands clasped behind his back, and he admired the upstairs almost as much as the downstairs. The mini chandeliers lining the hall, ornate sconces and rich colored carpets... Upscale things like this weren't common on the military base at all, even with his upper position as the general's confidant and bodyguard. Different sort of indulgences came with that job; such as nicer, solo quarters away from the rest of the soldiers, and premium English-style tea that he fancied. That was about as sophisticated as his accomodations got.
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"The Senator invites you to retire in these rooms for your stay, however brief. The kitchens are down the hall, should you find yourself hungry before the meal. I'll come fetch you when it's time. Do you need anything else?"
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"No, thank you. We'll see you at dinner, Mr. Eberstark," she said curtly before turning on her heel. "Avery, see me in ten." She disappeared into her room. His nod was customary, even if it went unseen.
Locke turned to Weiler, offering a polite smile.
"You like to upset her, don't you?"
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"Kinky Gladsheim bastards, the lot of you."
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"You can call me 'Sweetie-pie Darling,'" he answered, without blinking an eye.
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"No."
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"See you at dinner."