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

[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."

[tactician]

Weiler smiled, flicking the edge of Locke's scarf with his fingers. "I didn't expect this of you, soldier."

[aphelionix]

Locke glanced down at his scarf and Weiler's hand. "How do you mean?"

[tactician]

Instead of answering, Weiler smiled again and patted Locke on the upper arm, turning his stool to face the other man. "Don't worry so much; you look good. Now, are we going dutch or are you going to be a proper gentleman and shelf out some fast food for your date?" he asked, despite being the more affluent of the two.

[aphelionix]

"Well, I was the one to ask you out, so I'll do the proper thing and pay," he said, not without a bit of a sarcastic smile.

Locke slid two menus over, handing one to Weiler. The digital sheet blinked to life, an astronaut mascot sailing by on some sort of burger comet and revealing the special of the day - dried root-fries with some sort of sauce and a drink for an 'extra low price'. Locke skipped it with a frown. He hadn't heard good things about that sauce.

[tactician]

Perusing over the digital menu with his eyes, Weiler ultimately chose the most unhealthy looking combo on it - some triple-decker monstrosity with the works oozing over the edge of the bun. If he was going to experience fast food dining, then he might as well go for the epitome of the genre, right?

As soon as his fingers touched the screen, a confirmation page sub-window popped up, and after navigating that, the prompt for payment came up, along with a bouncing white arrow (decorated by the mascot) pointing to the side of the menu display where a slot had been installed for card swiping. Dutifully, he handed that over to Locke.

"Next time will be my treat."

[aphelionix]

"What a gentleman," he said, smiling as he took the menu. Fishing his wallet out of the inner pocket of his jacket, Locke pulled out his card. He added in his own order then swiped. The menu played a happy little tune and thanked him for his payment, and he set it aside.

"So, Weiler," Locke continued, the use of his real name probably sign enough that they were clear to talk, "heard from the higher-ups lately?"

[tactician]

"Have you?" Weiler instantly responded, more of an instantaneous reflex than anything. He wasn't used to giving out answers at the get-go; he was used to receiving them.

With a light shrug, Weiler folded his hands on the table the stools had been outfitted with - one long surface barely two feet wide that spanned the length of the wall they were tucked against - before thinking better of his personal hygiene and lifting his arms off. He rest them on his lap instead, albeit not without first inspecting the undersides for any life-threatening flesh-eating diseases.

"I don't know your schedule, but I usually report every two weeks unless there is something pressing. They missed last week's appointment, but I figured they were busy," he said, mouth quirking into a slanted line that suggested he wasn't entirely sure what to think about that. "Why do you ask?"

[aphelionix]

The soldier looked a bit amused by Weiler's tidiness. This assignment with the senator must have really spoiled him. But the amused look promptly fell upon hearing the news, replaced with a frown.

"They didn't tell you they'd be missing the appointment?" Locke asked lowly. "Did they follow up?"

[tactician]

"I received a semi-apologetic message transmission to my personal device the next day." Weiler slanted his attention back up and repeated, "Why do you ask?"

[aphelionix]

Locke's lips tightened into a thoughtful line, but he shook his head.

"Just seems odd," he answered, his face resembling Weiler's uncertain expression from earlier. "Gladsheim has been quiet. That's never a good sign. I figured they would want all the information they could get."

[tactician]

Weiler looked incredulous then. Sure, the Circle didn't miss their appointments frequently - for a organized crime circle, they were certainly that - organized. It wasn't also entirely uncommon either. Weiler hadn't been subject to many, but there were occasions where either he or they couldn't make it, resulting in a postponed, rescheduled meeting or, in the cases were there was nothing to report or orders to give, a missed one entirely, held off until the next two weeks had passed.

"I wouldn't think too far into it," he said, raising his eyes to the windows they were facing. He pointed to where reflection of the counter and the display above it was flashing their order number in alternating white-red text, a reflected '3' and '7' visible in the glass. "It's not unheard of. Plus, our number's up."

[aphelionix]

Glancing up, Locke let it go with a nod.

"I only talk to them monthly, anyway," he said, standing. "Be right back."

Locke retreated to the front end of the restaurant, where their orders sat on a bar to be picked up. He gave an impressed whistle to the triple decker burger monstrosity as he returned and set it in front of Weiler.

"You sure you can handle that, fancypants?"

[tactician]

Weiler didn't even touch it. He kept a wary eye on the seven-inch burger until it was set down in front of him like a death sentence, and even then, he craned his neck this way and that, trying to make left or right of this monstrous chunk of bread and meat.

"I thought I'd put my palate to the test," he admitted, hardly sounding sheepish, like he wouldn't be apologetic at all if he failed the test of the Common Man. "I admit I didn't expect it to be this..."

Big? Intimidating?

"...Disgusting."

[aphelionix]

Locke laughed as he sat down again with his own modest, two layered burger, sticking a fry into his mouth.

"You haven't even tried it yet."

[tactician]

"Is this really meat?" Weiler asked in return, poking at one of the four patty layers with a finger. It smeared his skin with some sort of dark, pungent sauce with the consistency of lard and he eyed the glob of it on his skin warily before licking it off with his tongue.

[aphelionix]

"Part of the fun is not knowing," he said with a nudge of his elbow into Weiler's side and a grin. "Part of keeping your sanity, too, I imagine. Are you going to need a beer boot fork and knife, your highness?"

Locke picked up his own burger, and with no hesitation at all, bit into it. He was convinced that no one really liked fast food, in its hundreds of years of existence, but somehow it was good all the same. Maybe it was just tradition to pretend you like it, even when it's the most horrible thing you ever tasted. There was something satisfying about consuming something absolutely terrible for you once in a while.

I NEED DAS BEER BOOTZ

[tactician]

After a moment of silence, during which Weiler seemed to be carrying on an internal conversation with his own inherent sense of well-being, he followed in Locke's foodsteps and did the same. He brought the burger up to mouth level, inspecting it for a second more, and before biting into it, asked off-handedly, "What, exactly, was the last thing of substance you reported about Gladsheim?"

[aphelionix]

Locke swallowed down his food, wiping his mouth with a napkin, sauce smearing across Astronaut Joe's printed face.

"Last month they released blueprints for modified weapons. The ones they pilfered from third."

[tactician]

"Ah, I heard about that," Weiler answered lightly, albeit only after chewing his mouthful and quietly swallowing. He seemed to be hesitating before trying that ordeal again, and a few moments of deliberation followed during which he seemed to have a silent stare-down with his burger, before he quietly set it down, wiping his hands on the napkin and every inch of Space Burger Joe's smiling mascot face. "Security's been upped over there since."

[aphelionix]

"Hopefully it's enough. We can't afford another attack. We're still recovering from the last." Locke picked up two fries, propping his elbow on the table. He popped them in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Gladsheim has a load of debt, though. If they make a move, they're going to make it count. The calm is bothering me, but I can't seem to dig up anything about what they're plotting."

[tactician]

"I wouldn't worry about it. Gladsheim is just a small planet in tough times trying to make it big, and the Circle has suffered worse before. Without funds or proper manpower, they really can't do anything to us that would have that much of a lasting effect," Weiler responded, twirling a fry of his own between too fingers. The end he was holding was soggy with oil; he could feel it against his skin. How could anyone who touched this stuff stomach it? Or maybe that was the trick - with fast food, you had to eat it fast, or not at all.

He put down the fry.

"Besides," he added with a grin at Locke's reflection, all teeth, "It's unbecoming for a soldier to fret so much. Even if they're trying to gain some political power now, Wallabin's hardly a big player by any means. He talks big, and he knows a lot of people, but no one in the Council ever really takes him seriously. He's full of too much hot air."