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.

[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."

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.

[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?"