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pugsmuggler2013-03-25 11:37 pmEntry tags:
Bad Guys Only
Vercelli sat in the east wing's reception room. He had half of a burrito in his hand that he holding in a fold of tin foil. It looked hard as a rock, and he'd probably plucked it straight from the fridge before heading out of his bunk room. He idly tinkered with his watch, occasionally taking a bit out of the brick-like wrap. Once a good few minutes had passed, he glanced up at the seat across from him where Quelorie occupied a spot.
"The hell is keeping Joel? He called us in here a good thirty minutes ago," he said.
"The hell is keeping Joel? He called us in here a good thirty minutes ago," he said.
Entry tags:
the infiltration operation
The research outpost on one of Gladsheim's more distant moons was less a functioning facility than it was a glorified storage closet for all the projects the militaristic government abandoned in favor of stealing from other planets' research sectors. Now that they had acquired the Seventh, which meant that they were privy to a great deal of information from the Sixth, a large portion of Gladsheim's more legitimate research facilities had been shut down, according to what reconnaissance agents the Circle still had out on the field, many of its previous scientists placed under obligatory planetary residence as to avoid leaking anything.
But the research outpost on Gladsheim's distant moon contained one thing that was still highly relevant to modern day prosthetic sciences, even if the government itself didn't realize as much - a field of study regarding the signalling of brainwaves to operate machinery not only attached to the body, but perhaps even in an entirely separate form itself. If brought to fruition, it could limit the need for human casualties and greatly reduce the Circle's disadvantage of lesser numbers. It was something one of its previous researches had been looking into on the down-low.
Speaking of which.
"You're looking a little pale," Evan said, checking himself in the car's side mirror as he combed a hand through his newly dyed hair before donning a pair of red-rimmed, plastic-lens glasses. His eyes slid sideways in his reflection. "You remember where it is, doc?"
But the research outpost on Gladsheim's distant moon contained one thing that was still highly relevant to modern day prosthetic sciences, even if the government itself didn't realize as much - a field of study regarding the signalling of brainwaves to operate machinery not only attached to the body, but perhaps even in an entirely separate form itself. If brought to fruition, it could limit the need for human casualties and greatly reduce the Circle's disadvantage of lesser numbers. It was something one of its previous researches had been looking into on the down-low.
Speaking of which.
"You're looking a little pale," Evan said, checking himself in the car's side mirror as he combed a hand through his newly dyed hair before donning a pair of red-rimmed, plastic-lens glasses. His eyes slid sideways in his reflection. "You remember where it is, doc?"
Entry tags:
near the end of a long year
Rare was the day where the political sphere wasn't abuzz, even all the way down to the lower echelons of the profession, with secretaries and agencies worming their way into last minute flights for their significantly more powerful supervisors, but even on Ennaspie, Christmas morning was a quiet one. Rarer were still was a quiet morning where Weiler wasn't sound asleep when Locke woke to a room bathed in early light.
( ... )
( ... )
Entry tags:
a very special spaceship holiday
Nowadays, it's mostly humans that celebrate the winter holidays this...festively, but luckily for all of you, the leader of Circle 7, the System's most notorious crime mega-conglomerate, is human. He insisted on the celebration on the First, too, said something about morale and good cheer and a shit ton of (most likely laced) alcohol. Something about holiday pranks, too, but that might've just been my imagination.
There's mistletoe hanging everywhere, the suspicious smell of Astorean Norther Fir in the air, jingling bells tied to every doorway, and is it just me, or does that big Santa have a glass eye?
It's gonna be a grand ol' time.
pugsmuggler2012-09-10 12:00 amEntry tags:
(no subject)
Casual engagements, although they occupied a lighter (arguably trivial) side of politics, were for Garamond as necessary as any other social obligation. The face of circle seven, Garamond handled his public relations smartly. He attended as many events as his schedule permitted, delegating the rest to representatives. This particular event, however, required Garamond in person. The invitation had been extended to him by a large corporate head and political lobbyist. Dudbar Trolt was a businessman with his claws deep in politics. To say he was a puppeteer was to put it lightly — This guy had his politicians on a noose.
The event was Trolt’s fourth marriage. The venue was a luxurious space aboard the Lunessa, a modern entertainment vessel used for meetings and conventions. It travelled around the inner Solar System to wherever it was summoned. The impromptu announcement of the wedding had forced Garamond to make quick arrangements. He’d spend the prior day cancelling and rescheduling meetings and handing out tasks to lower management. He’d packed the next morning and, after finding out his son would be unable to attend due to his pooch having an illness, plucked Calibri out of the lab without warning.
Two white suits and three hours later, they were aboard the Lunessa, waiting in a grand ballroom with upwards of a hundred others. The room was square with a high, arched ceiling. The ceiling panels looked like they opened up to reveal a window, doubtlessly to let in a view of the stars when the lights were dimmed. There were bars set up at every corner of the room and long tables with hors d’oevres. The minimalist décor on the Lunessa was the only thing that kept the environment a step away from gaudy. People shuffled about, making idle conversation and snacking. They stayed in groups of two or three, mostly. The fact that it was an hour before the wedding ceremony and that no one had much drink in them probably contributed to the lack of mingling.
Garamond, not quite sure what to do with the unexpected hour of free time, had sat down at a bar and was nursing a small glass of bourbon and ice.
The event was Trolt’s fourth marriage. The venue was a luxurious space aboard the Lunessa, a modern entertainment vessel used for meetings and conventions. It travelled around the inner Solar System to wherever it was summoned. The impromptu announcement of the wedding had forced Garamond to make quick arrangements. He’d spend the prior day cancelling and rescheduling meetings and handing out tasks to lower management. He’d packed the next morning and, after finding out his son would be unable to attend due to his pooch having an illness, plucked Calibri out of the lab without warning.
Two white suits and three hours later, they were aboard the Lunessa, waiting in a grand ballroom with upwards of a hundred others. The room was square with a high, arched ceiling. The ceiling panels looked like they opened up to reveal a window, doubtlessly to let in a view of the stars when the lights were dimmed. There were bars set up at every corner of the room and long tables with hors d’oevres. The minimalist décor on the Lunessa was the only thing that kept the environment a step away from gaudy. People shuffled about, making idle conversation and snacking. They stayed in groups of two or three, mostly. The fact that it was an hour before the wedding ceremony and that no one had much drink in them probably contributed to the lack of mingling.
Garamond, not quite sure what to do with the unexpected hour of free time, had sat down at a bar and was nursing a small glass of bourbon and ice.
Entry tags:
'debrief' doesn't mean what you want it to, weiler
After Weiler and Locke's initial report, it hadn't taken long for the First Circle to verify that, at the very least, the basis for their claims was true. Assessing the true extent of Gladsheim's damage, however, would take much more time. Between sorting out how much of the information they'd been receiving from the Seventh was actually useful, who the traitors within the Seventh were, and forming counter measures against Gladsheim, things around the First were rather hectic. (The reconnaissance members of the First certainly wouldn't be getting a vacation any time soon...)
While they still needed more information before devising a plan against Gladsheim, there were a few variables that the Circle knew exactly how to deal with. Variable 'A' was one Senator Wallabin. With Wallabin as their ally, Gladsheim would have leverage, however little, within the Federation Council. Letting them having any sort of power was a risk the Circle couldn't afford, especially now that the Seventh was compromised. The most logical solution was to put a hit on Wallabin and get rid of the threat he posed, and, of course, the best person for that job was Danny Garamond.
Although it was fairly easy to forget that Danny actually had a job to do around the Circle when he was always strutting around with his brand goods and his little dog, the truth was that he was incredibly skilled as a hitman, and many of the higher priority hits were assigned to him. And so it was that Danny found himself sitting with his arm extended over the back of a black leather couch in a rather swanky bar as he waited to meet with one Heine Haettenschweiler. After all, who better to give him information about his target than the man who planned his daily schedule for the past two years?
While they still needed more information before devising a plan against Gladsheim, there were a few variables that the Circle knew exactly how to deal with. Variable 'A' was one Senator Wallabin. With Wallabin as their ally, Gladsheim would have leverage, however little, within the Federation Council. Letting them having any sort of power was a risk the Circle couldn't afford, especially now that the Seventh was compromised. The most logical solution was to put a hit on Wallabin and get rid of the threat he posed, and, of course, the best person for that job was Danny Garamond.
Although it was fairly easy to forget that Danny actually had a job to do around the Circle when he was always strutting around with his brand goods and his little dog, the truth was that he was incredibly skilled as a hitman, and many of the higher priority hits were assigned to him. And so it was that Danny found himself sitting with his arm extended over the back of a black leather couch in a rather swanky bar as he waited to meet with one Heine Haettenschweiler. After all, who better to give him information about his target than the man who planned his daily schedule for the past two years?
aphelionix2012-07-24 01:13 pmEntry tags:
so I guess this takes place a little before bentley and evan run into locke and weiler!
The downtime after their mission in Raufner left Bentley unsure what to do. He hadn't been in Erclesse in... Wow, how long had he been with the Circle? Just over half a year? The thought left him feeling a little forlorn. He hadn't been home in a long time.
He separated from Evan, who had some things to finish up for the mission that didn't require the doctor. They were to meet up in a couple hours in the Lower Districts. (Which, yes, kind of overwhelmed him some. He hadn't heard good things about Raufner slums.) He was wandering the middle area of town for a place to eat - working really gave one an appetite. Everywhere looked good about now...
Just as Bentley had just about settled on a place - a little cafe on the corner - he spotted a familiarly stylish head of hair and expensive shoes, headed down the sidewalk. Bentley jogged a couple steps to catch up. Danny had been on the mission, too - though with less to do, being a gunman, he supposed. Evan had a load of information to report.
"Hey, Danny," he said upon approaching. "Don't have anything to do either?"
He separated from Evan, who had some things to finish up for the mission that didn't require the doctor. They were to meet up in a couple hours in the Lower Districts. (Which, yes, kind of overwhelmed him some. He hadn't heard good things about Raufner slums.) He was wandering the middle area of town for a place to eat - working really gave one an appetite. Everywhere looked good about now...
Just as Bentley had just about settled on a place - a little cafe on the corner - he spotted a familiarly stylish head of hair and expensive shoes, headed down the sidewalk. Bentley jogged a couple steps to catch up. Danny had been on the mission, too - though with less to do, being a gunman, he supposed. Evan had a load of information to report.
"Hey, Danny," he said upon approaching. "Don't have anything to do either?"
aphelionix2012-06-25 04:11 pmEntry tags:
ACTION TIME
The two days had come and gone since Locke stayed over at Weiler's. He was tipsy when Weiler had called that night and made their two day check-in rule - not that he forgot, but he couldn't stop the nagging feeling that something was off when he went to bed that night.
On the morning of the third day, he remembered.
The rule was to get out. He tried calling Weiler once, in case he had forgotten his own rule, but Locke was sure by now that it wasn't like him. It was all the sign he needed when the call went straight to voice mail. He headed right out the door of his room, only gathering his pistol and communicator. Through the bustling of the soldiers' morning routines, he managed to keep himself fairly blended in. No one seemed to be looking on him any differently. Locke was on the last stretch of the emergency escape route of Gladsheim's base - for Circle members, that was - when someone called his name.
His real name.
On the morning of the third day, he remembered.
The rule was to get out. He tried calling Weiler once, in case he had forgotten his own rule, but Locke was sure by now that it wasn't like him. It was all the sign he needed when the call went straight to voice mail. He headed right out the door of his room, only gathering his pistol and communicator. Through the bustling of the soldiers' morning routines, he managed to keep himself fairly blended in. No one seemed to be looking on him any differently. Locke was on the last stretch of the emergency escape route of Gladsheim's base - for Circle members, that was - when someone called his name.
His real name.
pugsmuggler2012-06-20 06:19 pmEntry tags:
Adventures in Babysitting
It was uncharacteristically early when Garamond decided to stop by Calibri’s lab. The installment was still relatively new to the first circle’s queen ship. The counters were still glossy-tiled and free of chemical burns, the utensils all shiny and unused, and while it accommodated for plenty more than just Calibri’s research, no one really had the nerve to go in there with it being consistently occupied by the circle’s finest poisons expert — No one except for Garamond. From Garamond’s perspective, Calibri had acclimated himself to life on the ship quite well, and handled his responsibilities aptly. This particular morning, however, Garamond had decided to hand Calibri a responsibility that extended slightly beyond what Calibri had signed on for.
Ten-year-old son at his side, Garamond let himself through the laboratory doors and into the. He found Calibri, after a brief trip around the countertops, curled up asleep underneath a desk. Calibri was equipped with a stylus and notebook in hand as if he had fallen asleep scrawling notes. Garamond, not visibly surprised by the scenario, crouched down to Calibri’s level, perching himself on the toes of his loafers.
“Ah, there you are,” Garamond announced himself. “I had a favor to ask.”
Ten-year-old son at his side, Garamond let himself through the laboratory doors and into the. He found Calibri, after a brief trip around the countertops, curled up asleep underneath a desk. Calibri was equipped with a stylus and notebook in hand as if he had fallen asleep scrawling notes. Garamond, not visibly surprised by the scenario, crouched down to Calibri’s level, perching himself on the toes of his loafers.
“Ah, there you are,” Garamond announced himself. “I had a favor to ask.”
aphelionix2012-06-19 09:03 pmEntry tags:
social link GO?!!!
Wallabin's frankly boring visits were starting to become commonplace at the Gladsheim base; to the point where even Locke was getting dirty looks from the fellow soldiers. When he slanted his glance their way, they usually shut up their gossiping and returned to what they were doing, though. One would think they'd be used to it by now, but they didn't cease to find amusement in Locke running the duo around. (They always silenced themselves when Gearhorn turned up, though.)
Luckily for Weiler and Locke, they were allowed a break from Wallabin while he met with Gearhorn and several other officers. (More demands to be met, more money to be donated and the like, Locke was sure.) There weren't many safe places to talk on base, unfortunately. He didn't even trust his own quarters.
There was only one place that he knew would be safe, due to the sheer loud volume of it; the cantina. It was less than glamorous, and the drinks they had to offer were definitely not as exquisite as the bar they had gone to. The company even less so. It was with a little reluctance that Locke suggested it.
"We could kill some time at the cantina," he had said, "but I don't think you'll like it."
Luckily for Weiler and Locke, they were allowed a break from Wallabin while he met with Gearhorn and several other officers. (More demands to be met, more money to be donated and the like, Locke was sure.) There weren't many safe places to talk on base, unfortunately. He didn't even trust his own quarters.
There was only one place that he knew would be safe, due to the sheer loud volume of it; the cantina. It was less than glamorous, and the drinks they had to offer were definitely not as exquisite as the bar they had gone to. The company even less so. It was with a little reluctance that Locke suggested it.
"We could kill some time at the cantina," he had said, "but I don't think you'll like it."
aphelionix2012-06-11 09:49 pmEntry tags:
how about some baddie screen time
The Seventh Circle was a mess when Joel and Quelorie arrived. (Just the way the Commander liked it, really. All the easier to scoop it up into their palms, and drink from it what they needed.) Information was being leaked and tossed like chicken feed; intel soaked up from the double agents by the ones who shouldn't be hearing it; incorrect information sent back to them. And the puny Circle members not at the center of the Seventh were none the wiser.
What pleasant chaos, Joel thought. Though it was a shame that they had to wear the Circle uniform while present. (Teal wasn't his color.) He couldn't help but wonder if this was how the double agents of Circle Seven felt, hiding in plain sight.
The waiting room was circular (fittingly) and quiet while the Commander and Quelorie waited for the agent they were to meet with. They were to receive intel on the weak points of the other Circles, as well as the ones who would help with further infiltration. A large file, Joel was sure.
"So," he spoke up, sipping the coffee they were served. "What do you think of the Circle?"
What pleasant chaos, Joel thought. Though it was a shame that they had to wear the Circle uniform while present. (Teal wasn't his color.) He couldn't help but wonder if this was how the double agents of Circle Seven felt, hiding in plain sight.
The waiting room was circular (fittingly) and quiet while the Commander and Quelorie waited for the agent they were to meet with. They were to receive intel on the weak points of the other Circles, as well as the ones who would help with further infiltration. A large file, Joel was sure.
"So," he spoke up, sipping the coffee they were served. "What do you think of the Circle?"
Entry tags:
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."
aphelionix2012-05-01 04:19 pmEntry tags:
of politics and assholes named weiler
The ceremony was dull - as was expected of political events. But the welcoming of the new Senator of Caponor, a very large city on Gladsheim, was quite important for many reasons. Gladsheim Military Forces would be there to represent themselves and start a good relationship with the Senator, and hopefully, he would relay this good relationship to the masses. (The funding didn't hurt, either.)
Locke was attending as a Gladsheim soldier under his commander, Iva Gearhorn. She was to meet the senator personally to discuss Very Important Matters. The reception of the event had since started, cuing a lot of noise, eating, drinking, and overall difficulty in keeping track of the moment when the Senator and Commander would have their chat in private. Watching from the general cheese tray area seemed the best course of action, simply appearing as a quiet, trained soldier in the background.
The fancy cheese certainly helped the time pass less painfully. In fact, everything was fancy. Locke was quite enjoying the spread of gourmet finger foods, drink, and even the building - the roof was glass, showing off the soft red, Gladsheim sky at sunset, and bouncing off the marbled walls across the upper walls. The paintings of the lower floor, where the party had been set up, seemed to soak up the sunlight. (A clever direction of light designed by the architects.) The rest of the floor was lit by soft chandeliers and sconces.
Locke made sure not to spend too much time admiring - he was on the look out, despite his handful of biscuits and cheese.
Locke was attending as a Gladsheim soldier under his commander, Iva Gearhorn. She was to meet the senator personally to discuss Very Important Matters. The reception of the event had since started, cuing a lot of noise, eating, drinking, and overall difficulty in keeping track of the moment when the Senator and Commander would have their chat in private. Watching from the general cheese tray area seemed the best course of action, simply appearing as a quiet, trained soldier in the background.
The fancy cheese certainly helped the time pass less painfully. In fact, everything was fancy. Locke was quite enjoying the spread of gourmet finger foods, drink, and even the building - the roof was glass, showing off the soft red, Gladsheim sky at sunset, and bouncing off the marbled walls across the upper walls. The paintings of the lower floor, where the party had been set up, seemed to soak up the sunlight. (A clever direction of light designed by the architects.) The rest of the floor was lit by soft chandeliers and sconces.
Locke made sure not to spend too much time admiring - he was on the look out, despite his handful of biscuits and cheese.
Entry tags:
the fine art of Figuring Out What The Hell You're Doing
Technically speaking, there was nothing about the situation that wasn't at least vaguely familiar. The locale was in the same area, if not the same bar (for some reason, Bentley seemed strongly opposed to that option and Evan supposed it was all right, since they might as well canvas what the area had to offer while they were at it anyway). Evan was half-sure they were playing the same songs, personally sure that they were serving the same drinks. The faces might have been different, but strangers were still strangers until they...weren't, which was the point of this entire outing to begin with.
Bentley still seemed a little...stiff, although that too was something that was, perhaps, also the same.
Evan forcibly wedged a tall glass of rose-colored something into Bentley's grasp, managing it despite the lack of cooperation and the fact that he was balancing a drink of his own in his other hand. The drink was transparent and fizzy with carbonated bubbles, adorned at the top with a modest sprig of green mint or whatever the local planetary equivalent was. It even had a delicate little straw, for the doctor's delicate little sensibilities. Evan pushed Bentley's hands into raising the cup to at least mouth-level, even if he couldn't force the other man to take a drink.
"Don't look so spooked," he encouraged, clinking the edge of his cup against Bentley's drink before taking a sip. "You've done this before, remember?"
Bentley still seemed a little...stiff, although that too was something that was, perhaps, also the same.
Evan forcibly wedged a tall glass of rose-colored something into Bentley's grasp, managing it despite the lack of cooperation and the fact that he was balancing a drink of his own in his other hand. The drink was transparent and fizzy with carbonated bubbles, adorned at the top with a modest sprig of green mint or whatever the local planetary equivalent was. It even had a delicate little straw, for the doctor's delicate little sensibilities. Evan pushed Bentley's hands into raising the cup to at least mouth-level, even if he couldn't force the other man to take a drink.
"Don't look so spooked," he encouraged, clinking the edge of his cup against Bentley's drink before taking a sip. "You've done this before, remember?"
pugsmuggler2012-03-02 03:12 pmEntry tags:
Intermediate Communication Studies 202
The Eldabaran Gracia campus was as industrial as its students, overwhelmingly modern, with sweeping hallways gilded in glossy white and textured aluminum, doorways shaped from frothy blue glass, and ceilings the arced up like a whale’s ribcage. Eldabaran Gracia was not a school of excessive grandiose, but it was a school of considerable wealth. It had to be. Being a reputable school of technology and science among a galaxy full of competitors required up-to-date resources and tools. Of course, Eldabaran’s far-reaching range of technological equipment were not for play, and enrolled students became increasingly aware of this their first year — several dropped out within the first semester. Everything was focused, clinical, and serious, and newcomers certainly couldn’t help but notice how remarkably clean everything was, from the pale-washed walls to the reflective, slick floors.
Calibri would have noticed on that particular day, that the halls weren’t, as they normally were, populated with students poring over notes last minute or having conversations about recent test results. The halls were instead quite empty. Class 318-C, Intermediate Biochemical Pharmacology and Toxicology, was similarly empty. A class that normally hosted around 50 students (give or take) now hosted lines of empty desks and unused lab equipment. Down the stadium steps of the classroom and sitting with his feet propped up on center desk in front of the projector screen was Garamond, reclining back in the professor’s chair with a small glass of brandy. He smiled when Calibri came through the doorway.
“Good to see you again,” Garamond said. “It’s been what? Two years? How old are you now?”
Calibri would have noticed on that particular day, that the halls weren’t, as they normally were, populated with students poring over notes last minute or having conversations about recent test results. The halls were instead quite empty. Class 318-C, Intermediate Biochemical Pharmacology and Toxicology, was similarly empty. A class that normally hosted around 50 students (give or take) now hosted lines of empty desks and unused lab equipment. Down the stadium steps of the classroom and sitting with his feet propped up on center desk in front of the projector screen was Garamond, reclining back in the professor’s chair with a small glass of brandy. He smiled when Calibri came through the doorway.
“Good to see you again,” Garamond said. “It’s been what? Two years? How old are you now?”
Entry tags:
Introductory Communication Studies 101
It wasn't like any of the decor on his home planet, which was, served to say, non-existent and in the few cases where it wasn't, almost painfully efficient. 'Decor' was a foreign concept that his home society hadn't found any need for and therefore had quickly and thoughtlessly abandoned. That wasn't to say, however, that the environment was gaudy. There was an understated sense of class and style in the few furnishings that decorated the waiting lobby, noticeable in the fine color and quality of the polished wooden doors, in the understated color of the paneled walls, the low-pile textile covering the floor - not that Calibri could tell.
"My essay was about the volunteer Peace Corp mission I participated in during my senior year of Intermediary Education," said one of the other students awaiting an interview, leaning forward on his plush-cushioned seat. His tone of voice was boastful, proud. He was waving his hands animatedly while the other student listened with an air of forced interest. "It was a third-world planet, you see! They hadn't even settled on a way to collect solar energy, can you imagine?"
How curious, thought Calibri, sliding the toe of his shoe across the wine-colored carpet. What's the purpose of putting something soft under your shoes?
"Nathaniel H. Calibri," intoned the mechanical announcer, tacked to a wall adjacent to the double doors leading to the would-be-benefactor of whoever won the scholarship competition. The doors swung open automatically, wide and synchronized with each other, before the previous interviewee walked dejectedly out, dragging his feet on the carpet.
Calibri stood up as his name was called, neither intimidated nor nervous. (He only briefly wondered if that was the purpose of the plush flooring after all - friction? Maybe the generated heat was recycled and re-purposed elsewhere on the ship.) He bypassed the other students without even a glance of acknowledgement and strode through the entrance into an even more ornate office - brightly lit by glass windows covered with sheer curtains and an entirely inefficient use of space, considering how far apart all the furniture was.
He strode right up to the large desk occupying the center of the room, careful to drag his feet as much as possible as to provide the maximum friction and contribution (he might as well, while he was here). "Present, sir."
"My essay was about the volunteer Peace Corp mission I participated in during my senior year of Intermediary Education," said one of the other students awaiting an interview, leaning forward on his plush-cushioned seat. His tone of voice was boastful, proud. He was waving his hands animatedly while the other student listened with an air of forced interest. "It was a third-world planet, you see! They hadn't even settled on a way to collect solar energy, can you imagine?"
How curious, thought Calibri, sliding the toe of his shoe across the wine-colored carpet. What's the purpose of putting something soft under your shoes?
"Nathaniel H. Calibri," intoned the mechanical announcer, tacked to a wall adjacent to the double doors leading to the would-be-benefactor of whoever won the scholarship competition. The doors swung open automatically, wide and synchronized with each other, before the previous interviewee walked dejectedly out, dragging his feet on the carpet.
Calibri stood up as his name was called, neither intimidated nor nervous. (He only briefly wondered if that was the purpose of the plush flooring after all - friction? Maybe the generated heat was recycled and re-purposed elsewhere on the ship.) He bypassed the other students without even a glance of acknowledgement and strode through the entrance into an even more ornate office - brightly lit by glass windows covered with sheer curtains and an entirely inefficient use of space, considering how far apart all the furniture was.
He strode right up to the large desk occupying the center of the room, careful to drag his feet as much as possible as to provide the maximum friction and contribution (he might as well, while he was here). "Present, sir."
deductivedetective2012-02-14 11:58 pmEntry tags:
a lovely date for a murder, don't you agree
Neither of them called it a date. Sherlock may not have been the most socially up-to-speed person, but he knew what this was; what John was asking. He humored him and agreed, not pressing the matter. It wasn't unusual for them to to be together anyway, even before this. In fact, catching them without the other was even more odd.
It wasn't too fancy, anyway. The Chinese place down the street was good, and authentic (according to Sherlock's verification), and reasonably priced for two men sharing money. The atmosphere wasn't romantic, at least. Sherlock imagined the pressure on John would be lessened if just for that reason, even if he didn't understand the big deal.
"Eating in today for once, eh, Sherlock?" the host asked with a polite smile as they entered. "Two, then?"
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, looking at John. "Any plans after this, by the way?"
It wasn't too fancy, anyway. The Chinese place down the street was good, and authentic (according to Sherlock's verification), and reasonably priced for two men sharing money. The atmosphere wasn't romantic, at least. Sherlock imagined the pressure on John would be lessened if just for that reason, even if he didn't understand the big deal.
"Eating in today for once, eh, Sherlock?" the host asked with a polite smile as they entered. "Two, then?"
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, looking at John. "Any plans after this, by the way?"
aphelionix2012-02-07 08:00 pmEntry tags:
gosh we're always saving your hide, james
Bentley didn't go on missions. It just wasn't something he did. The anxiety and intensity of such a situation was unsavory to begin with, and dangerous, and Bentley didn't like dangerous.
But seeing as he had no field experience, and yet was one of the most qualified doctors in Circle 7, it set him up to be set out eventually. Apparently it was some sort of requirement, for experience's sake; to know you could act in the middle of action, or in dire situations. Bentley knew he could. Inside of a hospital, that was. Outside? It was hard to say. He had his pack which was fully equipped with what he needed, but what if an emergency arose?
At the very least, he was assigned with another, more field-experienced medic and Evan, who was more than familiar with these sorts of missions. Not to mention, one of the few people Bentley would call his friend. There was a small comfort in that - but it was very small.
"S-so, what's the situation? How bad are the commander's injuries?" he asked, trying to get a grip of the situation. They had ten minutes until they landed.
But seeing as he had no field experience, and yet was one of the most qualified doctors in Circle 7, it set him up to be set out eventually. Apparently it was some sort of requirement, for experience's sake; to know you could act in the middle of action, or in dire situations. Bentley knew he could. Inside of a hospital, that was. Outside? It was hard to say. He had his pack which was fully equipped with what he needed, but what if an emergency arose?
At the very least, he was assigned with another, more field-experienced medic and Evan, who was more than familiar with these sorts of missions. Not to mention, one of the few people Bentley would call his friend. There was a small comfort in that - but it was very small.
"S-so, what's the situation? How bad are the commander's injuries?" he asked, trying to get a grip of the situation. They had ten minutes until they landed.
Entry tags:
an apple a day
There came a sharp rapping on the metallic door. Spoke the raven, nevermore.
It was near mechanical in its precision, a steady one-two-three beat fit for a quick-time waltz but lacking all the feeling and expression to make it anything akin to music. It did fit in with the whirring and slight hum of machinery that always existed on the ship - the dull, metal white noise of a its gears and engines doing good work, a constant reassurance that no one was going to get thrown into zero-gravity or sucked into the nothingness of space. It was too loud and too localized, though, for it to be mistaken as part of the regular background.
"Doctor," said the knocker, perfectly spaced between two series of three-note beats, though he stopped right after the last knock-knock-knock following the word. It wasn't a common voice to hear around the sick bay area of the ship, but it wasn't one Bentley hadn't heard before. Calibri sounded quietly commanding as normal, if a little more impatient given the bitten off end to the 'R' of Bentley's title. "Doctor, I am in need of your assistance."
It was near mechanical in its precision, a steady one-two-three beat fit for a quick-time waltz but lacking all the feeling and expression to make it anything akin to music. It did fit in with the whirring and slight hum of machinery that always existed on the ship - the dull, metal white noise of a its gears and engines doing good work, a constant reassurance that no one was going to get thrown into zero-gravity or sucked into the nothingness of space. It was too loud and too localized, though, for it to be mistaken as part of the regular background.
"Doctor," said the knocker, perfectly spaced between two series of three-note beats, though he stopped right after the last knock-knock-knock following the word. It wasn't a common voice to hear around the sick bay area of the ship, but it wasn't one Bentley hadn't heard before. Calibri sounded quietly commanding as normal, if a little more impatient given the bitten off end to the 'R' of Bentley's title. "Doctor, I am in need of your assistance."