as written by Ylanne
It was almost midnight when Amira Qahtani all but kicked in the doors to the central communications room in the main headquarters. The younger woman, brown-skinned and stocky, wore frayed cargo pants and a t-shirt with a logo for some band that probably only a handful of the analysts might recognize and no one else. She pumped her mud-encrusted boots across the floor, quickly crossing from threshold to center, startling the few staff still at their posts for the midnight shift, who glanced at her and quickly looked away. Qahtani was used to that reaction. The usually neatly tucked head covering she wore -- now loose and wrinkled -- typically raised more questions than she cared to answer in a casual conversation, particularly at work, and most particularly, when keen on a conversation with the director of the Terran Intelligence Bureau.
The central communications room's walls were lined with carefully angled screens displaying data readouts, and in some cases, maps or live feeds, mostly from satellite. When necessary or relevant, the tech staff could easily switch input to display standard, night-vision, and infrared cameras in use for specific operations. At midnight on a Wednesday, there were no active operations, but surveillance on a variety of potentially high-value targets. The room murmured with chatter from the skeleton staff and the competing feeds displayed variously on the big screens and on smaller screens and desk consoles where the analysts sat. It was from this room that Arianne Drulović had been coordinating Terra's intelligence gathering efforts since almost the establishment of the TNG itself. Prior to that, Qahtani had heard, Drulović and her secretive agents had been housed somewhere near Westeria City. Before its most recent devolution to a total shitshow, of course.
The Nida-Kule Complex was a welcome change from the cramped quarters in Westeria, and the TIB had welcomed the opportunities for expansion, its staff growing to fill three buildings. Admittedly, Qahtani thought wryly, the bureau probably staffed the hangar with no more than twenty employees at any given time, but those twenty were new, hired within the past five years during the transition to Rhea Vaeros's government. It seemed each time she returned to Nida-Kule, she was greeted by a new set of strangers. Even now, Qahtani couldn't quite place the faces belonging to the three analysts busied near the center of the room, hunched over glowing screens while fingers tapped on sleek keyboards to the droning hum of machinery and overlapping audio feeds kept to a consistently low volume.
"Director?" Qahtani called, scanning the room with her eyes. She wrinkled her nose. The place smelled perpetually of coffee, and not any particularly tasty kind, but the generic, near-flavorless shit mass produced for suffering denizens of most office buildings everywhere from Westeria to Van Leugen and probably even on the decks of Terra's prized warships leading her fleet. The small, old woman with the limp and cane was nowhere to be found. Qahtani turned on her heel, scrunching her face together, when one of the analysts thumbed toward the side exit.
"Probably in 'er office," the bulbous-eyed alien said, begrudging her that little information with xyr thoroughly bored tone. "Left a couple hours ago."
Qahtani nodded. "Thanks." She headed for the door zie had indicated, momentarily pressing her palm to the pad affixed on the wall before it slid open to admit her.
Arianne Drulović was not known for an ostentatious manner. Her office was tucked away in a corner on the highest floor of the main headquarters, past several rows of cubicles and an office storage closet. The actual space was large enough to accommodate a small couch and two chairs beside the desk, but Qahtani had been to a handful of other agency heads and MP's offices, and the TIB Director had requisitioned a space in her own building that would have been used for an assistant's office in most others.
The furnishings were well-loved. Muted colors, soft but durable fabrics, and sturdy chairs. Drulović sat at the desk, right hand pressing gently against her jaw as she read through a thick report that sprawled over the desk. She was an older woman, lighter colored than Qahtani, with thick dark hair resting on her shoulders that nearly blended into the threadbare black suit she wore. She did not look up when Qahtani entered, suddenly self-conscious and wiping her shoes on the carpet before stepping inside.
"Director."
Drulović laid her hand over the page and glanced upward. "Ms. Qahtani. I'm glad to see you." She offered a small smile. "Can I get you something to drink? Some tea perhaps? I can't say I'm too fond of the office coffee."
The younger woman shrugged. "I'm fine, but thank you." She eased into one of the chairs facing the desk, and sat on the edge, leaning forward. "I identified the leak."
"And what of it?"
"Lance corporal. From the Navy. Wanted some extra cash for good times in the undercity, when in port." Qahtani stretched her arms, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. "I brought him in for interrogation."
Drulović nodded. "I don't suppose you've already started on it with him."
"Oh, I did." Qahtani smiled wider. "Talked to him for quite awhile. He resisted, a lot, as you might say, but I've got some information that could prove useful."
"Of course, you'll assess the merits of the intel before passing it along to anyone outside Nida-Kule," Drulović said, slowly returning the papers she'd been reading to a single pile. She moved slowly, with a trembling hand. Qahtani tried not to stare too long at the thick scarring winding its way around the director's hand and along the wrist, disappearing under her sleeve.
Qahtani stopped herself from rolling her eyes. This was not her friend; this was her boss. Her boss's boss. "Right. Of course. What do you want me to do with him while the team checks out the intel?"
"Keep him at the facility, if you would," Drulović replied, fixing her gaze on the younger woman. "When we've exhausted him, it may be prudent to gift him a bullet. Elsewise, I'm afraid Justice and the military will squabble over him with their endless tantrums about jurisdiction. I've no taste for politics; I'd prefer we kept it simple."
"Simple." Qahtani felt an unease gnawing at her stomach at the cool way in which Drulović spoke of killing the man. Though she wondered, if the TIB didn't opt to take him out back and shoot him when they were finished, what other options might there be? Drulović might have the right of it, much as Qahtani fought to keep bile from rising in the back of her throat at the thought. But instead of objecting, she nodded. "Simple," Qahtani repeated. "All right. I'll prepare a report and brief the rest of the team first thing in the morning."
"Thank you, Ms. Qahtani," Drulović said. "You may go. And I'd suggest a good night's sleep. The morning, I'm afraid, will not treat us kindly."
It was almost midnight when Amira Qahtani all but kicked in the doors to the central communications room in the main headquarters. The younger woman, brown-skinned and stocky, wore frayed cargo pants and a t-shirt with a logo for some band that probably only a handful of the analysts might recognize and no one else. She pumped her mud-encrusted boots across the floor, quickly crossing from threshold to center, startling the few staff still at their posts for the midnight shift, who glanced at her and quickly looked away. Qahtani was used to that reaction. The usually neatly tucked head covering she wore -- now loose and wrinkled -- typically raised more questions than she cared to answer in a casual conversation, particularly at work, and most particularly, when keen on a conversation with the director of the Terran Intelligence Bureau.
The central communications room's walls were lined with carefully angled screens displaying data readouts, and in some cases, maps or live feeds, mostly from satellite. When necessary or relevant, the tech staff could easily switch input to display standard, night-vision, and infrared cameras in use for specific operations. At midnight on a Wednesday, there were no active operations, but surveillance on a variety of potentially high-value targets. The room murmured with chatter from the skeleton staff and the competing feeds displayed variously on the big screens and on smaller screens and desk consoles where the analysts sat. It was from this room that Arianne Drulović had been coordinating Terra's intelligence gathering efforts since almost the establishment of the TNG itself. Prior to that, Qahtani had heard, Drulović and her secretive agents had been housed somewhere near Westeria City. Before its most recent devolution to a total shitshow, of course.
The Nida-Kule Complex was a welcome change from the cramped quarters in Westeria, and the TIB had welcomed the opportunities for expansion, its staff growing to fill three buildings. Admittedly, Qahtani thought wryly, the bureau probably staffed the hangar with no more than twenty employees at any given time, but those twenty were new, hired within the past five years during the transition to Rhea Vaeros's government. It seemed each time she returned to Nida-Kule, she was greeted by a new set of strangers. Even now, Qahtani couldn't quite place the faces belonging to the three analysts busied near the center of the room, hunched over glowing screens while fingers tapped on sleek keyboards to the droning hum of machinery and overlapping audio feeds kept to a consistently low volume.
"Director?" Qahtani called, scanning the room with her eyes. She wrinkled her nose. The place smelled perpetually of coffee, and not any particularly tasty kind, but the generic, near-flavorless shit mass produced for suffering denizens of most office buildings everywhere from Westeria to Van Leugen and probably even on the decks of Terra's prized warships leading her fleet. The small, old woman with the limp and cane was nowhere to be found. Qahtani turned on her heel, scrunching her face together, when one of the analysts thumbed toward the side exit.
"Probably in 'er office," the bulbous-eyed alien said, begrudging her that little information with xyr thoroughly bored tone. "Left a couple hours ago."
Qahtani nodded. "Thanks." She headed for the door zie had indicated, momentarily pressing her palm to the pad affixed on the wall before it slid open to admit her.
Arianne Drulović was not known for an ostentatious manner. Her office was tucked away in a corner on the highest floor of the main headquarters, past several rows of cubicles and an office storage closet. The actual space was large enough to accommodate a small couch and two chairs beside the desk, but Qahtani had been to a handful of other agency heads and MP's offices, and the TIB Director had requisitioned a space in her own building that would have been used for an assistant's office in most others.
The furnishings were well-loved. Muted colors, soft but durable fabrics, and sturdy chairs. Drulović sat at the desk, right hand pressing gently against her jaw as she read through a thick report that sprawled over the desk. She was an older woman, lighter colored than Qahtani, with thick dark hair resting on her shoulders that nearly blended into the threadbare black suit she wore. She did not look up when Qahtani entered, suddenly self-conscious and wiping her shoes on the carpet before stepping inside.
"Director."
Drulović laid her hand over the page and glanced upward. "Ms. Qahtani. I'm glad to see you." She offered a small smile. "Can I get you something to drink? Some tea perhaps? I can't say I'm too fond of the office coffee."
The younger woman shrugged. "I'm fine, but thank you." She eased into one of the chairs facing the desk, and sat on the edge, leaning forward. "I identified the leak."
"And what of it?"
"Lance corporal. From the Navy. Wanted some extra cash for good times in the undercity, when in port." Qahtani stretched her arms, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. "I brought him in for interrogation."
Drulović nodded. "I don't suppose you've already started on it with him."
"Oh, I did." Qahtani smiled wider. "Talked to him for quite awhile. He resisted, a lot, as you might say, but I've got some information that could prove useful."
"Of course, you'll assess the merits of the intel before passing it along to anyone outside Nida-Kule," Drulović said, slowly returning the papers she'd been reading to a single pile. She moved slowly, with a trembling hand. Qahtani tried not to stare too long at the thick scarring winding its way around the director's hand and along the wrist, disappearing under her sleeve.
Qahtani stopped herself from rolling her eyes. This was not her friend; this was her boss. Her boss's boss. "Right. Of course. What do you want me to do with him while the team checks out the intel?"
"Keep him at the facility, if you would," Drulović replied, fixing her gaze on the younger woman. "When we've exhausted him, it may be prudent to gift him a bullet. Elsewise, I'm afraid Justice and the military will squabble over him with their endless tantrums about jurisdiction. I've no taste for politics; I'd prefer we kept it simple."
"Simple." Qahtani felt an unease gnawing at her stomach at the cool way in which Drulović spoke of killing the man. Though she wondered, if the TIB didn't opt to take him out back and shoot him when they were finished, what other options might there be? Drulović might have the right of it, much as Qahtani fought to keep bile from rising in the back of her throat at the thought. But instead of objecting, she nodded. "Simple," Qahtani repeated. "All right. I'll prepare a report and brief the rest of the team first thing in the morning."
"Thank you, Ms. Qahtani," Drulović said. "You may go. And I'd suggest a good night's sleep. The morning, I'm afraid, will not treat us kindly."
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