as written by Ylanne
The last thing LaDarro Gorham remembered before the alarm sounded was the smarmy expression on the reporter's face. He was a young white man with a carefully pressed shirt and combed brown hair, sitting with stiff, uncomfortable posture across from LaDarro's desk. The question had been, "What do you think this means for future generations of TNG employees, Mr. Gorham?" But before LaDarro could produce an answer professional by some objective standard, before he could find a way to encapsulate his two years as the NPA's only openly transgender field office director into a sound byte suitable for the press, before the smug-looking reporter could rephrase the question in yet another unbearable round, the door to the office flung open.
LaDarro was saved by Andrea Titon, the TIB's errant cyberintelligence expert, whose annoyed expression seemed quite incongruent with the sound of an enormous collision from out the window. Titon held up a phone. "Shelly Reed called. Whichever fucker was supposed to answer this didn't." The reporter stammered out a half-hearted apology, rising from his seat as Titon spoke. "Sit your ass down; I wasn't talking to you. Gorham, she says there're something like ten trucks out there."
"There are -- the fuck?" LaDarro stood from his seat, moving toward the window when Titon grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back. "And -- who let you in the building?" His eyes moved rapidly over Titon, taking in her unkempt hair, wrinkled t-shirt, stained cargo pants, and black military boots with caked-over mud, wondering how in the hell she'd thought this appropriate attire for any kind of interagency meeting. It was a sharp contrast from his own smartly tailored suit. He turned toward the window again, but this time Titon hit him, hard, to the face.
"Are you fucking stupid?"
"The window's bulletproof," LaDarro replied, his voice tight, eyes flashing.
"Doesn't matter. Bulletproof means shit when the explosives start flying, and who the fuck knows what they've got out there." Titon gave LaDarro another shove away from the window, eyeing the reporter with suspicion as he sank lower into his chair, perspiration shining all over his forehead.
"Never mind, all right?" LaDarro shook his head. "Tell me what's going on out there, and don't even think about hitting me again."
"Motherfucking tear gas, that's what's going on." Titon relayed the information Shelly had given, but then the call ended as abruptly as it had come in. "Don't just stand there, moron. Get your fucking ducks in a fucking row, and fucking handle this shit." She turned, starting to leave LaDarro's office, and then paused to point at the reporter on her way out. "You ever use a gun? Cause if not, then start looking for hiding places and something to cover your fucking mouth with. Unless you actually want to die. Hey, one less reporter, right? Not my fucking problem." Titon strode through the door, speaking with her back to the slack-jawed field office director. "Gorham! The fuck are you waiting for?"
LaDarro picked up the phone to dial the security desk in the lobby, his expression smoldering. His day had already been off to a bad start with the reporter's insensitive questions, and now it seemed bound to get worse. Never better, always worse.
It took less than five minutes for Titon to summarily notify the security guards at each of the four side-doors of impending assault. On their side, those doors were reinforced steel and kept magnetically locked throughout the day. On the terrorists' side? There were a pithy two guards assigned to each. The imposing structure was built to keep intruders out, not a military force. But while striding through the hallways to the weapons locker, Titon cocked a grin. If their assailants had brought military force, why shouldn't they return the favor? She tapped out a message to the nearest TAF base requesting immediate support. The NPA, she thought, her smile disappearing for a scowl, was not armed to fend off a small army. They were fucking cops. Titon grabbed one of only a handful of automatic weapons from the locker, checking the magazine and grabbing another few rounds of ammunition. She headed toward the back entrance, where the loading dock led into the field office. By her reckoning, and the blueprints she'd found a few hours ago in the basement, that'd be the weakest point after the lobby. If the attackers were smart, and it seemed like they were, they'd head there next.
Titon passed a corner, giving the frightened intern a wicked grin. "Time to kill some motherfucking terrorists." Besides, the actual TNG military would be on its way by now, and she didn't want them to have all the fun. Titon had had enough of the NPA technician's sniveling complaints and excuses. She wanted to put some bullets into some warm bodies, and, well, the present situation gave a nearly perfect excuse.
