12-17-2019, 12:58 AM
Midnight. Raindrops were sliding down Wellington's windows. The lights were on, for it was the Armed Forces' headquarters on New London, and it was never asleep. The eastern wing was scorched and partly demolished, and fully covered with scaffolding. East of it lay a small lake in the shape of a perfect circle -- a former Warwolf Cannon crater, and no doubt a very near miss.
Former Premier Mehmed Selim and former Coalition's foreign minister Michel de Grasse were two somewhat soaked and rather turbid men. They were recently deposed from power, and in a hurry, forgot to bring umbrellas. They were hiding from the rain beneath the eaves of the main entrance. There was a pompous stairway leading down to the ground. Them, watched by four soldiers who were visibly not awfully thrilled about having to do the night shift, were waiting for their saviours to come up those stairs, open the door and save them again, this time from the rain and the cold that was beginning to seep through their wet coats.
Two ships landed nearby: a Templar, and a Clydesdale. The prior spewed out Captain Pria Yberg. She did not have an umbrella either. But she neither seemed to despise rain -- she turned it her face to receive its fullest volume. Yberg was a Spacer, and water, same as many other amenities usually taken for granted, was precious to her. The rain would probably ruin her haircut, but she didn't care. Haircut was the last of her worries, and subconsciously, she liked how that displayed her resilient and pragmatic attitude.
The cargo door of the Clydesdale opened and twenty Bretonian marines poured out -- just enough for a local display of military might. They had no umbrellas either, but they were grunts, and grunts had to put up with the elements. They were followed by a black umbrella, and beneath was Captain Elizabeth Hall. Her haircut wasn't in a much better state than Yberg's, but Elizabeth usually took meticulous care about it, and the fact indicated in how great a hurry she was. With her at the helm, the procession moved towards the main entrance.
"Poor sods!", Elizabeth exclaimed when she saw the two soaked Coalitioners, to a marine that was marching up the stairs next to her and whose hat was beginning to accumulate a puddle of rainwater. She hurried ahead towards them, and when she had climbed up the porch, slowed down into something that looked like a half-hearted solo-waltz.
"Gorech utrat
Bolyu szhimayet grud
Pavshih geroyev teni kruzhat
Vals navevayet grust!"
So she sang the very symbolic stanza from the "Hills of Manchuria", somewhat shyly, on her approach, having obviously prepared it for this very occasion. She spoke some Russian, a small bit of it, as she had spent a good part of her life on Gran Canaria, but this she had to memorize on her way to Freeport One.
"Up for a waltz, gentlemen?" She took them under her arms so that the umbrella covered most of all three. They seemed happy to oblige. "A smoke?" Both shook their heads. "No? Alright..." She gave a hand gesture towards the west to the column on the stairs. "We won't enter here. Here are the offices. We are going to the barracks, where I can find you a room. Better have all the talks we need tomorrow morning, when we're all well rested, and when I'll have received instructions from the foreign ministry. Good Lord, I desperately need to fix my hair..."
Yberg did not go with them. She passed Elizabeth by at the main entrance and went in, not without throwing her a scornful look. If Selim and de Grasse were vigilant at the moment, they'd have surely noticed the smoldering rebellion in her eyes.
"Don't you agree?", Elizabeth continued rhetorically.
Former Premier Mehmed Selim and former Coalition's foreign minister Michel de Grasse were two somewhat soaked and rather turbid men. They were recently deposed from power, and in a hurry, forgot to bring umbrellas. They were hiding from the rain beneath the eaves of the main entrance. There was a pompous stairway leading down to the ground. Them, watched by four soldiers who were visibly not awfully thrilled about having to do the night shift, were waiting for their saviours to come up those stairs, open the door and save them again, this time from the rain and the cold that was beginning to seep through their wet coats.
Two ships landed nearby: a Templar, and a Clydesdale. The prior spewed out Captain Pria Yberg. She did not have an umbrella either. But she neither seemed to despise rain -- she turned it her face to receive its fullest volume. Yberg was a Spacer, and water, same as many other amenities usually taken for granted, was precious to her. The rain would probably ruin her haircut, but she didn't care. Haircut was the last of her worries, and subconsciously, she liked how that displayed her resilient and pragmatic attitude.
The cargo door of the Clydesdale opened and twenty Bretonian marines poured out -- just enough for a local display of military might. They had no umbrellas either, but they were grunts, and grunts had to put up with the elements. They were followed by a black umbrella, and beneath was Captain Elizabeth Hall. Her haircut wasn't in a much better state than Yberg's, but Elizabeth usually took meticulous care about it, and the fact indicated in how great a hurry she was. With her at the helm, the procession moved towards the main entrance.
"Poor sods!", Elizabeth exclaimed when she saw the two soaked Coalitioners, to a marine that was marching up the stairs next to her and whose hat was beginning to accumulate a puddle of rainwater. She hurried ahead towards them, and when she had climbed up the porch, slowed down into something that looked like a half-hearted solo-waltz.
"Gorech utrat
Bolyu szhimayet grud
Pavshih geroyev teni kruzhat
Vals navevayet grust!"
So she sang the very symbolic stanza from the "Hills of Manchuria", somewhat shyly, on her approach, having obviously prepared it for this very occasion. She spoke some Russian, a small bit of it, as she had spent a good part of her life on Gran Canaria, but this she had to memorize on her way to Freeport One.
"Up for a waltz, gentlemen?" She took them under her arms so that the umbrella covered most of all three. They seemed happy to oblige. "A smoke?" Both shook their heads. "No? Alright..." She gave a hand gesture towards the west to the column on the stairs. "We won't enter here. Here are the offices. We are going to the barracks, where I can find you a room. Better have all the talks we need tomorrow morning, when we're all well rested, and when I'll have received instructions from the foreign ministry. Good Lord, I desperately need to fix my hair..."
Yberg did not go with them. She passed Elizabeth by at the main entrance and went in, not without throwing her a scornful look. If Selim and de Grasse were vigilant at the moment, they'd have surely noticed the smoldering rebellion in her eyes.
"Don't you agree?", Elizabeth continued rhetorically.