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.
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.
The one time Premier's flight suit was a surprisingly effective defense against the rain for the majority of his body, although without his helmet, his face was subject to the full, steady onslaught of the constant New London showers. The top of his head was shielded by his trusty kalpak, the fore of it clearly having been restitched at some point, it once having borne a hammer-and-sickle patch that was removed after the first putsch. Either way, the style was assuredly distinct. Men of Turko-Arabic descent and culture as pure as Selim's were very few given the limited and scattered presence of Coalition-aligned people, that had since been heavily diluted by centuries of displacement after the Alliance's exodus from Sol. All in all, despite it being the same substance chemically as snow, the rain of London was much a different thing to feel.
Even if they weren't all as enthusiastic as Captain Hall, the demeanor of the Bretonians was at least strong enough to keep Selim enthused. It was, of course, true that quite a bit of things personal to Selim had been lost as of late. Between that and the rain, and the continuing fact that now wasn't a good time to discuss things, he kept rather quiet.
New London. Never in his life would Michel think to set foot on Bretonia's very heart - considering the recntly-ended Gallic War, that is. His flight suit, along with the trench coat he wore over it, allowed him to stay somewhat protected from the rain, as well as his signature beak hat worn on his head. He wasn't a stranger to rainy days - he was used to them back in the days of the Civil War, during the defense of Planet Quillan, in Languedoc - during the final moments of the war, with the Royalists' fleets stomping what defenses the Council had in the system without even breaking a sweat. The only thought of those days made him shiver.
Despite not as enthusiastic as Captain Hall herself, at least the Bretonians' legendary demeanor made Michel feel somewhat at ease. And given the recent events that brought them there in the first place, he remained mostly silent, unlike his usual self.
Pria went in thorough the main entrance, waving the drenching guards to follow her as she passed them. Once they were inside, she instructed them to stay in unttil they dried up a bit. Just a little niceness from her, towards them.
Inside, she went straight to the bar, and got a couple bottles of quality vodka, and ordered the kitchen staff to prepare some meals for their new guests. Pria tried not to worry too much about the implications of such high-ranking officials of the Coalition needing asylum in Bretonia, but her mind wandered towards Canaria, her home, and her newfound family, analyzing the level of threat they were under, and forming contingencies, just in case.
She crossed into the wing where the Premier and the minister were at. The hallways were empty, as Pria crossed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her hand touched her growing belly, at this point she couldn't even hide it if she tried to - childhood malnourishment haven't left her a whole lot of fat to work with.
The guards didn't bothered Pria, as she knocked on their door, and entered. "Sorry for the interference" She spoke with a heavy accent, and never tried to hide it "I've arranged for some dinner for you two, and also got something from the bar" She pulled the bottles, and a few glasses out of her jacket, and placed them on the table, and went out of the room, only to see Hall approaching on the hallway. Probably to blabber to them about Leeds or something.
Wet. That's the word that would best describe the sound that followed Elizabeth. As clumsy as she was, she couldn't close her umbrella without some issues. The clatter of her footsteps left work for the cleaning women. For a moment which she made as brief as she could, her eyes met with Pria's. Pria was no more than air for her and Elizabeth worked with her only because it was a requirement of the service.
"Ah, there you are!", Elizabeth exclaimed at a random spot in the air. "Are you good at interrogations, Yberg?"
Hall speaking to the air annoyed Pria, and it was shown on her face. She had no love towards her, and it was abundantly clear at this point.
"Depends, who am I interrogating, and with what options" Her eyes pierced Hall's skull, right between her eyes "In this case, the first approach I'd try is get them drunk. But I don't think it would be necessary at all" She shook her head, Hall inspecting the wall behind her was about enough ignorance recieved"Next time, try an eye contact, it works wonders" said dryly
"Yes...", Elizabeth said as she turned away, took out a small mirror and pretended to be fixing her hair. It was unclear whether she could really see Pria in the mirror or not.
"See, Yberg, there's state matters we need to discuss, so I expect a professional attitude here, and personal we can be later. You asked me what was going on, so here's what: the Coalition premier has been deposed by a military junta. The premier was our foundation of amicable relations with the Coalition, and it is very likely the military junta is going to invalidate the Sydney Accords soon. This makes the premier an asset for us. I am dealing with this on Frederick Stewart's instructions. Ah, yes, he's our foreign minister, in case you don't know. Now, what the Realm needs you to do, is the following. I've already sent men for de Grasse, Selim's foreign minister, and they are taking him to B66 as I speak. That's second floor underground, eastern section. A bit ruined and probably leaking, but that shouldn't hinder your, well, interrogation. Options? Any options, but do leave him in a decent state. We need to maintain friendly relations with the premier, so I'll have to find a good excuse for what happens to his Gaul, but we also need to know when he's lying. What you should ask about are... transmission codes, military strength, state of internal affairs... or anything you think could be useful. I'm giving you a lot of freedom there. Any questions for me?" She turned back to Yberg and sent her a very unexpected piercing look which she had obviously been preparing during her instructions.
Hall's stare shattered on Pria's face, and she decided to reply with the look of the cold fury, that usually meant the reciever of the the stare was better be burning up in the very same place, than experiencing that wrath
"I can do that. I'll just threat him that he'd have to spend a whole day with you" She chukled. "I do hope you realize that he's not the best source for military strength, or any of the security details they might use, but oh well" Pria turned around, and left, claiming a small victory, that Hall's destructive look didn't met her destructive fist. Not yet, anyway.
As she went towards the eastern section thinking about the best approach for the situation. If she was correct, de Grasse would tell everything Pria wanted by himself, but she prepared to get the information other ways
Next morning. The rain seemed to have stopped, but the clouds had not scattered. It was a very pale, sterile morning, much like the office Elizabeth had appropriated. White ceiling, white walls, white, smooth tiles on the floor, that were easy to clean: a hundred percent utilitarian. Or, almost. There was a bottle of Gallic wine on the desk, and if looked at from the doorway, the deathray crater was straight behind it. This was one of the few restored offices in the eastern wing, and Elizabeth chose it intentionally. The bottle of Gallic wine was there, in front of the Gallic crater, to symbolize the final, righteous victory, and Bretonian military might. Selim was now under Bretonia's protection, and Elizabeth hoped he would understand that.
She was not drinking the wine. It was obviously only there for decoration. She was drinking a cup of Ceylon with milk and reading the morning newspaper. Nothing about the Coalition yet. That was good, as it meant the affair was still watertight.
"Let him in", Elizabeth answered when the guard that was bringing Selim reported to her via the speaker. The former dictator of millions now came in not to receive, but to be received, like any lowly ordinary citizen. This, too was intentional: the premier was now a dependent party, and Elizabeth made sure he knew who he was dependent upon.
The accommodations were swell enough, at least as swell as a barracks slapped on the side of BAF's main headquarters could hope to offer to a foreign dignitary. It sure beat the ad-hoc setting of a freighter deep in the bays of a certain Zoner Freeport, and definitely beat whatever firing squad Selim was sure would have been waiting for him back home. If this was really how he was going to fall from grace, at least he was falling into a soft pillow and not the concrete. He couldn't deny he was being treated quite fairly, that much the Bretonians had on him now.
But there wasn't time to reflect on the past couple days, as Carina's finest hauled him off to Captain Hall's office on time and in accordance with the infamous, sprawling clockwork of Bretonian bureaucracy. He sat down upon whatever seating was provided. For several seconds, he studied the labeling on the Gallic wine, but paying attention to the Captain once she elected to speak. His reply was similarly prompt.
" I could ask you that, Hall. He was with me earlier, but I haven't seen him since I got up this morning."
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