05-14-2014, 03:57 PM
Northbrook Estate, Switzerland
NPC: Eleanor Northbrook
In the soft lighting of her study, the half dozen holo-screens flashed a steady neon glow in arrangement above the desk. The Scroll filtered news articles pertinent to Eleanor's interests, an endless and comprehensive streaming of world situations, each coordinated to different screens, colours and alert sounds. Of late it had only been peppered with coverage of the Ascendancy's visit to DV, until but a few hours ago when rather more alarming news had broken. Now it dominated, flashing urgent red for breaking news that was quickly kindling and spreading like wildfire across the different channels, until the room glowed scarlet. Naturally she'd already spoken with various colleagues and peers, coordinating a response to the crisis. She was already shaping a press release.
The task stilled her mind to oblivion. Except that she was cold.
Winter seeped through the window seals, brushing shivers against her skin as she worked. Snow clumped on the frame, and bumped gentle drifts against the glass. She'd never minded the drafts and she'd never fixed them, perhaps because they reminded her in some small part how heedlessly she lost herself to work. It was an old house anyway; distinctly and proudly baroque in design, too pristine to bother with too much modernity. It had been Alistair's choice, of course, but it had never crossed her mind to sell it. They had been coming here each Christmas since the girls' infancy, and it was only in recent times that ritual had subsided. Her children were grown, and her husband. Well.
She finally stood to pull across the heavy drapes, pausing to instruct the heating to simmer up a notch.
Which was when she heard it, humming low because she'd flicked down the volume after DVs alerts had started coming thick and fast. A few discordant piano keys, happy and imperfect memories of her middle child's earliest years, but it filled her with cool dread now. For a moment hesitant fear held her in stasis, her fingers still wrapped in the damask fabric. A steeling of her features joined a level intake of breath, though there was no one to see, and she returned to the desk.
Without a blink Eleanor swiped DV away, and the room's glow returned to neutral. She'd set the alert for specific keywords, and she prepared herself as the Scroll realigned. A winking light in the corner of her eye questioned if she was done with the draft of her statement, but she ignored it. The new text inked a reflection on her solemn features. There wasn't much, not yet. But enough, certainly. Sierra Leone had been building its tensions for years; Eleanor had only hoped for it to withhold eruption until her daughter was safely home.
A few deft flicks of her finger, and a call was put through to London.
"Eleanor."
He was always caustically distant, her father - at least on appearances, and she supposed it was where she got it from. Edward didn't raise his eyes from whatever captivated them off screen - a book, she presumed, by the movement beneath lowered lids. She'd interrupted the brevity of time he actually had for leisure, but she felt little remorse.
"You should never have let her go."
He did look up then, sharpness to his gaze.
He didn't speak, of course. She hadn't expected him to. So she did. "The rebels have finally taken a stand."
And they both knew the CCD's implications. Despite her politician father, and despite her talent for public relations, Eleanor had never been interested in the private wars of politics. Her strength of vision had always been far-reaching, and sometimes the important things were lost in the vastness - like the attention she should have paid to three young children - but her talent for impartial compassion had helped sculpt her father's image, and still helmed the Northbrook name. The recklessness that armed her now would take a dent out of years of hard work, but that was why she'd called him first. "I want you to get her out of there."
He held a staunch silence for a few moments, face grim; calculating their options. The answer was writ in every hard line of his face, and she nodded. "Then it must be done privately. And quickly."
--*--
She'd first come across Samantha Brown some years ago; a brash American Eleanor hadn't liked overly much, though her dedication to the Red Cross was both admirable and startling in its tenacity. They'd met in fact at a function heralding the charity's most auspicious heroes, televised in order to garner additional funds for the relevant causes of the day, those exact details forgotten. Eleanor only remembered the night at all, one of many such events she regularly attended, for two reasons.
Firstly, because it had been one of the rarest occasions; when all three of her girls had consented to attend at their mother's side, strong-arming themselves in the wake of Alistair's betrayal.
And secondly, because of Samantha's tale of Nigeria. It might be misplaced ill judgement, but she had never forgiven the woman for the seeds she had planted in Natalie's head; her daughter had packed her bags not long after, despite Eleanor's reservations. So perhaps it would be a dry note of irony if that very same story armed her with the knowledge to protect her daughter.
She scrolled the contacts on screen until she found the one she sought. Her finger didn't hesitate before connecting the call.
NPC: Eleanor Northbrook
In the soft lighting of her study, the half dozen holo-screens flashed a steady neon glow in arrangement above the desk. The Scroll filtered news articles pertinent to Eleanor's interests, an endless and comprehensive streaming of world situations, each coordinated to different screens, colours and alert sounds. Of late it had only been peppered with coverage of the Ascendancy's visit to DV, until but a few hours ago when rather more alarming news had broken. Now it dominated, flashing urgent red for breaking news that was quickly kindling and spreading like wildfire across the different channels, until the room glowed scarlet. Naturally she'd already spoken with various colleagues and peers, coordinating a response to the crisis. She was already shaping a press release.
The task stilled her mind to oblivion. Except that she was cold.
Winter seeped through the window seals, brushing shivers against her skin as she worked. Snow clumped on the frame, and bumped gentle drifts against the glass. She'd never minded the drafts and she'd never fixed them, perhaps because they reminded her in some small part how heedlessly she lost herself to work. It was an old house anyway; distinctly and proudly baroque in design, too pristine to bother with too much modernity. It had been Alistair's choice, of course, but it had never crossed her mind to sell it. They had been coming here each Christmas since the girls' infancy, and it was only in recent times that ritual had subsided. Her children were grown, and her husband. Well.
She finally stood to pull across the heavy drapes, pausing to instruct the heating to simmer up a notch.
Which was when she heard it, humming low because she'd flicked down the volume after DVs alerts had started coming thick and fast. A few discordant piano keys, happy and imperfect memories of her middle child's earliest years, but it filled her with cool dread now. For a moment hesitant fear held her in stasis, her fingers still wrapped in the damask fabric. A steeling of her features joined a level intake of breath, though there was no one to see, and she returned to the desk.
Without a blink Eleanor swiped DV away, and the room's glow returned to neutral. She'd set the alert for specific keywords, and she prepared herself as the Scroll realigned. A winking light in the corner of her eye questioned if she was done with the draft of her statement, but she ignored it. The new text inked a reflection on her solemn features. There wasn't much, not yet. But enough, certainly. Sierra Leone had been building its tensions for years; Eleanor had only hoped for it to withhold eruption until her daughter was safely home.
A few deft flicks of her finger, and a call was put through to London.
"Eleanor."
He was always caustically distant, her father - at least on appearances, and she supposed it was where she got it from. Edward didn't raise his eyes from whatever captivated them off screen - a book, she presumed, by the movement beneath lowered lids. She'd interrupted the brevity of time he actually had for leisure, but she felt little remorse.
"You should never have let her go."
He did look up then, sharpness to his gaze.
He didn't speak, of course. She hadn't expected him to. So she did. "The rebels have finally taken a stand."
And they both knew the CCD's implications. Despite her politician father, and despite her talent for public relations, Eleanor had never been interested in the private wars of politics. Her strength of vision had always been far-reaching, and sometimes the important things were lost in the vastness - like the attention she should have paid to three young children - but her talent for impartial compassion had helped sculpt her father's image, and still helmed the Northbrook name. The recklessness that armed her now would take a dent out of years of hard work, but that was why she'd called him first. "I want you to get her out of there."
He held a staunch silence for a few moments, face grim; calculating their options. The answer was writ in every hard line of his face, and she nodded. "Then it must be done privately. And quickly."
--*--
She'd first come across Samantha Brown some years ago; a brash American Eleanor hadn't liked overly much, though her dedication to the Red Cross was both admirable and startling in its tenacity. They'd met in fact at a function heralding the charity's most auspicious heroes, televised in order to garner additional funds for the relevant causes of the day, those exact details forgotten. Eleanor only remembered the night at all, one of many such events she regularly attended, for two reasons.
Firstly, because it had been one of the rarest occasions; when all three of her girls had consented to attend at their mother's side, strong-arming themselves in the wake of Alistair's betrayal.
And secondly, because of Samantha's tale of Nigeria. It might be misplaced ill judgement, but she had never forgiven the woman for the seeds she had planted in Natalie's head; her daughter had packed her bags not long after, despite Eleanor's reservations. So perhaps it would be a dry note of irony if that very same story armed her with the knowledge to protect her daughter.
She scrolled the contacts on screen until she found the one she sought. Her finger didn't hesitate before connecting the call.