02-02-2014, 09:21 PM
The Custody Press Corps was a group positioned on an elite tier. The reporters assigned to the corps were given accreditation to report on the innermost echelons of CCD politics. During speeches, the reporters dutifully copied the Ascendancy's words. At events, they followed every wave for insights others could not read. But to gain access to the Ascendacy's office, a one had to be either from a favored news outlet or a favored reporter. Of the two-dozen members with permanent positions, only two, maybe three, names were lucky enough to speak with the Ascendacy himself. None were so cherished that they dared make fun of him or his guests, however.
With these corps guest reporters, Brandon was playing a brand new game. Reed knew he was planning more than the puppetry it appeared. To be honest, she didn't care to know any more than what her superiors assigned to her. Right now, she'd been told to care about one such guest - an American reporter named Nicholas Trano.
Trano was proving to be a pain in her ass, that was for sure. But she'd handled worse than a white-boy, Connecticut Mister Wizard. For whatever reason, ZARS and the CIA both thought Trano was a threat to the enemy - that being each other - so Reed was here to make sure he was taken care of.
For what it was worth, Trano was getting a grasp of the understandings inherent to his position. He didn't ask many questions, but those he did posit were acknowledged at one level or another. He was there to prove free speech. Because if anyone was going to ask the hard questions, and expose corruption, it would surely be America's catholic-playboy.
What the fuck had he done so far? A whole shitload of nothing. Maybe Reed should be happy, she mused. His head kept low meant he'd dodge most of the flying bullets, but this was the heroic savior of America? By the time the press corps landed outside Mecca, she had to wonder.
"Alright, Trano." She told him when they were finally given a quiet moment to themselves, a central location out of which the press corps would work for the duration of the conference. She had on her usual jacket, a short cropped thing, but this time over a plainer shirt, snug jeans and ankle boots. There wasn't a grain of sand smart enough to work its way in her shoes. Not in this outfit.
"Looks like we have the evening to chill. The fireworks start tomorrow." She detangled his tie from the badge looped around his neck, and poked him on the chest. "So get some rest tonight. I'm going out for a few hours." She winked, "You know, the usual spy stuff. Don't swallow a bullet while i'm gone."
With these corps guest reporters, Brandon was playing a brand new game. Reed knew he was planning more than the puppetry it appeared. To be honest, she didn't care to know any more than what her superiors assigned to her. Right now, she'd been told to care about one such guest - an American reporter named Nicholas Trano.
Trano was proving to be a pain in her ass, that was for sure. But she'd handled worse than a white-boy, Connecticut Mister Wizard. For whatever reason, ZARS and the CIA both thought Trano was a threat to the enemy - that being each other - so Reed was here to make sure he was taken care of.
For what it was worth, Trano was getting a grasp of the understandings inherent to his position. He didn't ask many questions, but those he did posit were acknowledged at one level or another. He was there to prove free speech. Because if anyone was going to ask the hard questions, and expose corruption, it would surely be America's catholic-playboy.
What the fuck had he done so far? A whole shitload of nothing. Maybe Reed should be happy, she mused. His head kept low meant he'd dodge most of the flying bullets, but this was the heroic savior of America? By the time the press corps landed outside Mecca, she had to wonder.
"Alright, Trano." She told him when they were finally given a quiet moment to themselves, a central location out of which the press corps would work for the duration of the conference. She had on her usual jacket, a short cropped thing, but this time over a plainer shirt, snug jeans and ankle boots. There wasn't a grain of sand smart enough to work its way in her shoes. Not in this outfit.
"Looks like we have the evening to chill. The fireworks start tomorrow." She detangled his tie from the badge looped around his neck, and poked him on the chest. "So get some rest tonight. I'm going out for a few hours." She winked, "You know, the usual spy stuff. Don't swallow a bullet while i'm gone."