12-08-2013, 11:31 AM
Torri was no strategist. So to witness the wordplay of two who were, would have been fascinating if it weren't so damned depressing.
She wasn't an idealist either. Utopia was as much science fiction as was any other goal for peace, but for some reason she dedicated her life to aiding those striving for it. She was more than willing to let men like Vellas turn the globe over in his hands. She was more interested in easing the struggles for an individual grain of sand than advancing the goals of entire planets. It was these struggles that let her work every day guilt-free at The Facility. Under her leadership, patient care was improved, bedside manners eased the minds of the incarcerated - medication might have a part to play as well - and actual scientific advances were being discovered.
One woman couldn't be everywhere at once, however. Learning how to delegate was a steep a learning curve worthy of her rank. So when talk of broken protocol and merciless slaughter began, this was why she did not get up and leave the room. There were still grains of sand to protect, and Torri's oaths to Custody, command, and medicine held.
If she was impressed by Michael's gallantry, it was a sarcastic favor. Swift and complete victory? She bit back the rest of what she was going to say, and for a moment, the shield collapsed, and emotion flared angry, but it didn't last long. No more than the moments when Michael's hand subconsciously rubbed one arm.
She had no opinion. "It is not my place to predict those kinds of things. I am going to plan for the worst, and hope for the best." She leaned forward, palms wrapped around the arms of her seat. "'The best' being bloodless reconciliation." It was unlikely to happen, but a chill in her spine told her that Michael needed reminding. Peace-makers always launched the fiercest missiles.
But then her fingers drummed the armrest while the two men attempted to draw more from her. It pulled on her like a syringe drawing from a collapsed vein. Only another few drops fell.
"Have you ever met him?" She asked both men. No, she doubted they had. For Michael to even ask indicated the answer. "You can't help but trust him. And I will tell you one thing..."
As she crossed her arms, the light caught the thread of the MC patch on her arm, a caduceus on a field of white and circled in orange, and gleamed on the brass branch insignia on either side of her lapel. Like Captain Zokoskev, a black band circled the cuffs on their sleeves, the differences being in color and style of their shoulder epaulets, but where Zokoskev slumped in his seat broad and awkward beneath Michael's deference, Torri's were held fine and confident to the line of Michael's questioning. He was on their side, she reminded herself, as did the fact that she was the officer in charge here. She'd best act like it.
"...if anyone can get this done peacefully. It's him."
She wasn't an idealist either. Utopia was as much science fiction as was any other goal for peace, but for some reason she dedicated her life to aiding those striving for it. She was more than willing to let men like Vellas turn the globe over in his hands. She was more interested in easing the struggles for an individual grain of sand than advancing the goals of entire planets. It was these struggles that let her work every day guilt-free at The Facility. Under her leadership, patient care was improved, bedside manners eased the minds of the incarcerated - medication might have a part to play as well - and actual scientific advances were being discovered.
One woman couldn't be everywhere at once, however. Learning how to delegate was a steep a learning curve worthy of her rank. So when talk of broken protocol and merciless slaughter began, this was why she did not get up and leave the room. There were still grains of sand to protect, and Torri's oaths to Custody, command, and medicine held.
If she was impressed by Michael's gallantry, it was a sarcastic favor. Swift and complete victory? She bit back the rest of what she was going to say, and for a moment, the shield collapsed, and emotion flared angry, but it didn't last long. No more than the moments when Michael's hand subconsciously rubbed one arm.
She had no opinion. "It is not my place to predict those kinds of things. I am going to plan for the worst, and hope for the best." She leaned forward, palms wrapped around the arms of her seat. "'The best' being bloodless reconciliation." It was unlikely to happen, but a chill in her spine told her that Michael needed reminding. Peace-makers always launched the fiercest missiles.
But then her fingers drummed the armrest while the two men attempted to draw more from her. It pulled on her like a syringe drawing from a collapsed vein. Only another few drops fell.
"Have you ever met him?" She asked both men. No, she doubted they had. For Michael to even ask indicated the answer. "You can't help but trust him. And I will tell you one thing..."
As she crossed her arms, the light caught the thread of the MC patch on her arm, a caduceus on a field of white and circled in orange, and gleamed on the brass branch insignia on either side of her lapel. Like Captain Zokoskev, a black band circled the cuffs on their sleeves, the differences being in color and style of their shoulder epaulets, but where Zokoskev slumped in his seat broad and awkward beneath Michael's deference, Torri's were held fine and confident to the line of Michael's questioning. He was on their side, she reminded herself, as did the fact that she was the officer in charge here. She'd best act like it.
"...if anyone can get this done peacefully. It's him."