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swinery2014-06-06 04:03 am
preventable) wrote in swinery2014-06-06 04:03 am
★ watching me and wanting me
[Making an entrance is an art in and of itself. There are those who are hampered by meekness as they step into a room, clinging to the door as they slide in, making sure it whispers back into its frame rather than slamming. The prolonged whining of an old hinge tends to prolong agony in that type. If it were up to them, they'd be in and out in a matter of seconds, leaving those intended to receive them pondering if they were ever really there. Should these shy ones speak, stammering is the norm and often paired with knocking knees. Every week, one or two of them stumble in to wither under Une's gaze. Intimidation and breathing go hand in hand in the intelligence community. Now and again, Une and her colleagues feign geniality for political gain but when push comes to shove, pretending at politeness gets nowhere.
Going from one extreme to another, there are also those who stroll into Une's office armed with a cocksure swagger and a hundred watt smile. Their insecurity shows in other ways: a handshake that squeezes to tight and lingers too long, informality with the intent to insult and naught but disdain for old world politesse, spittle leaving their lips as they use words far too big for their mouths. It'd be a welcome relief to run across the happy middle between those who wear their fear like a scarlet letter and those who overcompensate for it but people of that temperament are few and far between.
Une reclines on her office chair as her PA buzzes her over the intercom, asking when the next visitor should be allowed in. Non-committal, Une tells the girl to give her two minutes. Pulling out her compact, she checks her teeth for lipstick. A smile meant for negotiation can't be stained. She plumps up her lips with a fresh coat of red before snapping the mirror shut. As a final touch, she combs her fingers through her long brown hair, tucking it behind her ears. Time to meet the storm.
Another day, another deal to be forged. Her agents refer to these informants as "rats," down-on-their-luck traitors selling intel for a big payday. The man now ensconced in her waiting room had guts, making demands of the officers below her on the echelon. He'd show his information to Une and no one else.
He has it on him for sure. Proof of electoral fraud.
That's the report she got from the tail she had on him. Such power in a crude young man's hands. She rises to her feet, straightening out the hem on her skirt to better hide her thigh holster. Her blouse is well-pressed, all buttoned up and proper. When he walks in the door, she moves to close the distance between them, trying not to stare too hard at the way he's dressed. Not everyone can afford a good suit.
But he could have at least rented one.
The leather on his jacket and boots is shabby at best, scuffed up and worn. Under the jacket, he wears a garish red tank top; the kind that comes six to a pack at any department store worth its salt.
Could have at least tucked it in.
She only gives a cursory glance to his trousers; black, not denim. At least he got that right. The blue streak in his messy black hair and the stud in his ear don't inspire much confidence. He has the dark dead eyes of a shark and a nose to match, up-turned as if sniffing out blood in the air. Bleeding near this man might very well mean death. His pursed lips twist in a way that suggests he likes to laugh at all the wrong things. It'll be best to get this over with quickly. She offers her hand to shake, not quite sure what grip to expect.
Firm.
Definitely firm.
Painfully firm.
He grabs her wrist instead of her hand, pulling her in close before whirling her around and marching her toward her desk. Soon, the wooden edge of the table is biting into her waist as he bends her over. She'd scream if she didn't know any better. He wouldn't be this damn bold if he hadn't taken care of everything outside already. There's a click as he cuffs both her hands behind her back before leaning over to breathe against the shell of her ear. Biting her lip, Une steadies her voice.]
What do you want from me?
Going from one extreme to another, there are also those who stroll into Une's office armed with a cocksure swagger and a hundred watt smile. Their insecurity shows in other ways: a handshake that squeezes to tight and lingers too long, informality with the intent to insult and naught but disdain for old world politesse, spittle leaving their lips as they use words far too big for their mouths. It'd be a welcome relief to run across the happy middle between those who wear their fear like a scarlet letter and those who overcompensate for it but people of that temperament are few and far between.
Une reclines on her office chair as her PA buzzes her over the intercom, asking when the next visitor should be allowed in. Non-committal, Une tells the girl to give her two minutes. Pulling out her compact, she checks her teeth for lipstick. A smile meant for negotiation can't be stained. She plumps up her lips with a fresh coat of red before snapping the mirror shut. As a final touch, she combs her fingers through her long brown hair, tucking it behind her ears. Time to meet the storm.
Another day, another deal to be forged. Her agents refer to these informants as "rats," down-on-their-luck traitors selling intel for a big payday. The man now ensconced in her waiting room had guts, making demands of the officers below her on the echelon. He'd show his information to Une and no one else.
He has it on him for sure. Proof of electoral fraud.
That's the report she got from the tail she had on him. Such power in a crude young man's hands. She rises to her feet, straightening out the hem on her skirt to better hide her thigh holster. Her blouse is well-pressed, all buttoned up and proper. When he walks in the door, she moves to close the distance between them, trying not to stare too hard at the way he's dressed. Not everyone can afford a good suit.
But he could have at least rented one.
The leather on his jacket and boots is shabby at best, scuffed up and worn. Under the jacket, he wears a garish red tank top; the kind that comes six to a pack at any department store worth its salt.
Could have at least tucked it in.
She only gives a cursory glance to his trousers; black, not denim. At least he got that right. The blue streak in his messy black hair and the stud in his ear don't inspire much confidence. He has the dark dead eyes of a shark and a nose to match, up-turned as if sniffing out blood in the air. Bleeding near this man might very well mean death. His pursed lips twist in a way that suggests he likes to laugh at all the wrong things. It'll be best to get this over with quickly. She offers her hand to shake, not quite sure what grip to expect.
Firm.
Definitely firm.
Painfully firm.
He grabs her wrist instead of her hand, pulling her in close before whirling her around and marching her toward her desk. Soon, the wooden edge of the table is biting into her waist as he bends her over. She'd scream if she didn't know any better. He wouldn't be this damn bold if he hadn't taken care of everything outside already. There's a click as he cuffs both her hands behind her back before leaning over to breathe against the shell of her ear. Biting her lip, Une steadies her voice.]
What do you want from me?