|
|
| (2 intermediate revisions by the same user not shown) |
| Line 1: |
Line 1: |
| − | Long, lithe fingers danced atop the admiral’s cap, jumping about and twirling in an elegant dance. A skip, a jump, a pivot, and the applause of nothing more than the sea gently pushing against the ship’s hull brought a sigh out of Autumn. She set down the report in her other hand onto her desk, replacing it with a mug of coffee, watching the liquid clumsily slur about.
| |
| | | | |
| − | She kicked her feet up onto the desk, downing the rest of the coffee and slid the cup to the corner. Checking on fleet status was a great way to stay up late and wake up early. Shipment logistics weren’t exactly the most exciting thing ever, but they had to be done. About once a month this would happen, when too many shipments line up at once and a few late nights in a row are had.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Another secretary would be nice, she mused.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Paperwork was never something she could stand. The ridiculous amount of effort that went into reading and writing ‘professional’ and ‘businesslike’ wording that filled stacks of redundant pages was ultimately something you could ask over the phone in about five seconds and in much simpler words. Alice’d insisted she just do it the formal way, to make sure there are as little loopholes as possible. Preferably none. What a drag, she thought. But, work doesn’t get done by giving it the stare of death. Unless, of course, your power includes rapidly completing paperwork in nightmarish fits.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | What a condemning power, she thought, reaching for a pen.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Three knocks and the door cracked open halfway through a signature, and a girl with a short brown ponytail peeked inside, inviting herself in with a wave. The visitor pushed the door closed behind her, tossing a manila folder onto Autumn’s desk with her other hand.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “You been up all night again?” The visitor, Alice, sat down across the admiral, legs crossed.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Mmm. Finishing up some stuff before I’m gonna crash.” Autumn blinked at the unmarked folder and sighed. “Please don’t tell me this is more stuff to do.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “No, no. It’s a... kind of report on Excalibur’s new weapon system. A rundown on where we’ll need to place the reflectors, too. And a little something intel thinks is up in Saint John, of all places.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Saint John? As in New Brunswick?” Autumn lifted an eyebrow and slid the papers out of the folder. She carefully skimmed through, taking note of several highlighted sections and the eye-pleasing diagrams.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Mmm. We finally got an idea of what was inside all those trains headed there. Weapons, it seems, for fitting some kind of submarine. Torpedoes and cruise missiles.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “That so?” The auburn-haired girl tossed the folder onto her desk again, reaching for a sticky note and a pen. “I’ll look it over later, I guess. But we do have Excalibur, we can blow it out of the water if we need to.” Shoving her pen back into the desk after making note to read over it thoroughly later, Autumn kicked back again. “That or depth charges.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “I mean, yeah. But intel does think that it’s capable of long-range attack. We’re unsure if the cruise missiles can outrange Excalibur yet. We just know that they’re missiles, not the type of.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Do we know if it’s an Officio toy? Eighth or Seventeenth?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Neither of them. The Eighth doesn’t need submarines since it has the U.S. Navy and its carriers at its disposal. The Seventeenth is too peaceful, doesn’t have enough enemies, and has the Eighth to rely upon. Besides, eyes are set on the Pacific, since that’s where the world economic stage seems to be moving.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “What about a contract from the Thirteenth?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “I’m sure they don’t care enough. Intel suggests that they’re somewhere off the coast of Indonesia, anyways.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Twentieth?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “No one ever knows what the hell they’re up to. If it was theirs, we wouldn’t know it exists.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Fair enough.” Autumn stood up, stretched, and yawned. “Well, I’ll look at it again later. Too tired right now. I’ll be up by the time we get to Boston or something.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Alright. Good night. Or morning.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Yeah, yeah.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | ---
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Ariana French, captain of the Second Fleet. Her cap was a tight fit from the beginning, a pain to wear, but would always do so despite for the sake of formality. Though it sometimes left her with a headache after taking it off or left it on for too long she never bothered asking for a replacement, considering it taboo to modify a symbol of her power. Not that her flagship itself hadn’t been upgraded plenty of times, but hats and boats are arguably different.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | After one last breath from the burning stub, she flicked it and ground the dying embers under her boot. She reached for another cigarette from her pocket, only to find the crinkled box empty. Frowning, she reached into her jacket’s inner pockets and produced a fresh cigarette box, unwrapped it, stuffed it into her pocket, and lit one up with a deep, satisfied breath.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Cap’n!” One of the girls posted at the warehouse doors turned around and saluted. “Cars approaching. Signals successfully transmitted and received. Thirty seconds.” The captain only nodded in response, and waved her finger at them in a circle.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The two girls up front slowly pushed open the doors, just in time for three cars to roll to a stop - one chrome black sedan and two similarly colored trucks. Doors opened, men with sunglasses and submachine guns quickly established a small perimeter around the convoy before another important-looking man stepped out. He greeted Ariana with a gentle smile and a half bow, to which he received a smile and a nod.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Ah, sorry about the guns. Just precaution in case of an ambush. You know, protocol.” The man’s voice was starting to show its age, like a streak of grey hair on a mostly black head.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Don’t worry. Just protocol, like you said.” She breathed out a stream of smoke away from the man. “Hope you don’t mind if I smoke.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Never do.” Behind the man, four suits began loading large silver cases onto a cart, supervised by a pair of girls. “It’s much better that it smells of lavender and not nicotine. How do you do that, anyways?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Magic. Custom-made cigarettes.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The man smiled, seeing through Ariana’s half-assed lie. “No need to try and hide the magic. It’s not really a secret anymore, even in the more... accessible parts of the underground.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “You make it sound like I was trying to keep a secret.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “You weren’t?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Ariana shrugged. “Maybe. You happy with today’s delivery?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “As always.” The man watched the cart get rolled away towards Ariana’s half of the warehouse. “You’re not going to check the money?”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “We both know that if it’s not the proper payment, then your head rolls.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | “Ah. True.”
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The captain dropped the spent cigarette between herself and the man, grinding it under her foot next to the first cigarette. “Something like that, anyways.”
| |
