What passes for a meeting around here...

[Teresa Brooks]

Her flagship hangs overhead as the shuttle containing her person makes its approach to Murphy Sound. Twenty energy turrets sound off in salute as her ship lands. The on-site security detail stands at attention as the ramp of her shuttle lowers.

Her honour guard, two pairs of ANGEL humanoid automata, fans out ahead of her, towering over the mere mortals the hired administrator has sent, Daumann Shredders carried prominently across their chests.

Teresa Brooks has arrived.

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The meeting room is a well-provisioned affair, Guadalajara leather seats and a snack table bearing Cambridge-grown vegetables, luxury foods for the average paste 'n' gel-fed person. As she enters it, she takes a personal tub of hazelnut spread and gathers unto herself a small platter, all the better to have something to munch upon whilst sitting down. Almost absentedmindedly, she pulls out her cavalry sabre and lays it against the left side of her chair, even as a couple others of the Senior Staff trickle in. However, their guest of honor isn't here just quite yet. But she will be.

The absentminded toothpick architecture she's working on comes crashing to the table as her ANGELs approach. The Messenger, to be specific.

"Her ship approaches, My Lord." Teresa looks up from the ruins of her building, instantly blinking away any look of displeasure or sadness at the loss of the last thirty seconds of tactical toothpick placement may have caused her.

"Ah, thank you. This party can't really start without her now, can it."

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