The space traffic control room of Cordes outpost was packed full, and yet the silence within was nothing short of monastic.
"Have our sensors picked up on his mothership ?" said an inquisitive voice that could not abide any doubt.
"Briefly, amiral. It's gone dark again, but with our sensors already in place, we've managed to get at least some -"
"Excellent. Pass absolutely everything you have on it to military intelligence. And you, get him on board this station." Anyone who had met her could tell the volume of her voice was weaker, but the tone remained just as sharp.
"Oui, amiral" said the first voice.
"Bien pris, amiral" said another voice at the same instant.
Tap, tap, tap.
A luxurious, varnished mahogany walking cane gave the tempo, as the hunched silhouette of Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup made her way to the airlock. She was flanked by four colossal fusiliers in dress uniforms. Cordes' tight corridors meant that they had to walk in single file. Chanteloup felt surrounded and weak. She didn't enjoy that, especially as she made every effort to keep pace with her gigantic guardians. She knew they were doing their best not to put any distance between her and them, whether out of courtesy or security concerns. She liked neither possibility. She liked very little, these days.
The livid ceiling lights passed, one by one, as if they were scrutinising the group. It was like being mocked by a hundred pale, identical stars. How far does this putain de corridor go ?
Tap, tap, tap.
The worst part had to be the silence. Her safekeepers were certainly exceptional at their jobs, by the look of it (she'd know ; she had handpicked them, she thought with some pride) but they were very insistent on remaining silent. They probably knew of her reputation in regards to idle chitchat and elected to take it into account. She liked that the least. At this moment, she longed for someone to talk to. Anyone.
"We're here, amiral. He should be around at any moment" said one of the colossi.
Any moment passed. Then the hatch hissed, unlocked, and opened. As it did, Chanteloup leaned on her cane, standing upright for the first time in days. The stance radiated pride and superiority, and instantly felt natural despite the pain. It was like meeting an old friend.
She brought her chin up, entering the full Gallic admiral stance. Doing so exposed her features to the merciless, pallid ceiling light. She was visibly strained, paler than death, and the dark circles under her eyes showed she came close to that not long ago. She had lost none of her characteristic intensity, however, and her gaze enveloped him the second he made his appearance.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
