"Considering everyone high up enough to care know who did it? I wouldn't worry about it." As if people fucking side-eyeing each other with constant suspicion or thirsting for opportunity was new.
He's considering that, bitterly, as Abner either shelters near or hovers next to him, he can't figure out which. But it was just at a touch.
"Not gonna say no one here would hurt you but I am gonna say it'd be a bad look for them to try and they know it," is the comfort he gives Abner. Not that it's much of a comfort to himself, a reminder of the broken state of the world he thought was Better. But it'll have to do, and he walks up to the receptionist.
She's doing her best to look the part, too. A nice blouse with a pencil skirt, well-washed, hemmed in such a way you can barely tell that it was from a darker time. The trim on the skirt suggests that it's fresher- the fabric hardy old world fabric, spliced from different garments and sewn together to form a nice tailored cut on a body she probably has to work to keep.
"Hi." He introduces himself a little awkwardly, because he still gets a little starstruck by gorgeous women, even at his age. "I'm Lt. Hank Anderson with the Detroit Military Police. I'm uh..."
He hesitates. Fumbles over words.
"I'm here to see the mayor, JoAnn Connelly, Adam Van Cleef, and Noore Najjar. We're here to follow up on the DePleur case."
"Ah, yes. I'll let him know you're here. And hello to you, Private Abner," she responds and greets in a sing-song voice, rising to her feet in heels with the elegance of someone who has trained herself to wear them for the impression they give, and exits to go pass on messages through pneumatic tubes. It's then that Hank glances back at Abner. "Familiar voice?"
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He's considering that, bitterly, as Abner either shelters near or hovers next to him, he can't figure out which. But it was just at a touch.
"Not gonna say no one here would hurt you but I am gonna say it'd be a bad look for them to try and they know it," is the comfort he gives Abner. Not that it's much of a comfort to himself, a reminder of the broken state of the world he thought was Better. But it'll have to do, and he walks up to the receptionist.
She's doing her best to look the part, too. A nice blouse with a pencil skirt, well-washed, hemmed in such a way you can barely tell that it was from a darker time. The trim on the skirt suggests that it's fresher- the fabric hardy old world fabric, spliced from different garments and sewn together to form a nice tailored cut on a body she probably has to work to keep.
"Hi." He introduces himself a little awkwardly, because he still gets a little starstruck by gorgeous women, even at his age. "I'm Lt. Hank Anderson with the Detroit Military Police. I'm uh..."
He hesitates. Fumbles over words.
"I'm here to see the mayor, JoAnn Connelly, Adam Van Cleef, and Noore Najjar. We're here to follow up on the DePleur case."
"Ah, yes. I'll let him know you're here. And hello to you, Private Abner," she responds and greets in a sing-song voice, rising to her feet in heels with the elegance of someone who has trained herself to wear them for the impression they give, and exits to go pass on messages through pneumatic tubes. It's then that Hank glances back at Abner. "Familiar voice?"