02-04-2014, 07:27 PM
The wind lifted her hair from her neck, and curled and whipped around her throat like a silken noose.
It wasn't Arabic architecture that drew Reed to the roof this afternoon. Hell, she guessed there were two dozen similar operatives on any of a number of rooftops in her study that'd already spotted her just as easily as she'd spotted them. Knights, Vegas.... shit there were probably as many ZARS lurking around as there were reporters, and Reed knew from personal experience, that there were more reporters crawling around than cockroaches in an Amsterdam canal drain.
The footsteps scowled her expression with frustration. She was hardly without defensive measures, but she was more irritated with the prospect of dealing with clean-up crews than the actual wetworks. Thankfully, when she spied out the newcomer, she saw only some shitbreak kid out looking to get a tan. Although, much more of one and he'd fit in on the streets below.
She sighed and pressed the button on her viewers to transmit her scoped out data back to operations. They turned into regular sunglasses then, for the most part, and Reed popped them on her face in time to face the little shit. Correction, the french, puckerfaced.. son of a bitch its Jacques Danjou, CEO of Légion Première, a backward little unit operating mostly in Northern Africa. What the fuck was he doing here? This kid's balls must have dropped when he was nine. Damn, he'd filled out since her days running desk-work for the field.
He joined her like she'd invited him. Reed crossed her elbows across her chest and thought about shrugging off her jacket. It'd been eight years since she'd worked a good desert gig. The sun would crust her shoulders like a steak if she did. So, despite sweat dripping between her shoulder blades, she left it on.
"Young lady? You must need your vision corrected, kiddo. I've probably got ten years on you. Maybe fifteen?" She barked a laugh, and turned her back on the view he seemed so interested in ridiculing.
She had half a mind to correct him. Folks like us, huh? If he only knew. She'd seen the inside of the oval office while the President of the United States took a shit down the hall. But she was playing another role. Might as well make good of it.
She leaned on the rail, elbows backwards perched uncaring of the soaring heights between her back and the distant street below. She cringed at the glaring sun. "Thank God for the CCD, then." Her lips twisted with a smirk, "equal rights and all that shit."
She stuck out a hand. "Julie Reed," and flashed her press corps badge from somewhere.
"Your boys expecting some heat, Jacques?" Her brows lifted above her sunglasses. "Thats right, I know who you are." Again, she gestured at the badge dangled between her breasts. "..My job to know who people like you are."
Heh, if the kid only knew.
It wasn't Arabic architecture that drew Reed to the roof this afternoon. Hell, she guessed there were two dozen similar operatives on any of a number of rooftops in her study that'd already spotted her just as easily as she'd spotted them. Knights, Vegas.... shit there were probably as many ZARS lurking around as there were reporters, and Reed knew from personal experience, that there were more reporters crawling around than cockroaches in an Amsterdam canal drain.
The footsteps scowled her expression with frustration. She was hardly without defensive measures, but she was more irritated with the prospect of dealing with clean-up crews than the actual wetworks. Thankfully, when she spied out the newcomer, she saw only some shitbreak kid out looking to get a tan. Although, much more of one and he'd fit in on the streets below.
She sighed and pressed the button on her viewers to transmit her scoped out data back to operations. They turned into regular sunglasses then, for the most part, and Reed popped them on her face in time to face the little shit. Correction, the french, puckerfaced.. son of a bitch its Jacques Danjou, CEO of Légion Première, a backward little unit operating mostly in Northern Africa. What the fuck was he doing here? This kid's balls must have dropped when he was nine. Damn, he'd filled out since her days running desk-work for the field.
He joined her like she'd invited him. Reed crossed her elbows across her chest and thought about shrugging off her jacket. It'd been eight years since she'd worked a good desert gig. The sun would crust her shoulders like a steak if she did. So, despite sweat dripping between her shoulder blades, she left it on.
"Young lady? You must need your vision corrected, kiddo. I've probably got ten years on you. Maybe fifteen?" She barked a laugh, and turned her back on the view he seemed so interested in ridiculing.
She had half a mind to correct him. Folks like us, huh? If he only knew. She'd seen the inside of the oval office while the President of the United States took a shit down the hall. But she was playing another role. Might as well make good of it.
She leaned on the rail, elbows backwards perched uncaring of the soaring heights between her back and the distant street below. She cringed at the glaring sun. "Thank God for the CCD, then." Her lips twisted with a smirk, "equal rights and all that shit."
She stuck out a hand. "Julie Reed," and flashed her press corps badge from somewhere.
"Your boys expecting some heat, Jacques?" Her brows lifted above her sunglasses. "Thats right, I know who you are." Again, she gestured at the badge dangled between her breasts. "..My job to know who people like you are."
Heh, if the kid only knew.