02-03-2018, 07:03 PM
Beto let his head drop back in his leather chair. He was in his office at Justice, walls lined with bookcases filled with legal volumes. An affectation, he supposed.
Everything was now available in easily searchable electronic form. He still had his paralegals, though, along with his own finely honed legal mind. When it came to searching case law precedent, no AI had yet been invented with the ability to find applicable cases where all the externals differed wildly, and yet at their core, they were the same.
But he kept the volumes anyway, as an indulgence. And the only one he'd allowed that gave him a small sense of pleasure. The tactile effect of holding an old law book, the feel of the paper, the smell of the leather binding, the slight dust that tickled his nose, was like an anchor to the past.
Or maybe a shackle. Either way, he was tethered to the law, bound and safe. The strictures that allowed him to exist as what he was.
And, of course, they played a psychological role on those who entered. One could almost feel the palpable weight of the legal system from the entire wall in his office, imposing, heavy, ready to fall like a slab of concrete to grind the unwary to dust. People were more malleable, in such a state.
The thought amused him.
Or had. Head back in the leather, the tick of the clock, his large desk, piled high with papers and files, he was tired. Not physically. Mentally.
He'd come to Justice as a DA. And his work had been varied and satisfying. Enough that he was ascending the ranks. But ascension brought a new kind of work. The Attorney General Jack Donaghy, was grooming him. He knew that. And already he was getting fatigued.
Politics bored him. He was calculating every day of his life. It was part of life. But everyday social interactions and his legal work was one thing. For political goals, to placate the right people, shmoozing.....no. That held no interest to him
He felt trapped. Stuck here. Washington was cloying, suffocating.
He wanted to leave. But when he looked at anywhere in the US, it all looked the same. Even with channeling around, working with Mackawee and Little Bird, he'd found precious little answers about what was going on. What was out there.
His eye kept being pulled, across the map, toward the CCD. Despite anything a person might say about it, it mattered. And though his collegues were loathe to admit it, the CCD and Moscow were the center of the world, as Washington once had been.
His secretary buzzed him, and he got the message. He rolled his eyes even as he adopted the persona needed. Family, even if distant, was family. Jet's status as musician was immaterial to him.
Appearances had to be kept up.
Everything was now available in easily searchable electronic form. He still had his paralegals, though, along with his own finely honed legal mind. When it came to searching case law precedent, no AI had yet been invented with the ability to find applicable cases where all the externals differed wildly, and yet at their core, they were the same.
But he kept the volumes anyway, as an indulgence. And the only one he'd allowed that gave him a small sense of pleasure. The tactile effect of holding an old law book, the feel of the paper, the smell of the leather binding, the slight dust that tickled his nose, was like an anchor to the past.
Or maybe a shackle. Either way, he was tethered to the law, bound and safe. The strictures that allowed him to exist as what he was.
And, of course, they played a psychological role on those who entered. One could almost feel the palpable weight of the legal system from the entire wall in his office, imposing, heavy, ready to fall like a slab of concrete to grind the unwary to dust. People were more malleable, in such a state.
The thought amused him.
Or had. Head back in the leather, the tick of the clock, his large desk, piled high with papers and files, he was tired. Not physically. Mentally.
He'd come to Justice as a DA. And his work had been varied and satisfying. Enough that he was ascending the ranks. But ascension brought a new kind of work. The Attorney General Jack Donaghy, was grooming him. He knew that. And already he was getting fatigued.
Politics bored him. He was calculating every day of his life. It was part of life. But everyday social interactions and his legal work was one thing. For political goals, to placate the right people, shmoozing.....no. That held no interest to him
He felt trapped. Stuck here. Washington was cloying, suffocating.
He wanted to leave. But when he looked at anywhere in the US, it all looked the same. Even with channeling around, working with Mackawee and Little Bird, he'd found precious little answers about what was going on. What was out there.
His eye kept being pulled, across the map, toward the CCD. Despite anything a person might say about it, it mattered. And though his collegues were loathe to admit it, the CCD and Moscow were the center of the world, as Washington once had been.
His secretary buzzed him, and he got the message. He rolled his eyes even as he adopted the persona needed. Family, even if distant, was family. Jet's status as musician was immaterial to him.
Appearances had to be kept up.