Participants:
| Scene Title | Behind The Scenes |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Tibby meets with a friend… |
| Date | May 18, 2019 |
???
Magic is made here, but there are no unicorns, no rainbows: the room is dark and abuzz with activity — rows upon rows of server racks standing empty as the cells in a forsaken hive as great black boxes are loaded by workers and wheeled away. There aren’t many left to fill — broad, armored cases lined with foam and encrusted in locking mechanisms at their seams.
The workers themselves are unremarkable: young and old, glasses, no glasses, with clip IDs and chinos and in some cases, white coats.
“Turn around, please.”
One such doctor of science is being towered over by a man in black — long coat, fine tie, a heavy, goggled helmet seated snug over the top half of his head. The lenses are dark, and far removed from his eyes, more night vision than safety. The straps dongle loose past the tuck of his chin.
The worker turns, hands held open easy at his shoulders, familiar with this song and dance. “See you at the event tonight?” he asks, in cheerful Russian.
Fleischer grumbles at him.
”Not if I see you first.”
“Goodnight, Klaus!”
“Goodnight, Yakov.”
And so on. Klaus turns at the hip to follow the progress of a crate being dollied past behind him, and reaches slowly to tick off a note on the clipboard he has gripped in his mechanical hand. Another day, another dollar.
There's a sound from above, a panel in the ceiling being moved and emerald green eyes stare down at the German man before a tiny woman drops down and lands in a crouch, pale blonde hair stands out in the light, not it doesn't stand out without being in the light. "Yakov likes you." Tibby's soft voice carries to Klaus as she turns her head to meet his gaze. He knew her, so did Waugh. Tibby didn't need to pretend around them. Her movements are measured, slow. Her neck rolls and pops as she cracks it.
Dressed equally in black, long, slim fitting blazer with a midriff baring white top, her shorts are the same shade of dark and fall to her knees. She's not shaking in pain so she must have taken some painkillers at some point. No fresh layer of sweat on her skin.
Tiny Tibby does looks annoyed though. She's been dealing with a past that just won't stay dead. She knew it wouldn't be easy, that there was a chance people from the past of Tibby Naidu would interfere but it was a whole different thing to actually experience it. The South African didn't need any reminders for what was lost.
There is a sound from above, and Klaus hands his clipboard off neatly to another staffer passing by — a big, blocky fellow in BDUs and a ЦЕРБЕР-emblazoned bulletproof vest who reaches to accept the goggles that follow. Freed of the weight, Klaus sweeps a hand back through his hair to settle it, and twists a collapsible baton from his opposite sleeve as casually as he’d straighten a cuff.
The baton snaps open, extended, at his side in time with Tibby’s feetsies touching the ground.
He hooks the business end gently under her chin to lift it, his own eyes dark in the gloom as he examines hers. Like peering down into a horse’s mouth for evidence of rot.
Or tampering.
“What’s not to like?”
Around them, the last trickling bustle of servers being dismantled and loaded continues unabated.
Those sage hued eyes bore back into his dark stare. Tiny white scars spider out just a little, he knows what they are from. Behind those gaze nothing of extreme note, it knows Klaus Fleischer. No display of data necessary. Not that Tibby could call that information up herself. A problem, she seeked to get around with good behavior and excellent performance on ops.
Well.
It wasn't her fucking fault that Tibby had family.
The corner of the small woman's lip curls, head tilted back, "Couldn't tell ya." A glint in her eyes, Tibby was willful if nothing else. "Ya hair is slick. Slicker than that forest family eh?" The people she's the most comfortable with pull the most words from her, the most effect. Jokes.
"The cousin." Nuisance. What have you. "Telepath. Not inclined with her globing."
Tilted and squinted and satisfied — evidently — with what he sees, Fleischer drops the baton tip from her jaw to contemplate her answer for a long moment. It still does not compute. Not quickly enough for him to reply in kind, anyway, the baton clapped shut between the heels of his hands.
He works it back up under his sleeve while he watches her, the business end thumbed snug into a holster just behind the crease of his cuff.
“What do you expect me to do about it?”
Another locked crate is wheeled past, and Klaus tips a nod to the escort as he turns to walk down the line. Skeletal racks rise floor near to ceiling on either side of the space — sleek, futuristic rigging at odds with sterile concrete floors and featureless walls. Further along behind them, Klaus’ comrade in the vest double-checks the locks on a passing case.
“I have difficulty enough keeping track of the one of you.”
"Killing might draw… too much." Attention, lights, nobody wanted that. Thought his admission that Tibby is hard to keep track of has pride blossoming in her chest and it swells outwards. "Are you saying I'm hard to catch?" How sweet. (When she wasn't in a cell, Yea she was real easy to catch.)
"Said she wasn't the cousin I knew that Remi was dead." Tibby's voice still soft as she tilts her head and plays with a lock of pale hair, wrapping in between her tiny fingers. Whatever the fuck that means Tibs isn't sure and her eyebrows raise a bit as she crossed a free hand over her chest. "If nothing's done…," flicking the hair over her shoulder with a quick, minute gesture.
"She'll keep coming. I know a curious dog with a bone anywhere." Shuddering because animals gross. At least there weren't any cats in the area, now that she could feel them but not seeing them made this world all the more bearable. "You're so creative. I figure you had something truly unpleasant in that noggin."
“If that is what you want to hear.”
There’s no rise to lend care to his inflection, lazy tolerance at the usual baseline drone.
Past one sidelong look, he is preoccupied with the dead end of the corridor ahead of them — steel frames ajut, loose clips of cable, and shadow. There are no fire exits here, building codes foregone in favor of the maximum possible assurance of privacy. Klaus inspects the space where one might have gone — a rectangular recess quite literally bricked over prior to the install.
The mortar is pristine, brickwork unchipped beneath the passage of a small flashlight he’s produced from his pocket.
“A message will be sent,” he says. “She would do well to listen.”
He looks to the floor as well.
Nothing there.
A voice carries to them from the far end of the server farm. More Russian, ”Are you coming?”, barked from the tail end of the final procession on its way out, and answered in kind by Klaus: ”Shortly.” They leave. He watches them go, flashlight at his hip until the far door clips shut after them. Their footfalls and wheel squeaking and muffled conversation fade.
Klaus tips his light up to shine it obnoxiously into Tibby’s eyes, scalding her retinas. Inconsiderate.
“Would you like to have sex?”
Squinting quite hard and going to swat at the flashlight as the door is closed and they are left alone, her emerald green irises widen and the bone white scars that spider out from the corner of her eyes glare in the tiny, bright light. The display that obscures her vision has Klaus in her sights. No mission data, Tibby knows his body well enough. She didn't need any readings on him, or the best exit strategy.
Tibby glares as well though.
Stepping forward and slamming her hand on his chest, the subdermal anchors peeking out up at him. Her small hand curls around the material of his clothing, she's tiny but she tries to tip toe anyway while puffing her chest out. There are no moments of anxiety or confusion right now. Keeping her back to Remi and her past was paramount. Keeping her face forward towards Crito and her new friends felt easier. Something more pleasurable than the almost audible rip of her mind whenever she was confronted with someone from her past.
"Do ya actually think ya can keep up this time?" Her black blazer is thrown to the floor. Her nails are picking at his clothes now. "Best hurry, ya said shortly." There's an exaggerated roll of her eyes. Shortly.