Interoffice Romance



Scene Title Interoffice Romance
Synopsis Cesar sees a life where he's roughing it a little less…
Date January 5, 2019

Pine Barrens, New Jersey

The low hoot of an owl in the distance disturbs the forest’s misty silence. With muzzle down to graze, Fernet-Me-Not pricks his ears in tune to the singular sound of nearly silent wings flapping away, then to the rider on his back, Dominic Garcia. Dark eyes scan the grey fog, checking and double checking the silhouettes of tree trunks for movement amidst them. The temptation to drum his fingers on the rifle laid across his saddle wins, but only briefly. Years of having been a beat cop have managed to keep him patient and his eyes trained for aberrations of the pattern.

Even when he’s bored out of his mind. He might not be humming it, but the man has a song in mind that he lightly taps his fingers along with.

Then the boredom snaps, literally, with the crack of a twig nearby. Fernet’s ears twitch, but the horse doesn’t seem alarmed. Which is fine for Dominic, as he undoes and changes his grip on his rifle, raising it and waiting. Anticipation twitches at the corners of his mouth as he spots the shadowy silhouette of the branch-mimicking antlers rising from the brow of the buck.

He inhales. Sights down the barrel. Exhales.

His finger pauses, held over the trigger as the grey fog gives way to a strange view of something else looming instead of the dark trunks of the forest.

The long white columns of the White House looms ahead. Like a deer fleeing a pack of wolves, a man sprints in an unpredictable pattern across the unseasonably green grass, feet pounding down the blades without care. Glancing around and behind him, he sees the darkly suited forms of Secret Service agents converging like predators on the hunt.


“You! Blue pack, stop right there!” Agent Diaz with his long stride takes the lead of the pursuit, legs, arms and heart pumping as he gives chase. Face contorted into an expression of focus, he’s determined to get to the intruder before whatever’s in the man’s bright blue backpack makes it. Before someone is forced to shoot.

Nevermind that the guy is practically naked in the dead of winter save for blue backpack, length of a trenchcoat flapping behind him, and soccer cleats that are tearing up said immaculately kept, picturesque South Grounds.

Agent Diaz growls as the man cuts a sharp right to run parallel to the President’s home, and for the brief flash of bared pale skinned parts he really didn’t need to see.

«Hey Diaz,» Agent Dawson's voice comes over the comms, her tone teasing as it always seems to be when it comes to him, «need some help?» She rushes toward the intruder from another angle, shifting on a dime when he makes an unexpected turn in a new direction. Once she starts to catch up, she backflips toward him. Once, twice, and on the third, she lands and spins a kick into his back. He faceplants in the grass and that is when she draws her weapon. "Stay down. You are so under arrest like you wouldn't believe. The President doesn't want to see what you've got on offer, trust me."


Huffing and puffing, Cesar slows once he nears the downed streaker and fellow agent. “Showing off now, Dawson,” he remarks as he pulls up, service weapon drawn. His tone sounds envious at first, but the smirk ticking up the side of his mouth and brief amused wrinkle of his eye corners tells the woman otherwise. He’s proud.

"Any chance I get," Monica says with a playful smile.

Pride set aside, Cesar turns to the mostly nude man, faint smile disappearing as he resumes reporting their position in the White House lawn. Instructions given to the streaker to keep his hands where they can see them, the agent asks, “What’s in the bag, sir?” Tone firm and professional, Cesar reaches down to poke the muzzle of his gun at the pack.

When there’s no response outside of a humored giggling out of the captured man, Cesar frowns and backs up slightly, warily. “Seriously, man?” he grumps, glancing over to Monica. Guy’s crazy. Once the man’s cuffed, he turns back to Monica. “Help me get him up?” Another pause, and Cesar realizes, “Maybe down the southeast path, away from the cameras.

While Cesar gets him cuffed, Monica crouches next to the backpack. She's careful about opening it up, just in case, but what she finds in there makes her groan. His clothes are there— and thank god— but also spray paint cans and pamphlets. She pulls out a handful.

"'Our Lizard-Man President?'" she quotes, dropping the first back into the bag. "'Not-So-White House. See the VP's sextape for $15.99?' I'm offended on so many levels." Monica stands when Cesar asks for help, so they can pull the man to his feet. She brings the backpack with her. "Away from the cameras please," she says, her grip on one of the man's arms.

Making such the face at the notion of the VP’s sex tape, Cesar can only sigh and shake his head. “You don’t realize who the Veep’s married to, do you? Haven’t all your conspiracy nut theories come up with that much yet?” says the agent as he winds up tying the belt of the man’s trenchcoat to hopefully conceal the undescribables. Just in case there are lurking cameras. There always are.

The naked man starts to spout on about a shadowy ghost of a man haunting the White House, claiming picture proof and a long game conspiracy to bring down the Evolved upon everybody’s doorstep. “The skylights are proof! They’re shooting lasers and shit up at it, making people see other dimensional planes, turning them into more Lizard People, man. Wait. Wait are you one of them?”

Cesar sighs a most put upon sigh, rolling his eyes, hoisting the man a little quicker along the southeast path and sticking to the shadowed parts. He dares a short glance over at Monica and asks, “Doing anything later?”

That is, of course, the moment when the glint of something shiny sparkles off within the trees. Camera lens or rifle scope, either way, a second intrusion on the breached perimeter.

Monica handles the ranting in the best way she knows how, by ignoring it. The question starts to get a smile before she notices the light reflecting through the trees. She lets go of their catch to pull Cesar off the path and under the cover of those trees instead.

"Second breach in Pink Sector," she says, to her comm, "backup would be appreciated." And then, to Cesar. "You got him?" she asks with a nod to the man. The answer is assumed and she steps away from the pair of them. But, she turns back to note, "Oh, I was thinking of having dinner with a handsome Secret Service agent. If one happens to be free." There may be one in particular.

But then she's off, jogging toward where she saw the light and disappearing up into the trees. It's a wonder any of her suits survive.

Cesar contains a startled yelp for being yanked to a side, managing at least to stay on his feet after being practically twirled away behind some trees. The man opens his mouth to start a question, but it catches up and he shuts his mouth. Her explanation into the comm is enough, and he nods once to her. She assumes rightly. Agent Diaz moves back to the cuffed man’s side and tugs the other man into the cover nearby.

“Oh I could think of one,” Cesar remarks into his link. It’s answered by another voice over the lines, “Cut the chatter, Diaz,” followed by a no nonsense, “Backup is en route.”

Oops. Cesar shrugs and exchanges glances with the Nearly Naked Nutcase. “What, you ain’t ever heard of interoffice romance?”

The source of the lens is quickly found in the form of a man retreating through the trees. His camera - an expensive one from the first impression - slung by a strap crossbody over his shoulder for easier movement, swings with each step as he makes his way through the outer border of the White House lawn. A paparazzo from the look of him and the way his press badge flaps behind him, huffs and puffs over the ground at a brisk jog. He must be hoping none of them saw, but still moves quickly enough to note he assumes they have.

Monica follows the man from above, hidden by branches and leaves until she jumps down to tackle him. She's careful about the camera, lifting it off him as they hit the ground. "This area is off limits," she says as she rolls up to her feet, fingers already flicking through the pictures on the camera. "Oh my goodness. A few of these are federal offenses. The rest are just offensive." She looks back over her shoulder toward Cesar, her smile a little crooked. "I thought it was a rifle scope," she offers over the comms. "But it's a press guy. Backup, please escort these men to lock up." And, to the camera man, "You can have this back after class."


Monica blinks as her kitchen reappears in front of her, salad half made. And then abandoned as she steps away to pace the length of her apartment. Her steps are nervous as she crosses back and forth. It's a squawk from Foggy that gets her to stop. She comes over, holding a treat out for the bird.

"Don't worry, Foggy," she says, as if it were only the bird who was worried, "I'm gonna go get him."

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