debra_icon.gif huruma_icon.gif

Scene Title Paperwork
Synopsis Debra stops in to see Huruma for the mundane task of doing paperwork for her new job.
Date September 10, 2020

Most of the Bastion is done in the same way as the ground floor; modern additions inside of an old set of bones, neutral on the eyes, colors muted. The offices are up to denizens, the barracks a mix. Huruma knows that it will all gain the touches of the Hounds in time, just like the workspaces. Moving everything from the Bunker was a task that still hasn't entirely finished, though only in the fashion of lidded boxes stacked here and there. At least to anyone free to wander. Which are few.

Slotted plastic holders tacked against the wall read operatives' names. In telling fashion, Avi's is full. Huruma's is not. Her door is propped open. She doesn't need people to knock if she's available.

There's an expectation of a visitor, besides. The dark woman is seated at her desk, plainclothes in a sleeveless button-up and jeans, one hand on a laptop and the other drumming against her leg.

She’ll know that a visitor is closing in by the constant swirl of hollowness at the center of a storm of emotions. Nothing too concerning, mostly uncertainty and curiosity. “Knock knock, Dunsimi.” The voice, much like the emotions along with it, are unfamiliar to Huruma. Something drops next to the door and shoved against the wall, before an older woman steps in to view.

Silvery-blonde hair is held back by a pair of aviator glasses perched on the top of her head leaving lined features exposed. Those lines deepen as Debra offers her a tight-lipped smile. She looked about Avi’s age, even if she didn’t dress it, with jeans and a t-shirt under a blue flannel shirt. Her emotions turned a touch defensive with the tall dark woman in her view. “Hey there. Debra Hadden. Gotta say, it’s finally nice to finally meet you.” Which if her emotions were anything to go by, it was true.

Debra glances at the desk and gives a small jerk of her chin towards it. “Aviators said you’d have paperwork for me.”

And yet, someone knocks.

Sort of.

Huruma lifts her face from the screen just as Debra darkens the doorway, silvery eyes and dark pupils picking out the finer details before she speaks.

"Likewise." Given Hadden's storied history, it may not be too surprising. When Huruma stands, it is fluid and quiet, a hand turning out for Debra to take. Avi wasn't being wholly facetious about her presence; tall, muscled, looks like she is perfectly capable of turning into a human Shelob. It's her manner which betrays the impression of //gargoyle; inside and out the empath is far more elegant than the descriptor attests.

"That I do. Given you've already seen him, I'm going to assume he has given you the business over age- -" Yes. Huruma laughs, low and brief, from the seat of her chest past the twitch of a smile and hood of eyes. "- - so you should know that I have no opinion on the matter. He's seen his share of action this year whether he wants to recognize it or not."

"That… and fussing gives him an outlet for restlessnes. " The drawl Huruma peters off into is endcapped by a small sweep of hand. "Have a seat if you'd prefer."

Debra takes the hand briefly, with a scoffed laugh. “Of course, he did. To be honest, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Her mouth pulls to one side with amusement, deepening the lines at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t tell him, I can’t fault him too much, but I’d have done the same in his place.” Hand falling away, she takes her seat, using it as a moment to curiously study the woman who’s only ever been a photo in a file. “Thankfully, I’m not him and I’m not some fragile old lady that needs help across the street, either.”

Giving a small resigned sigh, Deb adds, “But, It’ll be up to me to prove that to everyone.” Her demeanor says what she doesn’t, that she’s up for the challenge.

"God help everyone when we need help across the street." Huruma asides, waiting for her guest to be seated before picking up a plastic clipboard from beside her computer. Handing it off to Debra, the empath then perches at the edge of her desk. "Proving it won't be difficult, I expect. We are used to a spectrum, in any case." The younger ones know not to shrug off the older. It's unspoken and the truth.

"Take your time looking those over," The clamped papers on that clipboard, "it can give us a moment or three to talk." Huruma's drawl sways in, an easy pace. No rush. "Firstly, I believe I should ask if you have any questions which need answers."

“I personally, don’t plan to get to that point anytime soon,” Debra states blandly, with a faint smile. Her attention goes to the clipboard in her hands, flipping back the first page. “I guess that means I have a problem aging gracefully, not that I give a shit.”

Flipping to the next page, Debra glances up at Huruma considering any questions she might hold. “I don’t really have any at this point. Give me time though.” There is a moment of reconsideration. “Anything I should be aware of? Our esteemed leader was more caught up in telling me how crazy I am for being here, then any worthwhile information.”

"Aging gracefully is overrated." Huruma flashes a smile, laughing through a sigh that follows. "You'll have time to think of them." And hopefully, Huruma can answer. She shifts away from her leaning on the desk to retake her chair.

"It goes without saying… this is as much a family as a team. Been through hell and back, you know how…" Manners has Huruma shutting her computer lid to focus on the new hound. She watches and searches intently. "We don't like bureaucracy even if we have to participate. If you have a problem with someone or something we're doing…handle it or come to one of us. Use your words. Unless they really do deserve it."

Looks like freedom of choice is the biggest thing to be aware of. And also allowability of punching. "We don’t police your outside life, just stay out of jail and don't make us look bad."

Debra ends up looking away from the paperwork to the woman across the desk from her, listening. “Seems like the perfect ingredients for chaos and yet it works. A close knit group is a blessing mostly… until it isn't, of course.” She actually sounds impressed. “Wolfhound has a good reputation for getting shit done and I like that. Hopefully, I can fit my square ass in a round hole.” What does that even mean?

“So… Any questions for me?” Debra asks, pulling the pen from the clipboard to start filling in all the blanks.

"It's absolutely chaos. Don't be afraid to put your foot down. Nobody else seems to be." Huruma laughs to herself, one brow rising. Square ass, round hole, she thinks she gets the idea.

"I've made a habit of asking anyone this at some point, some earlier than others…" Her own sense of the ones she sees through here rest much on her literal senses. Debra made the cut, of course, by experience and reference, though it wasn't wholly her task. Others don't make it past the lounge. Wolfhound is less of an NYPD rejects club than people think. Results don't happen overnight.

"What is it that you'd like to get out of your time here? Everyone has something different… I've known some people to just… not know how to ever retire." There is something weary about the question, if just for a few moments. It passes.

“Oh trust me, putting my foot down won’t be too hard,” Debra says, without looking up from the form she’s filling out, but she does sound rather certain. “Been told I have a mean right hook. Ask Avi.” The small smug, amused smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

The question of what Debra wanted seems to have an effect on her. The pen slows and then just stops writing. Though her head doesn’t move, her eyes roll up to look at the other woman. The pen is laid flat on the clipboard, before her other hand covers it and the hand holding it.

“What I want is a chance to prove I’m not some fragile old bitch that needs to be put to pasture,” Debra says once her head lifts, looking at Huruma with a flat expression. Clearly, there is some bitterness there, maybe some that had happened in her past. “In my experience, women are viewed as having a shorter shelf life when it comes to shit like this.” She motions around then with a few jerks of her chin. “I’ve made it my mission to prove them wrong.”

Huruma won't need to ask Avi about the hook; she can take Debra's word for it, tasting the brusqueness behind her words. Something more than a forceful personality, more refined into the shape of the pick over the hammer. The empath looks on while the other woman provides an answer. Albeit an expected one, the reply is at least partially satisfying.

However, the level, hooded-eye look that Huruma watches Debra with is an assessment in itself, standing alone while the empath draws a path through emotions. Navigating. Testing.

"And who, praytell, is them?" Lips curve when Huruma's words hit a small purr, eyes narrowing, questing. She leans back in her chair, one leg hooking over the other, arms at the rests. "Who is it that you wish to prove yourself to? Yourself? Someone else? Everyone else….? Sounds to me like a small chip off of your shoulder…"

“Men, the younger generations…” Debra flips a hand upward and her voice raises a little as she declares, “Society in general.” The hand drops to the lay on the other, though it also reminds her she has paperwork to do.

Looking at what she still needs to fill out, Debra makes sure to elaborate. “Though in this case it’s the young punks back where I worked for the FBI.” The pen goes back to scratching softly against the pages. “Like I told Avi, the older I got, the younger my bosses got. All they see in the lines of my face is a liability and not the experience I have in the field.”

Giving a bitter laugh, Debra shakes her head. Glancing up with that tight lipped smile, she confesses, “And yeah, you could say I came here to avoid retirement.”

Men is already worth the stifling of a smile, because it's so true, with the boys clubs she's run into over the years. Luckily after that, she found something new and good. The Hounds are the current iteration.

"Society absolutely digs in hard on women like us." Huruma links her hands on her lap. "I haven't had the same type of storied career, but- - I can still understand the concept of aging out." And that retirement is supposed to be great. She can tell it wouldn't be for her, either. Maybe that's why she rags so hard on Megan about it?

"The younger Hounds know how to respect experience. Even if personality clashes happen, it's not about ageism… some of them have known nothing but war whatsoever, so experience has kept them alive. If anything, I can imagine they will voice any concerns should they arise, but openly deriding you over your trips around the sun? Tch." Not impossible, no. Huruma simply likes to think better of her wards and peers.

"If Avi was roasting you over that, his heart wasn't in it. I could tell that much."

“Not quite as storied, my ass,” Debra says with a huffed laugh of amusement, giving Huruma a knowing look. The woman was former FBI after all.

“Though I do commend you on turning your situation around and proving that people can change for the better. ” She even sounds impressed. “Second chances don’t always come around, but boy did you ever take yours and run with it.”

A few more scratching of the pen across the paper and the clipboard is offered back. “But you’re right about his heart,” Debra says, her emotions lighting up with confusion and concern. “That man used to be a nightmare to deal with when we were young.” Her tone is understandably laced with begrudging respect.

“Then again, he’s been through a lot from what he told me,” Debra added with a concerned furrow of her brow.

Gauging what Debra knows is easier than she expected it to be; not only is the other woman forthcoming, but she presses on. "It was at least my third chance. Life is complicated." Huruma lifts her chin to watch the scrawl of pen on paper.

"He's a whole other nightmare now, I suppose. Mostly to himself." Huruma lacks the tone of a gossip; it's a genuine exchange over a mutual connection. The empath can feel Debra's worry even without prying. It's worrisome, she knows. After a short sigh, Huruma's eyes travel to the window and back down to Debra. "If it helps you to know… he's made great strides in the last couple of years… despite ups and downs… and downs."

"I'll be damned if I am going to watch him put down stones for all of his children." Lately it feels like the train right to Hell, though. "So off the record, I'm sure another set of eyes would be welcomed, on that regard."

The one left is the one that is currently the tree.

Leaving the clipboard to Huruma, Debra leans back in her chair, “Of course, life is complicated. Anything worth living is going to be a royal pain in the ass,” she offers without hesitation, though her emotions swirl a bit darker and that empty pit at the center of the storm grows louder.

Especially when she says…

“Unless you lose a kid, then life can go fuck itself.”

Despite what her emotions say, Debra sounds unbothered saying it. Year of practice with boxing up her grief. That tight smile returns again. “But, yeah. No problem. I can help keep an eye on him. I owe him for not just kicking me out as soon as I darkened his doorstep here.”
Huruma receives the finished forms and gives them a cursory scan to make sure things are to satisfaction; her eyes don't lift when she speaks, tendrils curled around the two of them, commiserate in emotions.

"I only believed mine lost… for years. When I found them… I felt something like it, I think. So, I suppose I went backwards…" The empath looks up, the shifting of inky pupils noticeable under the light. Pinning, considering, notating.

Then, a smile, curved and matching in the shade of her gaze. "If I might be personal for a moment- - I'll be glad to have someone like you around."

Debra can’t help but chuckles, it’s a rough sound that comes from age. “Give it a few months, honey, and see how you feel then.” The deepening of the lines at the corners of her eyes hint that she may be joking or maybe it’s just experience talking.

“And I’m glad we met,” Debra says, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “so that I can tell you that I’m glad you didn’t let him do the decorating. Most men don’t know shit about making a house a home… or in this case a bunker.” There is an amused tug at the corner of her mouth. “You, lady, have an excellent eye for home decor.”

"That's kind of you to say. Epstein's only real guideline was to make it less… unwelcoming than the previous place." Huruma's smile tweaks wider, and she lifts a look around the room. "Which… wasn't hard. There was a lot of gray." Hana had her style- - or lack of one, Huruma can't fault it. But demeanor always peeks through. With the Bastion, the mutable nature of the empath does the very same.

"And trust me, darling, you haven't the worst potential." Give yourself more credit, Deb. "I could show you around a little, if you'd like. Or I can leave you to it so you can settle in a touch more."

“I like you,” Debra says with a genuine laugh, sitting back again. Studying the pale-eyed woman, she can’t help but say, “I have a feeling, you and I are going to get along just fine.”

When it comes to the offer to be shown around there is already an apologetic smile on Deb’s lips. “Actually, if you could point me to a bunk, that would be great. I haven’t had a chance to even unwind since getting here, I pretty much came straight here.”

With a curious life of her brows, Debra asks, “Rain check on the tour?”

"Bunk it is." Rain check written. Huruma slides easily out of her seat again and moves to the door with a crook of finger Debra's way as she steps into the hall. "They're more than army cots, I promise." Just in case. It's not the Mariott, but it's alright.

“Let’s be real here,” Debra starts with a grin. She rises to her feet with less grace then the taller woman, to join her, “Just about anything is better than an army cot and that’s all I care about.”

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License