Affairs... of an Internal Sort

[Guest]

Zenith Barran Howler. Full form, longcoat trailing behind him, he stood there. Ready and waiting, in the office that was the very pinnacle, the very raison d'etre of the White House. The Oval Office, some called it. The room that seated the most powerful man in the whole of Creta, and possibly the whole of the world. At least, he acted like it, in Zen's opinion. Not like that weird Gelemortian guy who'd been in here the other day. A monarch? A leader? More like an idiot.

Anyway. Where was he? Yeah. The Oval Office. It was pretty cool. Home to Dietrich von Vermont, Prime Minister of Creta himself. Yeah, that's right. No, sorry, ladies, you're gonna have to get in a queue. Zen Howler, investigator extraordinaire, is busy right now. But be sure to book an appointment for later.

Zen raised two fingers and the cigarette held between them to full, colourful lips. The embers burning deep within the grey-black ash of the cigarette's tip flashed an angry orange, and then faded a few moments later as the strong, tasteful smoke filled the man's lungs. Just why was he here, you ask? Well, that's a whole another reason.

Surveying the lawn and the men who worked tirelessly to keep it to the high aesthetic standards required, Zen convinced himself that rolling into another flashback sequence would be a waste of time, so instead decided to muse on the subject of the memory whilst maintaining full consciousness. Flashbacks and deja vu tended to cause him discomfort and clumsiness. Clumsiness is something that you can always have too much of.

He'd been an up-and-coming intelligence operative in the IC-IC division for some time, now. Dietrich, paranoid as he always was, decided that... well, some changes were necessary. To be fair, the guy had a lot that people could be jealous of. Power, a nation at his fingertips, lot of money, smoking hot secretaries - yeah, that's right, more than one of them - and, above all else, this cash office. Jesus Christ, did that desk look expensive.

So, yeah. Zen, ambitious as he was, stepped up with the notion of establishing an Internal Affairs division. Couldn't hurt, right? Keep an eye on our own guys, keep them in check, get to be a nosy fucker for a few minutes of the day... yeah, sounds absolutely perfect. Totally prime, right? Nothing could go wrong.

Of course it fucking could. As it turns out, surprise goddamn surprise, people don't like some bush-haired loudmouth chainsmoker prying into their files and personal lives and getting the down-low on just about everything they do at work. Sure, it was good to keep Dietrich informed, considering, ultimately, he handed out the paychecks, but, really, people didn't like brown-noses, either.

And, finally, most of the logs were really fucking boring! He'd been in this division for, what, six months, now? Ninety-nine percent of the cases he had to deal with were too many people spending too much time on social networking sites off duty. And the other one-percent was someone playing a prank in the barracks which could be passed off as a threat. Zen had thought his job would be flashy - even more so as the leader, y'know, keeping an eye on suspicious generals who otherwise have diplomatic immunity, the type of work he'd really joined up for. But, no. Click on one damn file, and guess what? Classified all over the fucking shop. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A bitter frown on his face, Zen took another long draw of the cigarette. So that lead him to where he was today. He'd organised a meeting with Dietrich. Well, really, it had been organised for him. A little fruitless flirting with the blondie on the front desk, a casual snapshot of her boobs for later entertainment, and he'd given a few more tour guides the checking-out deal as he'd ascended through the White House, and even passed some of the yellow/black 'do not pass' tape! Yeah. That was how Zen Howler did things. He broke all the damn rules in place and got away with it. He was a badass, a vigilante, a high roller. Taking the cigarette from his mouth and allowing a wispy tendril of smoke to escape from his mouth, he tapped the stick over the ashtray, letting another small black-grey puff rise and dissipate into the air as a shower of ash fell from the tip. He'd kinda taken it in from one of the side rooms, all things considered... uh, he wasn't really supposed to smoke in here, but, hey, an addict's an addict. And provided he kept the drip-feed coming of 'people love Facebook' - 90% of the funds of which most likely went to him anyway - he presumed Dietrich wouldn't care. Provided he didn't set the alarms off or get any ash in that carpet. Damn, it was a nice carpet. What was it, cashmere?

Anyway. Maybe, on the off-damn-chance, today, he'd actually have something worthwhile for him now. Jesus Christ, this job was boring. He took another angsty puff of the cigarette, and shook his head slowly. This shit was stupid. Even that damn deep-voiced prick Blingworthy had more credit to his name than Zen did. All because of this damn job. He was Jason Bourne, not some goddamn pencil pusher. He was supposed to be a revolutionary, the man who all the files for were off-limits! He was suited for black ops, not idly clicking through internet logs and playing Spider Solitaire till his fingers went-

The precarious balance of the ashtray had been upset by his latest tap of ash. It had shaken the balance; and the moment froze before Zen's eyes. Tilting, ever so slowly, as the man felt adrenaline shoot through his body. No. Reaching forwards, scrabbling, scraping at the air to absolutely no avail, as he dove forwards to catch the ashtray, he... he realised all too late that the balance had already been settled.

But he was mid-fall. Oh, that was good. At least he'd hurt himself a little, and not the carpet. Dietrich loooved this carpet. It was a necessary sacrifice

Smack. He slammed against the floor... and, at the same time the radiator beneath the mahogany windowsill. The mahogany windowsill that the ashtray was sitting upon. "Fuuuuuu-" He began, before the event froze once more and moved into slow motion, the ashtray gyrating and revolving through the air as it spun, spraying ash in every direction in a 360 degree radius, throwing clouds of the gritty, disgusting black residue up in puffs, forcing the deadly smell of cigarette smoke outwards through the office, sweeping through curtains, desk, walls, and carpet, oh, god, the carpet, alike.

"-uuuuuck!" He finished with a jolt just as the ashtray landed upon the floor at an awkward angle. Smash. Only Zen Howler could smash an otherwise-pristine, ornate ivory ashtray to pieces against carpeted flooring. Only Zen Howler.

Murphy's law had never been that kind to him, and it seemed, that as he let his head fall back against the carpet and his eyelids close, welcoming death-by-Dietrich-rage's close embrace with every waking second, and just waiting for it all to end, things couldn't get any worse.

Well, they did.

Through thin walls, Zen heard a door at the end of the hallway swing open, followed by numerous camera shutters clicking and the bustle of press. The scattered remnants of the last wave flushing in from the press room. Dietrich Von Vermont had always known how to give a show.

And, now, as Zen checked his watch and ascertained that his boss, the Prime Minister of Creta, was five minutes early, before looking towards the ashtray, suddenly, death-by-Dietrich-rage didn't quite seem so peaceful any more.

"Fuck," Zen re-iterated, now with slightly less hope and exaggeration in his voice. This was going to be a fun one to explain.

[Guest]

”I assure you, our alliance with Amestris is mutually beneficial. I believe that the death of Czar Loki and the growing power of RIOTE is a threat to both our countries, and we cannot squabble over petty differences.”

”But what about the death of the prime minister? Shouldn’t-“

”I assure you, that was – and still is – an important matter. Amestris has been unstable since the incident, and I’m hoping that their newly elected Chancellor will be able to shed some light on the situation. Until then, I’m afraid we must help support our ally to the East and shore up our defenses to the North. When push comes to shove, Creta’s defense is my number one priority. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to make.”

The room was flooded with noise yet again as the jounralists all wanted one last question answered. Lights flashed and shutters snapped, capturing the regal Prime Minister’s exit from the press room. The photographers would follow him, certainly, but only so far. It wasn’t long until he entered the final stretch, the hallway to the oval office, which presented a dilemma to all that dared follow him: to press forward and face charges, or even death, or to stop and escape with your life and dignity intact?

Closing the door behind him, he sighed, slowing his pace down considerably. He was in a slothful mood today. First he had to deal with tourists, then a press conference, and now a meeting with a man that he needn’t associate with. His energy just wasn’t there. Nothing about this grand, majestic building piqued his interest today. The marble floors, ornate statues, the paintings of prime ministers of the past… He just wanted to retire to his study and relax, but there was work to be done today.

”Good morning, everyone,” he says, arriving at his secretary pool.

”Your 10 o’clock is here already, Prime Minister,” one of the secretaries says.

Looking at Ms. Conocer for a moment, he couldn’t help but consider replacing all of them on-the-spot. But he’d need to find replacements first… Preferably ones that wouldn’t add things to his schedule that he hadn’t planned.

”Thank you. I’ll go tend to that now, actually.”

Opening the door, he pauses for a moment, glaring at Zen. Entering the room, he closes the door behind him, tapping his cane on the floor. ”That’s no way to greet a king, or even a prime minister,” he says before noticing his broken ashtray. ”And you’ll be paying for a replacement, I presume?” Walking across the room, he makes his way to his desk, sitting in the chair. He begins to sift through his drawers, eventually pulling out several manila envelopes marked with CONFIDENTIAL stampings.

”So, Mr. Howler, is it? Well, Mr. Howler, I hope you appreciate that I made the time to see you today,” he says, obviously irate. ”I was supposed to be halfway to Esparia by now to oversee an important trade agreement. So, I’m sure you can imagine that I was surprised that my schedule was suddenly booked for today. Strange, isn’t it?” Rapping his fingers against the oak desk, he glares at Zen. ”So, why don’t you take a seat? I’ll assume that this is an important meeting… until proven otherwise.”

[Guest]

”Thank you. I’ll go tend to that now, actually.” Oh. Excellent. So he was coming.

The door swung open, and Dietrich's gaze immediately fell on a rather embarrassed Zenith, who had to keep himself from flushing a hot pink as his boss glared at him with a look of content. Quickly, he stumbled to his feet (only further rubbing the ash into the carpet) and patted himself down, giving the Prime Minister an uneasy grin, aligning himself properly as the man carefully seated himself in the deskchair and scanned an array of envelopes. ”That’s no way to greet a king, or even a prime minister, and you’ll be paying for a replacement, I presume?”

Fuck. Well, that was worth easily half a paycheck or so. Excellent. Even more of a reason for him to drown his sorrows a few hours later. Dammit, work was irritating. "Uhh... yeah, I guess, sir," Fairly reluctant to agree, but forced to nevertheless, Zen raised a hand to scratch the back of his head and let his boss continue.

”So, Mr. Howler, is it?" He raised both hands and waved them vigorously, stepping a little closer to the desk, as if to shake that issue away.

"Na', please, sir, call me Zen," ...and...

...regardless, Dietrich continued calling Zen whatever he wanted to. Well, he certainly had the authority to. "Well, Mr. Howler, I hope you appreciate that I made the time to see you today, I was supposed to be halfway to Esparia by now to oversee an important trade agreement. So, I’m sure you can imagine that I was surprised that my schedule was suddenly booked for today. Strange, isn’t it? So, why don’t you take a seat? I’ll assume that this is an important meeting… until proven otherwise.”

Oh, shit. He really didn't have anything to say, did he? Fucking excellent. He'd be lucky if he got to keep this shitty job at the end of this entire debacle. So far, things had been nothing but a failure for him, working for the government. Really, Vivian had cut it out as far more... glamorous than just spending day after day taking shit from guys in suits.

...but, maybe... just... maybe...

As the pale February sunlight spilled in through the Oval Office windows, Zenith quickly took a seat, keeping his posture balanced near-perfectly and trying to present himself as best he could. If he could appeal to the paranoid in Dietrich, maybe he'd get away scot-free; and with that little glimmer of redemption in mind, Zen decided that appearances... well, it was best they complied appropriately to the matter at hand.

"I'm sorry ta' hear that, sir," Zen said, standing up momentarily to shrug off his coat and set it atop the back of the chair, before seating himself once more. "But this meetin' is, of course, of tha' utmost importance," Taking a quick, faux look from side to side, before bucking his head inwards, Zen muttered swiftly in a hushed tone. "Sir, myself and my... uh... cohorts... over at Internal Affairs maya' happened upon traces of computeric digitalic evidence which could perhaps possibly in turn lead to... well... a probable terrorist threat," It was flawless. Zenith's use of syntax hadn't exactly been on the mark, but, finally, the man had found his true purpose with this job: bullshitting.

A cyclical, repeating, self-perpetuating schedule had formulated itself in his head. Once a month or so, he'd organise a meeting with Dietrich, in which Zen would claim that there was in fact serious evidence pointing towards a 'probable terrorist threat', or, perhaps the 'organisation of a deadly attack on Cretan infrastructure', or... maybe even 'internet extremists aiming to disable the London power grid'. Simple. Whatever was necessary to keep the sheltered, inner paranoid in their glorious Prime Minister's mind content and fed... and every time he 'thwarted' the attempts, or it appeared to just be 'suspicious activity', then... well... he'd get a pay rise, or a promotion! Then, later along the lines, perhaps - just perhaps - he'd be able to get that damn position that the ginger asshole Blingworthy had beaten him to: the Royal Guard.

It was that which he so idolised and lusted after. A position of absolute and complete respect. Special forces to rival even the Drachman Kuvalda, or the Esparian Bloodhounds. The Xingese Imperials. The prestigious title he sought after and had, time and time again, failed to get. Creta's Crown Alchemy system made it highly unlikely that, with the amount of hoop-jumping he'd have to go through just to apply, it'd probably never happen... but it was still a beacon on the horizon, a star that he could aspire to and follow for at the very least the rest of his government days.

So, hey, why not glam it up a little bit? After all, it was his first IA 'break' in however long he'd been working in the department. Jesus, damn IC-IC mainstream agents... "And... even worse..." Another shifty look from side to side. "I think that tha' origins of said terrorist threat may indeed come from inside our own great Cretan Royal Task Force itself, sir," Thick Brooklyn accent hanging heavy on his voice, Zen couldn't stop laughing in his head. Finally, he'd cracked it! How to occupy himself through all this dreary, boring bullshit that he had to sit through and endure day-after-day at work.

Although, he couldn't help but wonder what he'd do, according to protocol, if an internal thread did actually arise...

...nah. There was no chance. Definitely not a single hope in hell...

...right?

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

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