muse: [log] Affairs of State

[coronaviridae]

Title: Affairs of State
Date: 05 April 2003
Players: Abernathy (logging), Arkady, Ayla Ericson
Summary: Ayla shows up to hand over some information on Abernathy she managed to cull from Xiang's servers. Before she and he have time to discuss this much, however, Arkady shows up, to talk about Something Entirely Different. And it just goes downhill from there...

Abernathy's Lair
         The corner office lurking behind the door bearing the Director's nameplate is a forbidding place, as befits the man who holds executive power over Interpol and its troops.
         Normally, the lighting in the room is kept relatively dim, to spite the large windows taking up two walls and overlooking Seoul's skyline. The blinds are usually drawn on those during the day, the office lit instead by subdued track lighting. Though it is a spacious office, the lighting lends it a closer feel, a feeling that is only enhanced by the spartan, dark wood furniture. Bookshelves line one of the two walls not taken by the windows, playing host to a plethora of books both old and new; an inactive plasma screen occupies the other wall, directly across from the desk.
         A laptop computer and its power supply hold pride of place on the desk, and beside them, a small halogen desk lamp. Papers, crystal chips, plastic flimsies, and chip readers occupy their own corner of the desk, neatly sorted and stacked well within reach. Two high-backed wooden chairs face the desk; behind it, there is a faux leather and metal chair that lends the slightest air of intimidation.
Contents:
Ayla Ericson

A quiet click of the door announces the return of the Director of Interpol to his office. As is usual for the latter half of a workday, he looks a little -- not much, but a little -- frazzled, as he enters the office, not bothering with the lights. He doesn't need 'em; he knows where everything is, and there's always IR. And the faint light through the blinds.

Ayla Ericson lounges back in one of the chairs across from the director's desk. She seems to be passing the time waiting by tipping a cylinder, watching the faintly luminescent and denser fluid glide down to the lower end, then tip it back. Kinda like a lava lamp, but without the electrical requirement. A faint hum also comes from the assistbot by her feet which seems to be in a recharge cycle.


Ayla Ericson

         Of just above average height, Ayla gives the impression that she still has some growing to do. Her slightly gamine figure, that bane of the sixteen-year-old girl's ego, is usually clad according to the time-honoured dress code of 'whatever was within arm's reach at the time'. More often than not, this involves jeans, a top and a rather battered jacket. But for all their casualness, her clothes seem to be fairly expensive and of good quality.

         Pale blonde hair falls past her shoulders in silken waves. Usually gathered at the nape of her neck with a blue ribbon, some ringlets nevertheless escape and make a general nuisance of themselves by falling in front of her eyes, as hair is wont to do if left to its own devices. In so doing, they frame delicate, elfin features carved in shades of ivory and alabaster. A smile usually plays on her lips and is reflected in large eyes of a hue that recalls the sky on a clear winter's day. There is innocence there. An eternal sense of wonder and mischief. The joy of discovery. And also a bright, turbulent intelligence, straining at its leash to find expression.

Ordinarily, Abernathy would be startled by the presence of someone in his office -- but on noting that's it's Ayla sitting there in the dark, he merely tosses the bag he's carrying on his desk, tucking his keycard back in an inner pocket of his coat. "Good afternoon, Ms. Ericson," he greets her, tone flat. "Pick the lock again, or have you started coming in the windows?"

"Didn't have to pick it, sir," the Swedish teen replies with a bit of a chirpy voice. "Made myself a copy of your code. Here's the card so you don't have to think I'm gonna sneak in and steal top secret information or anything." After shifting the thin cylinder to one hand, Ayla places the thin card on the end of the desk. And doesn't mention being able to easily procure another copy. "Besides, I didn't think you'd want me to just leave information lying in the middle of your desk."

"Oh, yes. More your style." Abernathy glances around the room, once, reacquainting himself with it -- and looking for anyone other than Ayla that might have sneaked in. Noticing no one, he perches on the edge of his desk, faintly outlined by the light leaking in through the blinds behind him. "I'm hardly worried about you stealing anything, though I imagine you can easily make another copy of that, yes?" He nods to the card, then looks to her again, smirking thinly. "Ah. Information. Yes, I do prefer reports be delivered in person. What is this you have?"

Ayla Ericson shrugs a shoulder once before leaning over to reach a panel on her 'bot. Using the stick's glow, the blonde girl pops open a cover and withdraws a disc then snaps the door shut again. "Something I've been working on for the past few weeks. The little research job I offered to do has turned out to have a slew of interesting information," Ayla replies. "Though I think you'll find the stuff I removed from Xiang's computer to be the most interesting. I found specifications for your cybernetics, upgrade plans for them, and the most important: Melissa's medical records and the specifications for her cybernetics."

"And you deleted those files from his servers as you copied them over, I presume." It's not a question. The Director leans forward, watching Ayla retrieving the disc with interest. Curiosity, yes, and something deeper; a hunger to know, in the purest form. "Ahh. I presume those are /far/ more detailed than anything we've garnered through the regular channels. This could be ... very interesting." He then pauses, looking momentarily surprised. "Upgrade plans, hm?"

A knock on the door can be heard.

"I couldn't access his offline machines though. But what was connected to the world got a bit of a cleaning," Ayla replies, offering the disc to the man. "From what I could garner, the upgrades are more akin to refinements. Make the machinery work smoother with less chance of breaking down or causing pain. There weren't any proposed dates or timelines, so I don't know if those are old or new plans. And if they're new, better keep an eye out for him."

"Ah. So /you/ are Justitia, then." The Director nods to himself, appearing pleased -- in that 'cat that got the canary' way -- as he accepts the disk from her. "Very apropos. I'd suspected as much, anyway." He peers at the disc, then sets it down on the desk next to him. "Interesting. I will be on the alert, in that case." His tone is worried; and it looks as if he'd say more -- except there's a knock on the door. Glancing that way, he slides off the desk, limping over to the door to open it. And turn on the lights, while he's at it; most people found it odd he usually kept the office dark when alone.

Arkady has arrived.

Arkady

         Standing at a height of six foot six inches is a quiet yet determined presence of a human. Wearing a stylish designer suit jacket over a black t-shirt and black trousers, his very dress almost makes him disappear at times into the background, if only other things didn't stand out...
         Such as those eyes, those bright blue, almost cobalt eyes that glare out toward the entirely of the room. They seem almost to gaze into an infinity far beyond what most can comprehend. Something seems a bit odd about one of his eyes though, the left one's pupil appears to be not quite black, almost like a grayish metal piece has replaced it. His smooth white skin is quite pale, coupled also with the almost bleached out blond hair on his head. The hardset jaw of this human makes it appear as if it and his face were almost carved of stone. The only other thing of note in this human is that when his left hand is exposed, it is the trim muscular metal of a cyborg's hand, no syntha-flesh.

Stepping through the opened door, Arkady Bogdanov steps through with his hands in his jacket pockets. The older 'statesman' for lack of a better term seems quiet interested in what he had just overheard through the door. "Justitia, so good to meet you." His gaze doesn't break when he notices just /who/ Justitia is, seems he's had far more surprising things pop up in his past. "Director, Miss Ericson, so good to see you again."

Ayla Ericson reclines in one of the chairs in front of the director's desk. "Well, I couldn't exactly use my own name when doing that sort of research. Makes all sorts of sticky questions arise," she remarks before waiting to see who enters. "Then again, it might already be moot point," the girl adds with a dry tone. "Mental note, make some sound absorbers to put by a door. Or inhibitors. Hmmm."

"Good evening, Captain Bognadov," Abernathy replies, tone mild, as he moves around the other man to shut the door with a *click*. "Maybe, Ms. Ericson. I'd suggest continuing to use the psuedonym; I doubt anyone outside of myself and -- ah, Intelligence," he casts Arkady's back a wry look, "will be aware of who it is that's mucking around in Xiang's file. And sound dampeners ... might be appreciated." Smirk. "So, captain. To what do we owe the particular pleasure of your presence here?"

Arkady says, "Dear lady, that won't quite work." With that, Arkady taps his left ear, which appears quite normal save that if you look within it, you'll see the synthaflesh over it stops just as the ear canal starts. "Indeed Director, Intelligence and Internal Affairs is /quite/ accustomed to keeping secrets." Extending a hand out, he goes to shake the Director's then Ayla's hand, unusually with his left hand (quite cold to the touch at the moment as well.) "I'm just here to touch base after my minor hiatus, and to discuss one of our own.""

Ayla Ericson returns the handshake after shifting her lightly glowing visual amusement back to one hand again. "Maybe not, but human hearing isn't as good as something like a cat's. And mechanical reception could always get defrayed by bombarding frequencies and render a conversation to white noise," she remarks, nudging her assistbot lightly to take it out of its rest cycle. "Would you gentlemen prefer that I leave? I don't want to be intruding into anything."

Abernathy takes the offered hand, barely blinking at so -- open a display of cybernetics. Most people aren't aware he himself is a cyborg; and that's likely the way he prefers it. "Keep the idea in mind, Ms. Ericson," he advises, once the whole dance of formalities with Arkady is over. "No need to offer anyone a reason to give into the temptation to eavesdrop." A wry note is in his voice, on 'eavesdrop'. "And -- yes. Thank you for the information; and keep in touch with me."

"Touche Miss Ericson, perhaps I can assist in making these offices secure, afterall it is one of my specialties within Internal Affairs." A slight smile forms on Arkady's face, that type of smile that makes many want to warm up to the older fellow, and diviludge many a secret, a trusting smile. Looking over to Abernathy, Arkady's eyes shift specifically to the parts of him that are cybernetic for the briefest of nano-seconds, but perhaps enough to be noticed. With that, he waits.

Ayla Ericson nods and gets to her feet, slipping the toy into her jacket pocket. "C'mon, black, time to go rummage up some microchips," she comments to her robotic friend as she heads towards the office's door. "I think you know all the ways I can be contacted, Abernathy sir. Good evening to you both."

"Yes, I do. Take care, Ms. Ericson." Abernathy's attention shifts from the girl, to Arkady, and the impression of warmth in his demeanor disappears. All business again, it appears. He does notice that searching look, eyes narrowing a fraction behind his sunglasses. Interesting. "So, captain. Would you like to take a seat?" The Director makes a fluid gesture to one of the two chairs sitting before his desk, by way of an offer.

Waiting till Ayla has stepped out and the door is closed, Arkady turns to the Director. Its at this point that he drops any pretense of formality, the two having known each other in some form or another for a good while. "Abernathy, I have the information that you will quite indeed love." Taking a seat at the chair in front of the desk, "You might wish to sit so you don't fall over from joy on this."

Ayla Ericson has disconnected.

"That really depends on the information itself, Arkady," the Director murmurs, the glint of dark amusement in his eyes. He doesn't sit down, though he does lean against the edge of his desk, keeping an eye on his visitor. "Enlighten me."

Reaching his hand into his jacket and behind his back, Arkady pulls out a dossier file in a brown folder that was tucked in a opening in the jacket. Sitting it on the desk, the file is stamped with 'classified' (Arkady having a higher clearance than almost everyone in Interpol from his years in the United Nations JAG corp, only Abernathy having equal clearance), and in the top tab for easy filing, the name 'Fury'. "As I said, you might wish to sit down. I guarantee the informaiton will be what you want."

Abernathy glances over at the file folder as Arkady sets it down, arching one white brow curiously as he reads off the name on the filing tab. "I see." He looks up from the desk, the folder upon it, and at Arkady -- pale pink gaze meeting cobalt blue. "Tell me -- and perhaps I assume too much -- but what has my Assistant Director gotten himself into this time?"

"Let us just say, that several things he did during the Chinese Wars have come to light lately." Arkady doesn't mention it, but Abernathy probably knows that Arkady was a member of Fury's squad, eventually rising to the rank of Colonel before the war was over. "Its enough to force him into retirement. I've already told Fury to prepare himself for the change." Arkady's face goes stone cold as his eyes seem to bore through the file then as he looks to Abernathy through him. "He knows that his days are at a close."

Abernathy's gaze is unwavering, even under that high-voltage stare from the other man. He rests his hands on the desk behind him, his own expression gone quite closed and cold. "Ah," he breathes. "One of those. Messy business, that war was, and now I find myself having to pick up the UN's toys. Convening a war crimes trial for its assistant director will not reflect well on Interpol at all."

Shaking his head slight, Arkady leans forward, "Abernathy, you misunderstand my implications. I am the only one who knows of this information. I conducted the investigation myself alone. You know now, and Fury knows I know. Hence I have already secured his resignation from Interpol and all other government positions. He's effectively done for. No trial however. Non-judicial punishment, honorable discharge, and pension. He lives out the rest of his life in exile in one of the Polynesian islands under our surveillance. End of Bruce's story."

The slight tensing of the Director's hands those words provoke might just go unnoticed. "I see." No emotion in those two words. "One of those quiet little internal affairs your department specializes in." He bows his head thoughfully, mouth fixed in a hard line. "That does solve some of the larger problems with bringing him to 'justice'." His tone twists to distinctly bitter on that word.

"Well Abernathy, he's done a lot of good, despite the bad." The inflection on 'justice' doesn't escape Arkady's notice, his gaze falling far darker... "Would you rather have this drawn out in a public trial where Interpol's already 'tarnished' hierarchy is further ripped apart? The United Nations is already criticized enough with the bigots like Romero and Thackery in its ranks, we don't need another 'black' face." Strange words perhaps. "Abernathy, we've known each other for years, you know I'm trying to do whats best here."

Abernathy does not look up. He's contemplating a spot on the carpet, with utter seriousness. "Admittedly, not in the capacity I do /now/," he mutters, in response to Arkady's comment. "No, I don't /want/ the ramifications an open trial might bring. But this -- " He grits his teeth, giving a fractional shake of his head. A moment of silence passes, until he manages to unclench his jaw, relax, think about it rationally. " -- is the aspect of 'statecraft' I hate."

"Well, lets just say that he'll be watched very carefully Abernathy. Unfortunately we'll have to offer minor protection to him, but that same protection will be making sure he won't be involved in politics ever again." Quietly sitting back in his chair, Arkady sighs deeply, "And look at the side benefit of this. Thackery's career is likewise over with. Next term, without the support of the war hero, he'll be a washed up bigot."

Abernathy restrains himself from an act of violence -- but barely. The muscles of his forearms tense slightly; he limits himself to merely tapping the fingers of his right hand against the desk, a delicate nervous tic. "Mm. And Thackery out of office will be a boon for all of us." His hand curls into a fist, pale knuckles gone whiter with pressure. "If one word of this surfaces ... "

Arkady seems to smile almost, slipping terms to a bit of formality, "Director... Abernathy, you should know me far better than that. The documents are safely secured away, Fury informed and knowing he won't say a word. Thackery's going to be informed soon enough." Standing, Arkady leans forward, "My brother, we are getting rid of two of the biggest thorns in the United Nations and Interpol's sides. Gnashing your teeth over this... it isn't warranted. I shall make sure everything is handled." Moving over to the globe, knowing what is in it, he opens it and poors two glasses of the vodka within. Sitting one on the desk in front of Abernathy, he sits back down and crosses one leg over the knee of the other. "Its been far too long since we've sat in peace and had a drink."

"That would probably be because the /world/ isn't at peace," comes the grudging mutter from Abernathy. He glances at the glass of vodka, and smirks slightly to himself, before looking back at the carpet. His demeanor, for those familiar with him, is profoundly unhappy. Most people would just think it another subset of his normal 'cold' personality; but no, below that ice, there's very. Carefully restrained, but ... some days ... "This is so damn' /underhanded/." Finally, a word of grousing. "You served with Fury, and now you're ready to label him a thorn ... " His voice trails off, and he grits his teeth again.

"Do not get me wrong Abernathy. Like I consider you a brother or family, I consider Fury a mentor, a father figure almost. I am not happy about this, but I know what my job entailed when I took it and I do it. I know the problems that Fury's caused, I know what Bruce is capable of. Or do I need to remind you of what he once was a very big part of..." Referring to the UN's Black Operations. Not Black Shield. "I know also that he's doing more harm than good now. I did this because if anyone else had, he'd fight it. I did this to give him a nice quiet retirement where he can live in peace once. Do /not/ EVER confuse my personal feelings for what needs to be done for the greater good. I don't like this anymore than you do. The only part I'm happy with is Thackery's bigotted a** is getting pushed out as well." Arkady's tone is quite strong, especially toward the end, his left hand is clenched around the glass of vodka, he downs it one swig before sitting the cracked glass on the table, it falling into three pieces from the pressure it was under.

Abernathy nearly says something; it shows in the way he glances up from his contemplation of the carpet, meeting Arkady's gaze. He does not, though, instead drawing in a breath and holding it a moment -- then breathing out in a sigh, buying himself time to think. "Fair enough," he finally says. "I don't like it. But it will be easier on Interpol." He drops his gaze again, picking up the glass of vodka and considering it thoughtfully. Not drinking it yet, however.

Arkady's not one to let something so easily seen in someone elses expression, after calming a good bit, not at all because of the vodka though... (comes from having a mechanical liver.) "Whats on your mind Abernathy, I know that look all to well, theres something else you want to say, so say it. We're not one here for secrets or idiotic statesman pretense."

Abernathy knocks back the vodka in one go; partly to forestall having to answer that question right away. Setting the glass down with his usual grace, he then rests his hands on edge of the desk again. "I get the feeling that I will regret this tomorrow," he says, very plainly. "I never wanted the 'easy' path out of things. The world's opinion doesn't matter to me, as long as we do our job." He laughs, the sound harsh and without humor. "And here I am, speaking in terms of what's 'easiest' for Interpol."

"Easiest sometimes is the best way, and the best way to do our job. Not often, but in this case, many of us have skeltons in our closet, especially those of the older generation. But we continue on. As long as we continue to do our job, for the greater good, then life will continue on for the better." Arkady stands and places a hand on your left shoulder. "Don't ever forget, that we are the ones who bear the responsibilty to make sure those out there live in peace, who know that we strive to keep them safe. If you remember that, then everything that is right will come into the way you do things. If it comes down to it, no one else will know but us two. And what is there to regret... Fury's retires, keeping the crimes of long ago secret, and a note, they are the type of crimes that can be construed in a heroic and a villianous way... His bad influence is removed, Thackery is removed. All in one fell swoop. We end off for the better, my mentor retires rewarded for the /vast/ amount of good he's done, and we continue on."

Abernathy stiffens at the touch, looking up from his contemplating of the empty glass, at Arkady. Convenient, that his sunglasses hide his eyes; there's a lot of hurt smoldering there that doesn't translate over into the rest of his expression, his manner. Or his voice. "So it's all swept under the carpet," he says. "Simple, and clean, and no one the wiser. The way things have always been done." He pauses, then smirks, looking away and nodding to himself. "I see. Oh, I see, Arkady."

Arkady's expression darkens, something else hit upon perhaps, something far deeper than Abernathy knows. "Yes, you see." And without so much as another word, Arkady leaves, nothing could be said to stop him. Hands sliding into his pocket after he swiftly opens the door, he looks back for a brief second, that same dark and deep expression in his cobalt eyes, as if glaring into your soul with contemplation. Then he's gone.

... And Abernathy merely straightens from leaning against his desk, collecting the vodka glasses -- minding the broken pieces of the one -- and moving to straighten things up again. "The UN trained me," he murmurs -- to himself, not Arkady, though doubtless the older cyborg might overhear it. "They did not make me." A mantra of reassurance. At times, it's all he's got to rely on anymore.

The words whisper through the room, a faint faint whisper that matches no known voice. "You can tell yourself that." Was that your conscience?

Arkady has left.



Given that both Arkady and Abby are Russian, this song is highly apropos.