(no subject)
It's shading towards sunset, and the pink and gold light that streams in through the windows makes Crowley's Lavinia apartment look warmer, less sterile than usual. In fact, so well do the stylishly neutral tones pick up the evening glow that the place, usually so impersonal, looks positively welcoming. This, however, is in stark contrast to the atmosphere inside, tense from what you might call a heated discussion, but is really somewhat too one-sided for that.
Crowley, looking not so much unhappy as supremely frustrated with the world in general (and certain parts of it in particular), is brandishing a sheet of digital paper on which a newsfeed shimmers gently, paused on an article. Its headline: BENTLEY RIOTS ON LILAC: TENSION RUNS HIGH IN AMESBURY.
The living area's other occupant, one Senator Gabriel Tam, is comfortably ensconced in an armchair, on a swing-stop from a brief political tour of the inner planets. For his part, rather than incensed, he instead looks... sort of resigned. Which probably has at least as much to do with the fact that, after a silent contest of wills, he allowed Crowley to serve him tea instead of scotch, as it does the fact that Crowley doesn't look likely to stop ranting any time soon.
" - not rocket science," he's fuming. "Well - it is rocket science - that's the fucking point. Obviousssly we need skilled labour out on the border sites, and whether or not I'd like to do all my hiring amongst the local bloody colour, they don't have the skill-set. I mean, we're hiring everyone young enough and smart enough that we can train up, and everyone we brought out with us is less'n a decade away from retirement. I think," the digital paper fwishes onto the low table-top, "everyone's being a bit unrealistic. Do they want the damn defenses to get built or not?"
Crowley, looking not so much unhappy as supremely frustrated with the world in general (and certain parts of it in particular), is brandishing a sheet of digital paper on which a newsfeed shimmers gently, paused on an article. Its headline: BENTLEY RIOTS ON LILAC: TENSION RUNS HIGH IN AMESBURY.
The living area's other occupant, one Senator Gabriel Tam, is comfortably ensconced in an armchair, on a swing-stop from a brief political tour of the inner planets. For his part, rather than incensed, he instead looks... sort of resigned. Which probably has at least as much to do with the fact that, after a silent contest of wills, he allowed Crowley to serve him tea instead of scotch, as it does the fact that Crowley doesn't look likely to stop ranting any time soon.
" - not rocket science," he's fuming. "Well - it is rocket science - that's the fucking point. Obviousssly we need skilled labour out on the border sites, and whether or not I'd like to do all my hiring amongst the local bloody colour, they don't have the skill-set. I mean, we're hiring everyone young enough and smart enough that we can train up, and everyone we brought out with us is less'n a decade away from retirement. I think," the digital paper fwishes onto the low table-top, "everyone's being a bit unrealistic. Do they want the damn defenses to get built or not?"