the warrant npcs. (spaceboss) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-02-03 15:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | jaime tyburn, npc: ren |
walk idiot walk.
WHO: Jaime & Ren
WHAT: Promotions, but mostly insults.
WHEN: Sometime this morning.
WHERE: HQ, some rando office level
WARNINGS: ren is an unrepentant bitch and no one is surprised
Being called to meet Ren was like being called into the principal's office. Jaime twiddled his thumbs, and resisted the urge to swivel his chair round and round in his restlessness. He tried to stay calm but everywhere around him, there were subtle reminders of the attack on the tenth floor. The sound of rushing staff beyond the glass doors. The general tenseness that surrounded the entire floor temporarily housing the previous occupants of the tenth floor. The faded landscape painting on the wall behind Ren, for example would never have been part of her decor. Whoever had once occupied the office, Jaime wished he was with them rather than sitting across the desk from Ren. The silence was the worst. Jaime hated it. He took a deep breath and took the initiative to begin the meeting. "-I don't want to be a Killjoy," he blurted out. What else could entail such a meeting? He gave an apologetic shrug. "Sorry." The pen stopped moving, and dark eyes slowly drew upward. Hostility was not Ren's default inclination, but there was a cold sharpness in her gaze that hadn't been there until days prior. She'd been among the few who escaped the blast with only scrapes and bruises, the former of which decorated her left cheekbone, unbound and untouched with makeup. There was nothing to hide; she believed in none of the preconceived notions of beauty her mother had taught her growing up. Tuck in your shirt, fix your lipstick, cover up those blemishes. She wasn't ashamed of a few scars. "Oh," feigned surprise. "Then you can leave." Raw, undisguised surprise. A grin a mile wide threatening to break through his (terrible) poker face. The chair rolled back with a squeak. Relief rolled over Jaime and he didn't waste a moment to get the hell out of there. His relief would be short-lived as her pen returned to scraping across the paper, her heel knocking into the bottom of the desk. "Tyburn, sit down." The man all but collapsed back into his chair to obey, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. Ren's gaze had yet to make the ascent toward his face again, but she spoke all the same, expecting his full attention. (She had it.) She held that air of certainty about her, much like the director. "You might have come in here with the wrong idea," she started dryly, wrist flicking with an elegant swoop of penmanship, "so I'll make it clear to you: this is not a Killjoy promotion." God forbid. She wasn't that desperate to replace her injured Killjoys before they'd recovered. Confusion. Another wave of relief. A pang of disappointment despite himself. Jaime bit his lip, rapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "Okay bab-" He cleared his throat, shifted his weight. Shapely eyebrows rose a half centimeter at the near slip. "-Ren. What's up?" All in consideration, there was little point in beating around the bush. She was tired, and though her lingering anger, an agonizing burn over the last several days, didn't show in her face, it boiled in her blood. The quicker both of them were out of here, the easier the rest of the day would be. She tapped her heel into the desk again. "I'll cut to the chase, Tyburn. Your captain is being temporarily reassigned from the Whiskey Sour due to extenuating circumstances, and that will leave your crew without a captain." The look Ren offered was to gauge that he was following, in case her words were too big. She was met with a look of incomprehension that had nothing to do with vocabulary. (Shock). "Frankly, the Whiskey Sour is made up mostly of imbeciles," (Indignation). "-and that leaves a very small pool of options. Kajal," who was laying in the hospital still, "has recommended you." (Concern). There. Nice and simple. (Disbelief). The only perceivable change in Jaime as he processed the news was a cease in all his nervous ticks. He froze, as a thousand different thoughts ran amok within him, all fighting for dominance. He should have felt happy or even proud at the recommendation. Instead he felt everything but. "Are you sure?" The dumb question escaped before he realized he had spoken. (Denial). Her stare was hard and even, but tone icy. "No. Kajal is the one with more faith in your abilities. She might have been the one to offer it to you, but a chunk of glass had other plans." And there it was, her irritation cutting in. Her words barely registered; Jaime was far more distracted than he seemed. With another flick of the wrist, Ren slid one of the papers closer, much of it in his reporting officer's familiar child's writing with Ren's more sophisticated cursive filling in the rest of the space. "The letter of recommendation, if you're doubting that I can read." He wasn't, but then again, he had no idea what he had meant with the query. He leaned forward, driven purely by the building emotions. Imbeciles. Ren had continued on without even the grace of looking apologetic. As though she didn't even care - or realized - that she had just insulted his entire crew. He felt his muscles tense, and a vein on his forehead start to throb. Jaime exhaled and snatched the paper up, barely giving it a scan. "You just called my crew imbeciles." He held her gaze, a challenge in his eyes. He wanted an apology, even though he knew full well that there would be none given. All he would get was a slight raise of her brows, a graceful lean of her weight back into the office chair. "So prove me wrong, Tyburn." Not that she thought he could. The Whiskey Sour, in her opinion, was full of actual toddlers pretending at adulthood. Jaime eased out of his chair, and allowed his knees to knock violently against the desk. A pen holder toppled over and spilled its contents across Ren's desk with a noisy clatter, prompting no flinch in her face. Indignation and anger laced Jaime with a purpose and grace generally absent in his movements. "Imbeciles wouldn't have caught Meridian." Had Ren not appreciated Liam Hyde for his unorthodox skill, she might have made a comment to the effect of imbeciles not allowing their eyes to be gouged out. Instead, there was a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. "No?" And in that one monosyllable word, Jaime decided to fuck the consequences. His gaze fixed onto her smile, unyielding, and gave his chair a solid kick. It glided across the floor, and crashed into the wall, prompting a dozen heads outside the room to swivel their way. Though not entirely unflinching this time, the Killjoy director maintained her serpentine smile, the corners of which had curled a little higher, now. It wasn't the reaction Jaime had been aiming for. "Thank you for your time." he spat out, his tone clearly indicating otherwise. Jaime made it to the door and was halfway out when he turned back. "And by the way-" Jaime gave Ren the finger, to the horror of all watching from the open doorway. Genuine amusement sparkled in her eyes as she briefly sprinkled fingers in his direction. "Be a peach and close the door behind you, Tyburn." |