LOG: Harry/Rathborne WHO: Harry Hannigan and Percy Rathborne. WHAT: Harry has had a vision that -for once- isn't totally useless. Sensing a chance to score some points, he hotfoots it to the office of his psychopathic team leader. WHEN: Thursday afternoon/evening. WHERE: Rathborne's office. WARNINGS: None. STATUS: COMPLETE.
Harry had awoken in a cold sweat early Thursday morning. This in itself was not an uncommon occurrence: he was always forced awake from a precognitive dream, booted out of REM sleep once he’d seen the future, and it never failed to put him in a bad mood. This time was different, though: this one had been crystal clear. There was no symbolism, no abstract metaphors: there was certainty, an unfolding of events with such details that -for a second after waking- Harry had to get his bearings, remind himself it had actually been a dream.
He’d sat still for a moment: Ishak was still asleep, and it would have been rude to go barrelling around the room that early. So he’d put what he saw out of his mind for the time, going about his day as normal. As soon as training was over however, Harry had raced back to his room. Pulling his box of board games out from under his bed, he began to pile things into a bag. Like a man possessed, he threw board, counters, dice and character markers into the sack, then heaved it over his shoulder and took off down the corridor.
He pulled up, out of breath, outside the office door of his team leader. Rathborne was an unpredictable tyrant, but he also appreciated results. Harry was sure that this would get him some brownie points, he just had to...well, survive the next fifteen minutes.
Harry knocked.
“WHAT!?” Bellowed the familiar voice from within, in it’s familiar timbre. Followed immediately by, “COME IN!”
Inside, Rathborne’s office was a mess. Crumpled papers and documents everywhere, half-eaten plates of food, and a dartboard on the back of the door with a thoroughly perforated picture of some dude with whom Percy was obviously not happy. Squeaking quietly on one shelf was a small white rat in a cage, next to a half-full bag of rodent feed.
Rathborne’s feet were up on his desk and his attention on a sheaf of papers in his lap. His eyes rolled up to fix an annoyed glare on Harry. “Whatta ya want, Irish?”
This was a bad idea, he knew it. Harry might even have backed out right there and then if he hadn’t worried about tripping over his own feet. Instead, as though commanded by some kind of higher power, he began to advance. In his mind, this was Theseus-and-the-Minotaur levels of bravery.
“Uh...” A good start, he’d actually made a recognisable sound. Now the words needed to come. “I think I...that is, I mean you know that I can see the future right? Sometimes? And I know that most of the time it’s useless and I see arguments in Pakistan, or sledging in Alaska. Or this one time when--”
He broken off, aware by his own good sense -and not the possibility of receiving a look that could freeze blood- that he was getting off-track.
“Well, sir. This morning, I had a vision of the mission tomorrow. I saw what...well, what’s going to happen. Everything, all their tactics. Or at least, there’s a 96% accuracy that what I’ve seen will come to pass, I suppose there’s a small margin for error, but it was so clear that I...” He trailed off again, embarrassed. “I’m certain. I’ve Seen it.”
Rathborne’s feet remained on the desk and his glare trained on the babbling Irishman, with an expression that suggested he suspected this to be some sort of practical joke. The pinkening hue of his cheeks signified that his blood was beginning to boil as Harry stumbled over his words, though the percolating temper seemed to stop abruptly when a point was finally found.
“Say what?” He snapped, eyes narrowing with doubt and accusation. The man’s jaw churned away under his cheeks, probably chewing on an imaginary cigar forbidden by stupid building fire regulations.
Harry didn’t know how to put it any clearer, but -spurred on by either bravey and crippling foolishness- he pulled the bag that he was carrying open. He drew out a long board, divided into hexagons: one of his older D&D boards, possibly. There was practically nowhere to put it down, but Harry did his best. There was a half-eaten sandwich trapped under the board that, when pressed down on, gave a worrying squeak of sentience, but it was the work of only a few minutes to start setting the scene.
“Look, you’ll have to imagine that this is the field of play. There’s a uh, thing there...bit of a blind here. I’m marking out where I saw players, as well. See, this little wizard is me, I was over here-” Harry began to set the pieces out, chattering as he went to drown out the voice in his head that was screaming to get out before Rathborne killed and ate him. “OK, I’ve set the Peacocks up as space marines, and Karim is this goblin and Tess is...actually, I don’t know what this is I’ve never-- Oh! It’s Miss Scarlett from Cluedo. Anyway, look at this...”
He began to play the match out, his memory of the vision perfect. Harry detailed feints, ambushes and casualties, pointing out gaps and fortifications. He had a surprising eye for tactics, perhaps even without realising it, but soon enough he drew to the endgame.
“It’s here. They bottleneck here, we could station a few of our best shooters and massacre them. But...there’s a problem.”
As Percy’s desk began to be overrun with roleplaying figurines, his incredulity returned. His gaze flashed back and forth between the boy and the toys, his expression showing utter and total bemusement. Again his temper began to swell at the suspicion that this was some absurd joke, though as the battlefield took shape and Harry nervously laid out events and strategies, the team leader took notice. He even slowly lifted his feet from the desk and set them back on the floor, so that he could lean over the board more attentively. By the end of Harry’s outline he was looking positively enthralled.
“What’s the problem?” He barked, though his voice betrayed his fascination, like a child waiting for the climax of a bedtime story.
Harry poked at the lone group, away from the main action. The actual interest Rathborne was showing had stopped terrifying Harry and had actually begun to lessen his nerves. For a time, at least. “These guys. If everything goes as I’ve seen, that ambush will work perfectly. I know it will. But to get there...well, I’m after suggesting that for us to win this thing, or at least to have a much better shot at it, we’re going to need to let this group...go.”
It had seemed a little dramatic to say ‘die’, but that’s how it felt right. It felt real, like they were planning a real battle - with casualties and everything. “It’s a simple equation, really. We lose these guys, we spring the trap and Peacock will most likely lose. If we try and save them, I can’t guarantee we’ll get another crack at the ambush.”
He looked up, with a strange smile. Was Harry starting to enjoy this? “I mean, I’m a team player and everything, but...I really want to win. What do they call it, acceptable losses?” Why yes, he really was starting to enjoy it. This was a worrying unfolding of events.
Percy’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as Harry outlined the problem. His gaze lifted to fix on the scrawny boy, though it was as if he was seeing him for the first time, or at least in a new light. The tight muscles at his jawline continued to gnash thoughtfully, though the slightest twinge of a smile appeared at the corner of his lips.