2/2
Upon entering the room, there was plenty of activity as they were fairly herded toward the sitting area and urged into chairs. The mayor was also favored with a nod from Archer, equally polite, with the placid addition of “Sir,” in greeting. The commander’s expression was fairly neutral. He’s known for being on an even-keel; even if he felt in his gut that this out of the ordinary meeting might not bode well, Archer had no difficulty hiding that low hum of misgiving behind his usual stoic front, even as his mind whirred away and catalogued detail. The chief usually met with the mayor. All of this was above his pay-grade. So to speak.
If he knew Olinger better, perhaps Archer would know just what it was that bugged him about the guy’s smile just now. It reminded him of something. Like it was a bulb on a dimmer switch. Something like that. Back when it was easy to do that kind of shit. Turn the dial for your preferred setting. That’s why he found it difficult to deal with the politics of things. If you spoke plain and didn’t make a production out of stuff -- like with the tea, which Archer accepted and held the chipped stoneware more for something to do with his hands than because he was thirsty -- it was easier to get things done. Archer was fair enough to understand that there was some comfort in the idea of ceremony, if not necessarily all of these trappings around him. After all, he’d put on the uniform, even with a loosened tie and rolled sleeves. Maybe that was his version of a chipped mug and just-right smile.
Fuck, he was overanalyzing tea. Or what passed for it. He’d have to ask Grady if this was what his meetings with the mayor were like.
Archer’s eyes flicked from the mayor’s face and zeroed in on Lansing when Olinger referenced ‘the most tragic news’. Tragic news that required he and O’Brien to sit in the mayor’s office to receive it. Thomas’ ice-breaker preamble was static, noise that Archer heard and understood and set aside. If some sort of social response is required about the implicit awfulness of the tea, that fell into O’Brien’s territory far more than it did Archer’s. Not that there was too much time for a reply because Thomas made eye-contact with him, looked to O’Brien, and dropped the hammer with merciful swiftness.
Grady was infected.
Roccolini was… taken down. By Grady.
Correction: by what was left of Grady. Archer’s fingers tightened around the mug and he made the executive decision to lean forward and set it very, very gently on the low table. Because if he didn’t, he felt he damn near could smash the thing into the nearest wall and feelings like anger and hurt and despair are fucking useless in this moment.
“Taken down,” repeated Archer quietly. “Roccolini. Injured, infected, or killed?” It was a matter-of-fact question that was nevertheless asked in a tone that couldn’t quite mask all of his emotions; no Robocop here. There was a thread of grief woven into the words but there were facts that needed to ascertained. Precision, details: these mattered. This was his chief. Their deputy chief. Archer looked from Thomas to the mayor and back again. Just seconds before he’d been thinking he was going to fucking ask Grady what it was like when he had to meet with the fucking mayor and now he was, what, a zombie? or was he already picked off, post-virus? How to ask that question? “What do we know about what happened?” He needed to know if Grady was still out there. If he and O’Brien were gonna have to go find him and put him -- it -- down. Archer finally looked to Bran, who knew him far better than the other two men in the room and knew that losing one or two of your own hurt no matter the circumstances, and the look he shared with his partner was radically different from the humorous one he’d tossed his way in the hall, though no less expressive for that. This one said, quite simply, though loudly: Well, fuck.