The Inspector was tall and broad, even in his chair, he was quite a intimidating man of hight, build, and a cold harsh aura, something he was given by his father and their family genes. He was a cold harsh man, and just looking at him showed that and a shifting fire below that should not be fed. Still, the young Inspector was in no danger, not if his superior could help it. No real danger. Given a salute he nods and motions forward before looking away.
Looking around he straightens up his desk just a bit more before spotting a half empty bottle of scotch. “….” Slowly and smoothing he takes it and sets it away in one of the drawers before locking it. He had enough, and needed no more for the night. No will it be professional to drink at such times. He did have a professional reputation to keep. Even at this state, even at the state the damn world was in.
“Just hand them over.” He wasn’t in the mood for excuses, nor did he want to lash out. Looking down Malcolm continues to work. “Timcampy is like no other golem. Even without his proper Master, he does things his way and what he believes fits well for his past and current masters. Not to mention, it seems he had no mercy to those that say otherwise, even papers. That thing practically ate everything it wants, even if it’s master’s say otherwise.”
Hearing the door lock and click he looks up a bit for a moment before looking down back at his papers. “Is something the matter?”
“No, there isn’t. Not to my knowledge, in any case.”
Link doesn’t linger any longer. While the question might prompt someone else to reconsider their actions, Link instead leaves the door locked and approaches his superior’s desk.
It’s a fine desk, made of dark, solid wood and polished to perfection. It’s smooth and sturdy, heavy, detailed. Perhaps it cost someone a great deal of money. It suits the Director, he thinks. No other desk could support such heavy burdens. As Link places the reports within Malcolm’s reach and withdraws his hands, he allows his fingers to glide across its surface.
A short pause follows, during which Link casts a furtive glance around. The source of the scotch might have disappeared but its damning scent still remains. His mouth sets in a straight line, neither smiling nor frowning. There is no harsh judgment nor is there any approval in his eyes. He simply looks concerned.
“Are you… experiencing difficulties regarding General Marian’s case, Sir?”
“I see...good.” He did’t need anymore problems at this point.
Looking down he looks through the papers in thought, taking in every detail he could, taking notes here and there, even re-reading spots around that may be of use or to make sure he read it correctly.
Malcolm can sense the young man near by, but simply waves. “You may sit, and if you want, there is some food by the table to your left...” If Link expected himself to stay here, he was going to have a even longer night. As will he, if he doesn’t have a drink around. “That is, if you are planning on staying till your report is done being looked over.”
He could use a drink, yet, at times he hated himself for it, hell, he hate to have similarities to that man like that, but at least he buys his own stuff with his own money...wine...he can work with that. Standing up he turns and walks to a book shelf and looks around. There was a collection of bottles of wines and drinks to share, while he kept a specific bottle of scotch to himself. Opening the doors he looks them over.
“Cross was always a difficult one, that is to be expected of him. Though to be murdered in the Order grounds like this, and not by an akuma...” Tapping a bottle for a moment before he gently grabs a bottle. “But it’s the Order that’s being difficult, they and the damn church.” Shutting the door, close to slamming it he sighs and turns around. “They are not making this case, nor the war any easier, never did, for any of us. And yet they expect me and my men to hold back, to just, Inspect, damn fools. Who do they think helped them get this far?”
