He was enjoying the evening out on his patio, high above the thrall of busy city streets, when he first heard ICARUS ping him from his desk and then again, as politely as the ruthless A.I. could, from the internals of his Infolink H.U.D. The note did not bother him. The FEMA director preferred to be on top of events, and he understood his duties came at all stetches of time. Nonetheless, a sigh escapes his lips as he turns his attention from the wooden dove he had been carving to the text that seemingly scrolled across the corner of his grey eyes. A new anomaly had come up in ICARUS's dutiful sweeps. A woman.
To his calloused mind and heart the man initially finds the young lady far from remarkable - just another wanderer in the world of the lost. An entertainer? Actress? Singer? Spokesperson? ICARUS was unclear and suggested interaction, to which Walton Simons flared a series of commands that ultimately meant "do your job".
It was not until the dutiful slave begged the official to open a survelience image that Walton's interest peaked. First and foremost - his eyes are drawn to the sunset red hair. The man taps the dull edge of his wicked knife against his lips at that little detail. It was a curious coincidence that the last four women ICARUS pulled up had hair of a similar hue. It bade him wonder if the colour was a emerging cultural happening or if the A.I. was starting to show preferences. The latter thought drew a low tone of disapproval from his throat. The former drew close to nothing. He did not mind. Red, like many other hues, was pretty upon a woman's head.
Fashion, beauty, and A.I.s aside, it was the second detail in the blurred motion capture that truly held the director's stern interest. It looked like a sword - one that very much reminded him of the straight and narrow, nano-forged sword he had in his possession.
Only a handful of people in the world owned such a blade, the Dragon Tooth, and Walton knew all of them.
So who was she to have such a unique sword upon her person? How did she come by it? Why?
Such questions troubled the grim set man. Distracted and perturbed, he does not notice the crack on the wooden dove's extended wing until it snaps with an earthy groan within the clutches of his unrelenting grip.
