imperatorvictus has a late night visitor
Careful steps admit her small frame into the war room. The other Generals had already returned to the Fleet, but she remained, stubbornly, behind to ‘coordinate’ efforts.
The Generals, of course, knew what that really meant. She was treated Xen’s haughty disapproval whe walking them back to the shuttle, along with Gerrel’s friendly but worried hand on her shoulder before he boarded.
Tali’zorah knew what they were thinking: of her, of the Normandy, of Shepard. They also were painfully her own opinions on this war, but if they thought that would make her stop doing her duty to the fleet they didn’t know her.
In spite of everything she was still Rael’s daughter.
She steps down toward the large holoprojector gingerly, fingers wrapped around a cup of dextro-stimulant ( Shepard said it looked like coffee, but smelled like death - and that meant it had to be good ), triple filtered and irradiated, her little purple straw rocking back and forth. Her fingers halfway through keying up the current simulations for rannoch, when her hand freezes on the console.
She wasn’t alone. It was well into the ship’s night cycle, everyone should have been asleep - or at least pretending to be. But here he was, Primarch to the Turian Hierarchy - leaning over his console like some over worked beat cop. [ In war, no one can afford to delegate. Not even the Turians. ]
He stands so singularly still she could have mistaken him for a statue, both of them painted in the red-orange of the holo projector, the flashes of current updates - viable targets - painting the room in ghastly light.
“ Primarch, forgive me - I didn’t see you there. ”
She tries to hide her nervousness, forces herself to set down her cup as nonchallantly as possible. She is an admiral now, even if it is mostly formality, she is a representative to her people. But Turian’s in uniforms, even if that uniform is not C-Sec, puts the young Quarian beneath her title on edge.
“ I’ll just be a second, unless you need the projector. . .?”
