Good god, but that woman is incredible. He watches her parkour her way across the roof with nothing short of absolute awe. Also some jealousy; he knows his body will never, ever perform anywhere near that well. In fact he's not certain it's a normal human trait. Some Jacksonian enhancements, perhaps? She doesn't seem the type, but... Well, it's a mystery for another time.
Miles will not return to sleep, in fact. Instead he spends the time preparing. Researching still more about the UC, about her beleaguered world. There will be time to sleep once they're all on the ship, anyway, and he wants to get al the information he possibly can. It paints a woefully inaccurate picture, given the omnipresence of the UC's PR department, but there are some scraps of truth in there, and Miles ferrets out all he can.
When he descends to the lobby to meet her, he is every bit the Admiral the rumors made him out to be. No bedhead or bedclothes, nor even any sign that he hasn't slept since her interruption. His eyes are fever-bright, taking in her entourage with interest and excitement both. Ah, here's a motley crew. He can see their scars by the reflections cast in their eyes.
But Miles' own guards are, perhaps, still more unusual. Bel Thorne on his right, androgynous but emphasizing their masculine side today, all uniform edges and stunner pommels. On his left is ... well. Taura. Who needs no introduction, surely. She towers over all in the room, her eight feet of sheer muscle contrasting with the bright splash of pink along her claws. (Quinn is elsewhere. Close, but elsewhere.)
"Good morning," he says brightly, coming to sit down in his own chair, his guardians still flanking him. "I hope you slept well."
no subject
Miles will not return to sleep, in fact. Instead he spends the time preparing. Researching still more about the UC, about her beleaguered world. There will be time to sleep once they're all on the ship, anyway, and he wants to get al the information he possibly can. It paints a woefully inaccurate picture, given the omnipresence of the UC's PR department, but there are some scraps of truth in there, and Miles ferrets out all he can.
When he descends to the lobby to meet her, he is every bit the Admiral the rumors made him out to be. No bedhead or bedclothes, nor even any sign that he hasn't slept since her interruption. His eyes are fever-bright, taking in her entourage with interest and excitement both. Ah, here's a motley crew. He can see their scars by the reflections cast in their eyes.
But Miles' own guards are, perhaps, still more unusual. Bel Thorne on his right, androgynous but emphasizing their masculine side today, all uniform edges and stunner pommels. On his left is ... well. Taura. Who needs no introduction, surely. She towers over all in the room, her eight feet of sheer muscle contrasting with the bright splash of pink along her claws. (Quinn is elsewhere. Close, but elsewhere.)
"Good morning," he says brightly, coming to sit down in his own chair, his guardians still flanking him. "I hope you slept well."
Ha ha.