Secrets Best Kept

**His long fingers stroked over his smooth tanned skin. Stretching his face, and some premature age lines found therein. He glanced about his office before turning his back to it, and his face to the holographic window. It was a very large one, showing a field, a medaow, something straight out of a Diane Romenello painting. He watched the stream in the distance for some time, as his hands continued to feel over the creased in his skin. He watched allowing his eyes to close, and the altered reality upon his wall to continue to soothe him. Knowing above anyone else it was fake, but still the smallest comforts helped.He rolled his palms finally through the air to rest atop of the mahogany arm rests of his chair, tapping a button and allowing a screen appear out of thin air, between him and his "window" The GUARD emblem popped on. A moment later the files he needed to access were flashing before him. He watched with superhuman speed. He reached out and touched the air in front of him, right on the holographic computer screen, to bring up a few more files. The computer light danced over his features. His hands raced over the screen as he started again his work, something there seemed to always be too much of. Slowly swinging his chair back around to face his desk, the screen following him as he accessed a file named "Letter to Dept. of Natural Resources."Sounding incredibly dull, and mundane. He went through this, and indeed there was many letters to several heads of Natural Resources. He scanned down towards the bottom, of this incredibly boring and incredibly long list, and clicked on a new file that said "Regarding the Water Project" He clicked here, and allowed the computer to take voice analysis, D.N.A. analysis, and retina scans. He gained access and started typing, and deleting. Re-entering data to align with certain stories. And soon the file read regarding of the incident on March 18th the escape of a Ms. Yvette Christopher was at fault of the security guards whom were deceased. That the technicians were preforming a routine trial of skill, of which was botched by another deceased man near the power transformers. Which caused the power outage. That James Blacke was indeed unconscious and taken as a human shield and hostage upon the escape. That the other members of GUARD that were hurt in the incident have fully recovered, and were hurt in the line of duty. He filled out the electronic "paperwork", and make all the ends nice. He tied it up, and made it very plausible. He changed a few personnel files to fit the missing peices, and logged off the file completely. It was very nice, very neat. And from now on the utter truth. Still looking at his screen as his hands brushed through his short white hair, before he simply said in English. . . no trace of a french accent at all. ** Log Off. ** The computer complied with a few more tests, and the file titled "Regarding the Water Project" was placed into effect. It changed every detail, and deleted itself out of existence. And no one would notice from the thousands of files transferred and deleted everyday. **

*It's at that exact moment, as soon as everything is cleared, tied up, clean sweeped, that Ian walks in. He smells of cigarette smoke (he'd just smoked ten in a row), and the sharp scent of fresh air with a hint of chill in it still clings to his clothes. The door shuts softly behind him, and he sighs, leaning his back against the its solid form for a long moment before he looks up at his old friend. He'd followed J.X's scent here, caught it from under the door, and needing at least one person he could trust, he came here. Scratch runs a weary hand over his lined, weathered face, and finally glances up through his thick brows. His eyes flick quickly to the computer screen and back to Attrait. The older man pushes himself off the jamb and straightens, his gravelly voice oddly strained from the tension that sings throughout his body, nervous and deservedly so, his energy right now. Had he covered enough with the Highlord, from who's office he'd just come? Hopefully so. And hopefully his friend here was...* Finished? *its a low question, a singular word, and fraught with worlds of meaning. Grey eyes latch onto the Frenchman's face, waiting, Ian's own face devoid, for the moment of expression* Cuz if you are, I'm dying for a coffee. *Old codeword that, 'coffee'. Attrait would know well it means "Gawd, I need to talk in private"...*

~*~ JX. stood as he heard someone softly open his hands pressed firmly on the glass polished sheen of his desk. Handprints formed beneath his own, the heat from his body causing them to stand out like ghostlike indentations. He never was as calm as he portrayed himself with these things. It could mean much more than Ian's job. He then once he noted it was Ian slid from behind his desk, adding the most perfect salute that anyone in the base could give. One of deep respect and admiration. J.X. knew all to well, and instead of a friendly smile dancing over his features, as it usually would he just nodded. He relieved his salute and shut off his computer with a single press of a button. He wandered near Scratch, offering the looming figure a cigar, a sweet sick vanilla scent traveling from the cedar box. He said in response for the sake of the microphones, the little ears that were everywhere. ~*~ Of course, it looks as if it has been a long day. ~*~ Or in other words - What the hell happened? You look like absolute shit. - He withdrew a cigar for himself and said absently.~*~ I have finished all the reports, ontime. There was a lot of them. . . today. ~*~ He withdrew an elegant silver lighter, making -chit-chat- as he opened the door for Ian, adding. ~*~ Do you know of any nice coffee shops? ~*~ -- Off base I presume. -- ~*~

*Scratch reaches outward and takes a proffered cigar, able to smell them over the strong -or what to him was strong- cedar scent of the holding case. He enjoyed the aroma of vanilla, and a cigar, tho pungent under the best situations, always relaxed him, reminded him of other times and places, talks, simple conversations. Mostly with the man before him. J.X. was younger but not by too much, and in Scratch's line of work, true friends were far and few between, rare, and precious. Few overlooked Ian's position, could speak to him without bias or fear or anything else getting in the way. And while Attrait still held respect, he could see Ian as he truly was... a man who, like any other human being, could become lonely, could need a little human contact and need to discuss problems. Not the steel-hearted beast many though he was, Ian Christopher, but a man with a difficult job, with the weight of abhorrent decisions on his shoulders, who did his best and did it as fairly as he could, and still, somehow, remained as human as one could under the circumstances. The salute is appreciated and reciprocated shortly, before the stretch for the cigar, which he places between his lips, tasting the leaf wrapping, chewing on the end of it so he can light it properly and inhale the flavor* Long day? *he spits the butt end of the cigar out and smiles wryly, dryly* Something like that. *~you better /believe/ it was a "long day"/~**he nods the information about the reports, but says nothing. The action is all that is needed to convey his understanding. As he waits for the lighter to singe the tip of the cigar, he nods again, his lips moving around the shape of the aromatic cylinder, garbling his speech slightly* Yeah, there's one I wanna check out in the suburbs. We can 'port there. Great coffee, the locals proclaim. But then, the French always claim to have the very best in everything. *small jest, and he grins to show it, so no offence is taken. Just lightening the situation a bit. As Attrait opens the door, Scratch turns to leave, glances once at the computer his most trusted friend has turned off, and walks out the room. ~Hell, yes, /off base/. No bugs, no ears. This is for you alone~*