sunnydalealum | (no subject)

Last night there was a late-night phone call, about this. This morning there's a lengthy meeting in Emma's office.

Brianna shakes her head: no, she wasn't able to get the other woman's name. She spoke English. No identifying regional accent. When Emma pulls a series of photos out of the archives, Brianna studies them intently. I'm not sure, she says. The light was bad. It could be her. Maybe.

Later today, those same photos are projected onto a screen at one end of a conference room full of zhirelin.

Her name is Dana, Emma tells them. A zhirel from Los Angeles, abducted and abused by a psychopath as a small child. She was in an institution until last year, when her abilities manifested; the staff there didn't know how to deal with her. She broke out of her cell, overpowered two doctors and an orderly, and escaped. The LA branch of Wolfram & Hart located her and tried to bring her in, but representatives of the Watchers' Council showed up and took her out of their hands by force.

She hasn't been seen since, until last night.

(There are things about this encounter that don't quite match up. Some of the things the girl said, for instance -- caff and call, what's that about? But the transcription of the surveillance video from Dana's medical records (retained in Wolfram & Hart's joint archives) makes Brianna nod repeatedly: She talked like that. Not those exact phrases, but ... that's how she talked.)

Around the table, they're all watching intently: two dozen young women, ranging in age from nineteen to thirty, wearing street clothes or business casual or workout gear. All of them look sober. Some of them look angry.

(One of them is not like the others.)

"If you see this girl, do not approach her." Emma's winding up the briefing. "And report it in immediately.

"Are there any questions?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Staplers."

He shifts the stack of folders from one arm to the other -- should have seen that one coming -- and moves after her.

"I'm all out."

The look she gives him is patiently disbelieving.

"Oh, now you're not even trying."

In return she gets a puzzled frown.

"You're familiar with the ritual of Tefnut's Binding?"

Emma's eyebrows flick up. "Oh."

A beat.

"That doesn't explain why you can't borrow a stapler from a secretary. Or you could even get wacky and try the supply cabinet."

"You never get the urge to stretch your legs? See the rest of the floor?"

He shakes his head.

"That's the problem with Extrahuman Resources -- tunnel vision."

She gives him a cool sidelong smile. "With the two of us as the shining exceptions, of course."

Grant just chuckles.

"You're certainly enthusiastic in your outreach."

Emma's smile warms, with practiced ease.

"They're good kids."

His doesn't.

"I'm sure they won't let you down."

She stops at the elevator, taps the call button, and says lightly: "Oh, they won't."

For a moment there's silence; he's studying the (unopened) folder in his hands.

"You remember Rob Bennet's last project?"

There's an infinitesimal pause before she chuckles. "How could I forget."

Grant shakes his head sorrowfully.

"He did try. Heart in the right place, you know?"

A beat.

"At least, it was. Good luck with the kids, Emma -- oh, and here's your folder." His smile spreads slowly, like pooling grease. "You wouldn't want to lose something like this."

"Thanks."

Emma plucks the folder out of his hand with exaggerated care, her smile just a touch brittle.

"And good luck with your vital finding-a-stapler mission," she adds, as the elevator doors slide quietly open.