sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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It's five-thirty at the offices of Wolfram & Hart New York, and the regular workday is winding down.

Some people, of course, don't leave till much later, even under ordinary circumstances.

Which these are decidedly not.

"I'll need as many of you on guard as I can get." Emma's walking fast as she speaks, coming down the hall from her office, her heels clicking on the hallway floor. Brianna, soft-footed in sneakers and carrying an incongruous guitar case, keeps pace on her right; a handful of others trail in her wake. "All of you, ideally. Start calling now, and let's see if we can get everyone in by eight, start things rolling by nine -- Ajani?"

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"Here." She is present, attitude and street clothes and wide silver bracelets, and she cuts around the rest to come up by Emma, accentuating her usual quiet grace to a pantherlike stride. (If she's having fun, she'll never admit it.)

She may not be the only one having fun. Emma's eyes are bright with a charged alertness, and a smile hovers around her mouth that's quite different from her usual cheerful calm.

"I want you and Melissa on the doors. After this goes into the room, nobody gets in unless they're with me. I don't care if they've got a form signed by God and the Senior Partners, you hold the doors till I get back."

It's about time she found out what was going on. 'Ajani' is a very nice name, but she's rather used to the one she's had. She nods in acquiescence, pleased to be moving at last.

She doesn't quite like the weight of the axe, although she's become used to her new one. She's not particularly pleased she's matched with Melissa. They've been partnered on patrols before and have a measure of trust. She dislikes having to use it.

"Erica, I want you down in the lobby with a checklist. I'll be checking in with you and you tell me who's still missing. Connie, Brianna -- you're with me on contacting the rest."

Her voice goes wry as they file into the elevator. "Hope nobody minds pulling overtime on this one, ladies, because we're all in for the duration."

Erica grins; Melissa smiles weakly. Nobody else does.

Guard duty is. . . well, astonishingly familiar, although she spent more time behind and to the left than standing at a doorframe.

Philippus stops at the door as the rest go through, moving to take the better vantage side before Melissa gets there. Witness the advantages of experience!

The room is the biggest conference room on the ninth floor, the one with plate-glass windows overlooking Central Park.

It's barely recognizeable as a conference room right now, though. Someone has removed the table and replaced it with a bewilderingly complex pattern laid out on the floor, in what looks like powdered chalk and red paint; it centers on a much smaller table, draped in dark fabric, against the far wall.

Brianna moves forward, carefully stepping over the lines of the pattern, lifting the guitar case to set it down on the little table.

. . . well, this is a surprise.

She'd been expecting an unveiling of purpose: a call to arms with some sort of emotional appeal, a powerful and charismatic leader, something to pull them from Emma's random fighting force to a more unified group led against whoever Wolfram and Hart thought needed fighting.

It won't do to look too attentive; her persona so far has been "the angry zhirelin who hits things and follows orders." She gives the room one initial glance and then just checks back down the hall, looking back only once at the largest source of activity in the room, giving Brianna another moment before she looks back to see what she has.

Brianna opens the guitar case. What she lifts out is not a guitar, but a graceful sweep of red and silver metal wedded to a shaft of sharpened wood.

She lays it flat on the covered table; her hand lingers for a moment on its grip, then lets go and falls back to her side, palm rubbing unconsciously against the fabric of her jeans as though to wipe away a residue.

Melissa sucks in an audible breath. "Wow," she says in a husky whisper.

Her own hand goes out towards the table, seemingly of its own volition.

"Watch it," Brianna says sharply. "Don't let it get to you."

From the other side of the room, Emma looks up from examining the lines on the floor and gives an approving nod.

Melissa flushes a little and pulls back her hand.

"You feel that?" Her glance takes in both Brianna and 'Ajani'.

Brianna nods, grimacing. "Makes you want to pick it up, doesn't it."

Philippus is quite, quite grateful at the instinctive reaction of reaching for her own axe, and folds her arms over her chest, blank-faced.

"What is it?"

And far more importantly: how did it get here?

"They call it the Scythe," Emma says, striding briskly back towards them. "And it's a threat we're going to try to contain. Or at least mitigate.

"I know you can all feel it," and she turns as she speaks, looking at each of them in turn. "Don't worry. It can't make you do anything against your will, not if you stay focused."

In an aside to Brianna: "Everything's ready. Can I put you in charge of contacting the consultants and telling them it's time? They should be holding ready to be here at a half-hour's notice."

"Who calls it that? A threat?" She looks at the others, instead of the weapon. And while Emma is distracted, she tries an aside of her own to Melissa: "what are you feeling?"

Melissa's eyes are wide and overbright; her gaze keeps flicking back towards the Scythe and away, back and away.

"You don't feel it?" she whispers incredulously. "God, it's -- it pulls."

"I heard make you do anything," Philippus mutters back. "I want to be sure we're feeling the same thing." She glares away an intern who was trying to take a shortcut through the conference room, and tries to ignore how happy he looks as he retreats.

"Okay, people," Emma's saying, crossing between Melissa and Philippus to step through the doors. "Back here in an hour. If you have plans for tonight you need to cancel, or if you want to grab a bite to eat, now's the time. Ajani, Melissa, I'll have someone send you up something from the caff if you need --"

That bright alertness is still there. Her smile practically glitters.

"Uh -- yeah, please. A sandwich or something?" Melissa glances over at her fellow guard. "You want anything?"

She shakes her head. She's supposed to be from a place that's used to waiting to eat, after all.

Hera preserve her. No information, no answers, just people who are gathering. Hm.

"If any consultants arrive, where do we send them until you return?"

"My office. And they shouldn't be coming directly to this room; if anyone does, you call me."

As Connie and Brianna slip out of the room behind her, Emma turns and closes the doors firmly.

"We've got a good night's work ahead of us, ladies," she says. "Let's get to it."

They all nod, and the small group disperses in three directions.

Philippus waits patiently for the promised sandwich, and considerately waits even more patiently for Melissa to eat it.

After all, she's going to have to render her unconscious, and the poor thing might as well be comfortable before recovering from that.

Melissa eats hungrily, but her focus seems divided between the sandwich and the door.

"What do you think we're going to do with it?" she says at one point.

"I can't imagine," says Philippus, welcome honesty like mint in her mouth. "It's a powerful artifact."

That sense of connection, the value the Council put on it. . . she mentally thanks Hera she was here on this world at all.

Melissa's eyes flick to the door and away, to the door and away.

"Powerful, yeah," she agrees, turning back to her sandwich.

And adds with her mouth half-full: "Emma said they'll be able to mitigate it...."