Jason Kline sighs, pushes his laptop away, and rests his forehead against the edge of the table. He stares down at the taupe-colored rug and wonders what color it was when they first moved in. He’s certain the rug has been replaced at least twice since they set up here, but he doesn’t remember it happening and he can’t remember the previous colors.
The official meeting is ending. The real meeting is about to begin.
The official meeting, where Robert Thorpe revealed to all present that someone was creating a virus specifically engineered to kill metahumans, and where David Bernard revealed that they were going to use magic to simultaneously infect every male on the planet with it, ends with scientists milling about in a buzz of tense, excited conversation. None of them will sleep tonight: most won’t even bother going home to try. They will, instead, be organizing ad hoc meetings of their own, where they’ll brainstorm the best ways to approach the problem.
Grif lay on one of the couches in the Wardroom, face covered by a damp cloth, a half-empty bottle in one hand, a half-filled glass in the other. Amys, Morgan, and Cyrus sat in chairs pulled up close, each staring at him in astonishment. Ktk stood nearby, fidgeting.
Grif reached up with the hand holding the bottle and pulled back a corner of the cloth, exposing one eye. He focused on Amys.
“No,” he said, voice muffled slightly under the cloth. “He wanted to offer me employment. That’s very different.”