Welcome to Gaia! ::

Sending texts to Jane felt like an exercise in futility: certainly she had not deigned to answer any of his patient stream of inquiries (exactly one a day, until he quit entirely) after he'd left Graham Peasly with more questions and concerns than answers and soothed fears.

This, however, was different. Lawrence had worried him, profoundly. He took a more direct route.

He jumped, making an undignified sound in the back of his throat and instinctively pulling his coat around himself even though he was fully dressed.

"Do you do that for theatrics or for some other reason? ******** hell. You have a phone. There are meeting rooms."

He glanced down the hallways, deserted, because Taym took showers when he knew they'd be empty, and his skin crawled a little at the idea that she'd known this and planned accordingly. "Keep your voice down," he snapped. "And--no. I'm not--no. Jesus. I know how ******** stupid that'd be."

He fell into step, irritated, without a half a thought paid to what direction they were heading in.

"I don't like having to repeat myself, either, so I'd appreciate it if you'd learn to answer your ******** messages instead of leaving me here in ******** suspense about why Peasly and Weiman both seem to think that this is a concern. Weiman," he said, "is under the impression that whatever it is that we're--"

He paused as her words caught up to him, and a few steps passed in silence.

"He tried to go see her?"

And probably got her killed for it. Jesus Christ. No wonder he was acting insane. He swallowed roughly.

He submitted to her eerie-a** recital with growing unease. Why was everyone in his division so ******** weird?

He let a couple more seconds elapse in silence, a step behind her, watching her like he was afraid she'd suddenly vanish. Maybe she would. If her intention with the constant magical appearances and the word-perfect recitation of their text history was to imbue her own image with a sort of preternatural power, she had succeeded wonderfully.

"What happened to Graham Peasly?"

Another long pause.

"I see," he said finally, in a voice that suggested he did not, in fact, see. "Tough run of luck, survive nine-ten trips out to the hellhole death trap that is the Sahara and die right before the next one. I had a lot more to ask him."

The casual reminder: people die. Hunters die. It had been, originally, a selling point for him.

"I'm not looking for easy and I'm not looking to dodge any standards," he said quietly. "I'm just looking to make sure that if anyone is going to die because of a decision I've made, it's going to be me."

Maybe she'd meant it to sound ominous, but there was nothing but comfort in the words for him.

It was easy for him to imagine Jane in all sorts of civilian jobs, ably and competently putting on a smile and a brisk and soothing tone: she could have been a doctor calmly explaining life expectancy outcomes, or a car salesman quietly and charismatically dismissing those unfounded rumors of faulty mounting brackets and lethal airbag installation errors, or the voice on the end of the line, gently and gravely reassuring tiny old ladies that yes, ma'am, that would be a very expensive problem, indeed. The occasional look into the recesses--perfectly memorized text messages and unpleasant things delivered in the same smooth, amiable tone and that unsettling chameleon ability of hers--irritated him, put him off his balance and made him feel at a distinct disadvantage. He always felt out of his depth anyway, dealing with the established members of his division, but Jane's particular brand of it made him feel stupid and he hated her for it.

He deadpanned, gesturing at the door: "Stay for a ********?"