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On the one hand, Taym would have been happier to meet her in an office (in counterpoint to their previous meeting): it would give him an excuse to bring a pointless notebook to occupy his hands. On the other hand, as with last time, he could not help but think that meeting division leads in offices led to being pitched out windows or worse, and so he tried to look on the bright side as he made his way down to the beach. He had not, this time, gone out of his way to look presentable, and if Fiona made irritated, snide comments about his actual motives for not shaving, he'd long since learned to tune out her more trivial criticisms. Instead he arrived as he normally would have to work, assuming that this would ingratiate him further into Edith's good graces than otherwise, if indeed she noticed at all.

Given that he'd had to forfeit a notebook, he'd decided to occupy his hands (and steady his nerves) with a cigarette instead, although he was sure that he'd be handed something else to keep him busy as soon as Edith was in a position to do so. This was a thought he held to with fond hope, rather than bitterness--an especially fond hope given the emotional upheaval and general turmoil of the past few days, which invited some sort of escape, any sort, and work, of course, was the best option. He was getting better at identifying the best option, although he did not always manage the followthrough. Nights spend with a bottle frequently segued immediately into hungover mornings and a struggle to apply himself to fence-mending and report-writing, but the struggle, too, was welcome.

"I've got it plastered with warnings," he answered, trying not to flinch at the noise. "But from the sound of it I'll scale it back further." This, disheartened. "As to the rest of it--I'm glad to overhaul the orientation suggestion into maybe--I don't f--I don't know," he amended. "Some type of bullet list for wake-up techs to hit with new people? They don't throw us in with a ******** of a lot. A--sorry, ma'am. A lot. The first time I did a wake up I was terrified, if I can be frank. And I don't want to involve Caelius at all, if I can help it, and as far as cutting in on training--what training, exactly? I mean, I know some of it happens. But--" he left it hanging, irritably. Clearly what did happen wasn't up to Taym's standard, whatever that was.

"I'm willing to revisit everything, obviously, and bring it more in line with what's feasible now. And set aside some of it if it means that basic safety education gets priority." A pause, and then: "I obviously want to discuss this, but I also had some--some questions, if you didn't mind. About my last mission."

There where other people can see was encouraging, as was her explanation for circumspection, and he filed them away for later. And more encouraging still than these was the fact that she'd answered him directly, frankly, and clearly, without scathing commentary or the threat of violence or, even more frustratingly, the suggestion that he already ought to know the answer. He thought with a pang of America and of his tendency to prevaricate.

"I--I filed a report, obviously." Of course he had. Taym loved mission reports almost as much as Caelius. They were work, work that came easily and filled plenty of time if he went into sufficient detail and allowed himself enough edits and re-writes."I just--do we know what it was? The--the girl. And why she... had the--the--" he tried to make himself say it. "The golems. Or whatever they are." And then, strangely aggressive: "You got another one, didn't you."

A beat of hesitation.

"Merlin? As much as I've stumbled on and read; some things you pick up just by--sorry, ma'am--by eavesdropping. And not much about Clarice Sinclaire, aside from--from public knowledge. I know she had something to do with the Merlin and Excalibur--situation. After the Tear. I was around for that; for the--whatever it was we got shown there." Most of what Taym knew of Clarice was of a Clarice who didn't exist: innocent, blameless. "Was the girl..." he trailed off, lacking both the words and the will to finish the thought.

He followed her in silence for a few steps examining Fiona's uneasy memory of the strike against his shield, and then, quietly: "Thank you." For the information, for the small acknowledgement that he'd succeeded at something. And another question, although it wasn't phrased as one: "I've been--devoting some time to clearing out the old school building. Seems like a useful space to just be sitting." Tell me it's worth it, or tell me it isn't.