[b]Orange and Blue![/b]

They're back with Pope. Professional courtesy, not to change anything up from one meet to the next. He's the obvious and correct choice.

"Our source on this is highly sensitive and vulnerable," Blue is saying. "And we cannot risk their safety. We're only giving this to you because we respect the caution you've shown so far, you need to convincingly fabricate the chain of events that lead you there. Speaking of, there's a link you should use -"

She rummaged in her bag. "Someone talked about a friend getting 'necklaced'. Looked into it and it turned out it was a journalist. Gorush Castro. Used to be a friend of the family, whoever did him had an eye for history. He knew the truth and was keeping it quiet." She produced a stack of printed papers, ugly jpg scans of a singed paper notebook. "They scanned it into evidence, but if you don't know what you're looking for then it doesn't look like anything. Make a few leaps of intuition, place a few meetings in historical context, and pin the reveal on a dead man."

[History 0/1]

That's the tradecraft stuff, but Orange looks more wistful. "I wish it could have been something more impactful," she said. "But the truth is I just got mad. I got mad and I wanted to burn down one of the people responsible. I couldn't think of anything else to do."

[b]Brown![/b]

She can't wait to start waiting. She sits down and zones out almost instantly, fading into her sunlight reverie. Human children often enter states of reverie - do you remember staring into the grass, or the sky? Watching bugs or running water or the movements of lizards? Hours can pass by in silent contemplation of simple things. Little tracing patterns. The way people move, the way they change their stance, shifting the weight from side to side. How regularly they go to the bathroom, how often they pat the pocket with their wallet, how often they glance at their phone. She loved the small details, the flexes of the arms, the strain of fabric against bicep. She stared at the little black bulbs concealing camera angles in the rooftop. She watched the chairs until the intricacies of their construction came apart for her; the cheap hollow metal, the corporate makers mark, the mold line down the side where the stamping machine had been misaligned...

Her holotop is open in front of her, streaming with words and documents and video but she isn't focusing on any of it. It's there to make her look busy, its cheap semitransparent holographic screen not blocking the tracking motion of her eyes. She's a daydreaming kid in a classroom, the faint breeze making its way in through the door feeling to her like the breath of the divine, the motion and smells and sighs and coughs of the world around her passing endlessly through her unfocused focus. 

The path of least resistance involves sitting quietly and soaking in every detail of this room. She could do it forever. She used to hack her box in NASA so she could look at the telescope feeds, escaping the tightest security they could come up with so that she could stare into the glittering eternity of space.