[b]Orange:[/b] I need to issue a correction regarding my previous statement r.e. Squeaky Fromage.
[b]Orange:[/b] Red's reaction was surface level correct but she didn't account for the fact that everyone associated with Fromage is about to have tabloid journalists tunneling into their laudromats. We'd be fighting the entire station's media core for interviews and we don't have the resources.
[b]Orange:[/b] While that's what the people are hungry for, the people are stupid. We need to get onto the next story while they're still chasing the previous one.
[b]Orange:[/b] York I'll talk to you offline.

[b]York![/b]

"Alright, I had a busy night," said Orange. She looked sharp, crisp, ironed. "And the most important thing I learned from all of it was that the Space Fountain wasn't an accident."

She held up her hands. "I know. I haven't been on the internet. I know it's the ur-conspiracy theory, but I got it from the horse's mouth. 'Australia was picked for being the largest industrialized landmass that was still mostly empty desert, that was always the plan'. Adrian Dudekov, the guy who I had Junta trail, let it slip. He'll never talk, though, not normally, not on the record. I'm digging deeper in a different direction but I'm at capacity and I need..." she groaned and massaged her temples. "I need more [i]time[/i]. I don't have capacity to dig up a decades old cold case. But I can tell you there's something there worth digging into."

She quietly clenches her fists under the table.

She's being sidelined. 

She's been put on this because it's the least important thing that the collective can't ignore. She used to be the centre of everything; the ascendant energy that co-ordinated her entire family into a single purpose. But she'd somehow been losing influence, pushed towards the periphery. First it had been Blue. Next was her. Some part of her always had to be the least important part.

She'd never thought it would be her.

*

[b]Dudekov![/b]

The door opens quietly.

The Chase Black agent creeps into the room, pistol leveled. Doors and corners, he takes each one like a professional who's been put on notice. Long slick black real leather jacket, widow's peak, corporate namebadge glittering gold and black, Malta Cross on his chest. Chase Black used to be the private security subsidiary of BlackSun. Their umbrella corporation had dissolved but branding is immortal.

"Clear," he said, after the sweep was completed. "Sir? Are you -" He blanched. Blanch was the right world; like green blood withdrawing to the periphery of the temples. Not [i]all [/i]Chase Black employees were headhunted from Central Casting's list of SS officers, but anyone who wasn't they shoved in a full face helmet whenever possible. "Dear God. Are you all right?"