War on Poor - II It had been a horrendous week’s end to a great week, Nelson reflected. He slouched worriedly and full of exhaustion in a chair in the conference room, awaiting Ensel. This won’t be pretty. Him calling for an impromptu meeting never is. He wondered how bad it would be, and his head ached and throbbed in a complementary rhythm to the pounding heart fueled by his anxiety. He had cold sweats. And the shakes. Fuck I need to lay off the caffeine. He’d jump started each morning with unrecommended doses of Never Sleep, a very expensive fatigue fighter loaded with the caffeine of one pot of coffee and one week’s worth of magnesium intake wrapped in a sweet coat of zucalose, a scientifically modified form of sugar that is delivered faster and, though most suspect is linked to obesity and diabetes in the Homeland, comes highly recommended by the FDWA as a simple and smart alternative to natural sucrose. Just as he was reflecting on his situation the door opened and Nelson was surprised to see Eli Schumer walk in. “What’s going on, Nels?” “Schume?” “Yeah.” “Ensel wanted to see you, too?” “Yeah.” Guess that explains the conference room. Else he could have just called me into his office. “You know what this about?” “Umm…” “I mean, other than Linda.” Linda had been missing since Wednesday. Well, Tuesday night, most likely, as there was no evidence of her ever returning home that night, surveillance indicated. He kept going over in his mind what she must have been thinking. Always wanting to help. Most likely she headed for the Outskirts to find him and Schumer, figuring they hit up Schumer’s favourite pub to celebrate. They talked briefly on the phone, and when Schumer said Nelson wasn’t there, and indeed had no idea where he was, she must have gone into the Lower District to look for him. And there was where it ended for her. Ensel walked in and, to their shock, looked more concerned than angry. “Gentlemen,” he began. “As you may have heard we are suspecting Linda is missing in the Lowers. Assumed to be dead, as things go down there.” The two young investigators broke eye contact with him and both looked down, staring at the floor. “But I have not yet ordered an investigation.” Their heads both shot up at this. “I’ve decided to let that work fall into your program.” “What?” The two said in unison. “This case has something about it that really bothers me. I think you’re right, Nelson, I really do. I think this is big. Too big to risk scaring off the suspected criminals in the Lowers, those working for Sarvecta. I am of the mind that if I send in warrant officers for the Agency looking for her, we’ll alert Sarvecta to our presence and they’ll react how most criminals do when men with guns start showing up. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to look first.” “I - ” Nelson began, then stopped. “Do you know where to start? To make it clean, stir up the least amount of trouble we can and let no one know we’re there?” “I don’t, sir, no, but -” “Then that’s settled. And another thing, I want Schumer in the Lowers with you. Two will cut the workload in half, and should produce results twice as quickly, as time may be working against us.” Nelson Silma gave a confused look to Schumer, but Schumer just shrugged. “Okay,” was all he said, in his typical low-key manner. “I found out today that our department was granted an extra Rat Hound. That’s going to be yours, Schumer. I want you at the edge of the Lowers where you can get out quickly. Silma, you’re still on point deep in the Lowers, as deep as you need to go.” Nelson was slack-jawed. Schumer not only going in, but gets a Rat Hound! This is absurd. He asked a question, rather quicker and louder than he’d liked to have admitted: “Who is going to run analytics?” “I’ve considered that. Schumer will be able to handle some from the Hound. Back here at the Agency, I’m assigning you Tiffany Lowenbrau. I’d like to introduce her now, though Schumer, I believe you’ve already met her.” “Yep,” he said. Ensel walked to the door of the conference room, opened it, and said to someone outside “come in.” In walked a tall, thin, business dressed brunette in black high heels. She wasn’t dressed inappropriately, but her skirt revealed a staggering amount of lengthy, slender, honey coloured legs. Her breasts were also heaving up out of the last buttonable button of of her probably too small (Nelson figured) black blouse. “Gentlemen, your new analytics expert. She comes highly recommended. Tiffany, this is Nelson Silma, he’ll be on site in the Lowers on this case. And, as you know, this is Schumer. He’ll be in the Rat Hound at the edge.” My God, Nelson thought to himself. She’s, she is...but then his professionalism kicked in, she can’t be here. And then his pride: She better not be just looks. “Hi Nelson,” she said, smiling and, was that a giggle? “I’ve heard so much about you! This will be great. I’m ready to get started whenever you are, but first I’d prefer you give me a few more details and I’m starving! Can we do that over coffee?” Shit.
“So that’s where I think they are, and that’s where I plan to begin,” he said. “I’ll have Schumer filtering out everything I come across and you can tell me which direction to go from there, though I think these folks are so out of their element they’ll be quite easy to track.” “That sounds great. I can’t wait to help. I’m so sorry about what happened to Linda, and I know it can’t be easy for you. You need as little stress as possible, and I promise to avoid that. Anything I can do, I’m ready for this work. It’s what I was made for.” She smiled at this and, he was pretty sure, winked at him as well. “So,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with her amiability, “let’s uhh...get started?” “We can. But does that mean the Lowers for you?” “Of course.” “Already?”