Limping through Babylon

[Sighter Tnailog]

Through Thick and Thin: Part I
or
Limping through Babylon

"He knowes not the perfect pleasure of Venus that hath not layne with a limping woman." -Michel de Montaigne, Of the Lame

Arlington, Virginia: The Pentagon

Reid Eskew stuck a marker in his well-worn copy of The Silmarillion, turning his attention back to the puzzle in front of him. It was his first translation assignment, and the only thing that had landed him the job was his code clearance. The army had plenty of trained linguists, Arabic-language experts, and veteran cryptologists, but for some reason this assignment was sensitive. He was beginning to see why.

It was not that he'd been asked to translate something -- he was a linguist, after all -- that was bothering him. What bothered him was the language he was translating. From what he could tell, it was one of a family of invented languages. The document used a healthy smattering of Sindarin and Quenya. He could not divine its other influences. He returned his attention to the page, which was covered in his own annotations as well as the translated words of the author.

It is the fourteenth day [of my?] captivity. If time works [?] [this next word sticks out, I cannot determine the derivation] Althanas [...indecipherable text follows] fifty-first day of autumn [here the writer uses "quellë" for autumn, not "lasse-lanta, connoting a notion of fading and melancholy]. [?] necromancer has not [...already?] taken the whole of the country [by] force...

His eyes continued to scroll down the work, and he was dissatisfied.

The door opened abruptly, and his commanding officer entered the room. Officer Eskew leapt to his feet and saluted smartly.

"At ease, lieutenant. Are you done with that assignment?"

Holding out the paper, Reid said, "As best as I can, sir. Much of it is inscrutable, using variants on Quenya and Sindarin that I can't quite discern. To do more, I would need to speak directly with the author. But it is definitely written by someone even more interested in Tolkien than myself, sir. To write this, it would need to be more than a passing fancy. Do you know what this about"

The major arced an eyebrow, taking the piece of paper. "Very well, Lieutenant Eskew. I will get this to the Joint Chiefs immediately. And no, I don't know what it's about, and I don't care to know. Goddamn strangest thing I've ever seen, and I'd just as soon wash my hands of it." The general grimaced, and continued, "But a meeting with the author has been arranged for you, by who I don't even know. But we don't have a lot of time."

Eskew saluted. "Of course, sir. After you."

He followed the major through hallways, taking a cue from his commander's stony silence. He did not know quite what to expect from this strange situation. Plenty of eccentric teenagers in the world wrote secret messages to each other in Elvish -- he had been one of them. But this message was different. It was not conspiratorial, at least not at first glance; it read more like a diary entry, a lament. Eskew stood in genuine puzzlement. Army intelligence clearly thought it was important enough for great secrecy, but why?

Suddenly, they were in front of a door locked with three electronic bolts. The general entered a few numbers on a panel, the locks engaged, and it opened. Gesturing inside, the general said, "You have ten minutes."

Somewhat hesitantly, Reid Eskew entered the cell. Before him, seated in a chair and writing intently on a notepad in the same flowing script and strange characters as the original note, a man looked up. The depth in the man's green eyes startled the lieutenant, and for a moment Reid thought he was looking upon a fountain of wisdom, a creature wandered from lost Eden. But then the man spoke, and Lieutenant Eskew's mouth fell open at the greeting.

"Elen sila lumen omentielvo...essë Findelfin ap Fingolfin sa mia. Mernea vanimelda."

Despite his bafflement, Reid Eskew smiled. This time, he knew every word.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Words in < > are elvish words transcribed into English for the reader's ease.))

Although pleased to have understood the man's phrase, the tone of the man's voice seemed plain: he greeted Reid as a friend, but it was strained and quite unfriendly. Sitting carefully in a chair nearby, Reid Eskew looked at the man and carefully spoke, trying his best to use proper grammar.

"<I language bad, but I to try. You speak other word-type?> English, perhaps?"

The man's mood brightened immediately at the sound of his favored tongue, and the fire that sprung into his eyes seemed to warm the room. Reid was struck by everything about the man, who had earlier identified himself as Findelfin...son of Fingolfin? That last bit made Reid's mind go to strange places.

Findelfin's presence was colorful, radiant; his skin almost shone with a light that was inhuman. It was deeply unsettling in many ways, but Reid was too enamored of the possibilities dancing in the back of his mind. It was as if he was under enchantment. Findelfin spoke again, starting with a string of Elvish words, flowing into several other tongues that Eskew knew nothing of, some equally melodious, some plain, other guttural and harsh. He thought he recognized a few words in Westron, though, and others in Adûnaic. Some even sounded like lesser languages never fully fleshed out, the stuff of minor fantasy writers, but Reid could not place any of them. In any event, none of the languages were English. He would have to do this the hard way.

"<Yes, I find difficult,>" Reid said, "<I have elf words no much, action-words one, two ways-of-say. To where you from, what place?>"

The man smiled, and said a few things. Reid understood about half of it. It made no sense, but he understood enough to know that at least part of what he could make out was simply a correction on his grammar. He smiled, "<Thank you. I can to learn from you? Also, I say again all I say in I word-type, learn you my tongue, 'English' is name.>" Reid repeated that again, in English, by way of example.

The man calling himself Findelfin nodded, and said, "<I must admit to being confused. I do not know this world; when I arrived, I saw chariots of metal moving by themselves. I saw things flying in the air I have seen in Althanas only rarely. I do not think I am in Althanas anymore.>"

Reid understood very little of what the man was saying, but tried his best to respond. "<I no know Althanas. Where is? This place call America, on Earth.>"

The man called Findelfin put his head in his hands, and Reid felt suddenly sad. Reid didn't know what, but he felt attuned to his moods, he shifted as the man shifted. It was like nothing Reid could explain. Nothing at all. Unbidden, a tear sprang to Reid's eye, and a pity sprung up within him. Suddenly Reid knew what enchantment was, and he didn't like it. He wanted out, and quickly.

"<I no know what you felt now. I must leave. But I get you some words, read them, the study help will, thought I.>" Reid knew he was butchering it. He wasn't even conjugating in the right places between sentences. Elvish was an imaginary language, and there were virtually no options for those seeking immersion experiences in its use. Short of joining certain hippie communes, that is.

He had to leave, so he stood quickly. As he rose, the door opened and his commander shouted for him to come on out. He could not speak exactly what this man spoke, but the man knew whole phrases in Quenya-Sindarin, right down to traditional greetings. And Reid had memorized a few of the best. He spoke one now: "Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya."

The man's eyes lit up again with passionate recognition. But Reid could not bear to see; he turned his face aside and left as quickly as he could.


*

Exiting the room, which shut behind him with a slam, the major spoke, "Well, Lieutenant Eskew? What is the damn man nattering on about?"

Reid knew there was only one way to solve the problem: make himself dispensable. "Sir, I can't quite make it out. I think it will be easier if he could speak English. And unless I miss my guess, he will learn English much faster than any of us will learn Elvish." He noted the major's strange expression at the mention of the language, and said, "Yes sir, you heard me right. That man is speaking what I can only guess is Elvish, and it's no Elvish that any book in this world will teach you. My master's thesis was on invented languages, and even I don't know where half of it comes from."

Taking out a small spiral notebook from his coat pocket, he jotted down a list of titles. Ripping out the page, he handed it to the major. "Sir, do you think it could be arranged to get these books to him, and in the order on that sheet? He could learn English from those, and I wouldn't be necessary anymore. In fact, I'd like to be off this case as soon as possible."

The major took the list, squinting at it, and said, "I'm sure it can be arranged." Then, taking a deep breath, the major took a long look at the door, then back at Reid. He was distinctly uncomfortable, Reid could see it in everything about him.

"Well, the books can be arranged. But you're wanted by someone up top, Christ knows who. I've been told to inform you that you are no longer reporting to me. From here on out, you are under the direct supervision of the Commander of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In exactly one hour, you are to deliver a report to him on literally everything he might need to know about...about elves. Elves for chrissake. Lad, I've been working in military intelligence for fifty years, and I've never seen anything this damn strange. I don't like it, I can tell you don't, but you know something about this I frankly don't...never was one for stories about fairies.

"Now get outta here, you're giving the strangest briefing in the history of the goddamn military in fifty-eight minutes."

[Sighter Tnailog]

* * * * *

Slumping back into his chair, Findelfin was spent. He had not slept since he had arrived in this cell four days ago, and had only occasionally slept in the ten dark days before. Those had been odd days. He remembered last the voice of Khal'Jaren (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=111325#post111325), booming as he woke to stare into strange faces, lying on a strange tables, with strange implements strapped to his forehead. He had been restrained since then, and whoever held him tried to question him as best they could. To his surprise, they had not tortured him. But this cell was torment enough.

He was almost too tired to ponder the strange visit he'd just had. The man had spoken atrocious Elvish; it was worse than listening to some half-literate Dwarf from Khartag trying to recite a lyric ballad. But then at other times, like in his greetings and farewells, the man had spoken with a formal diction surpassing even the liturgical rites of the Burning of the Ships. It had indeed been a boon to hear such words spoken, here in this place where he was so horribly alone.

Hearing those words spoken by someone other than himself, though, had given him reason to feel calm. Going to lay down on the bed, he allowed himself to finally drift into a much-needed sleep.


*

Findelfin awoke at the clang of the heavy door swinging shut. This was yet another sign that this place was not right. Not only did his song magic do nothing here, but in Althanas he would have awoken at the slightest movement in his chambers regardless of his exhaustion. Something in him, some hidden strength, was ebbing away.

He suddenly noticed something new on the desk. A stack of books and loose-leaf pages, bound together by thin threads. Getting up and walking to the desk, he unbound the pages, the strange type of paper smoother and more fine than anything in Althanas. On the cover were characters he recognized, the beautiful stems and bows of the elvish script. A sudden thrill went through him as he saw different characters beside each one, strung together in a variety of ways. With growing recognition, he realized that these strange characters formed words, defined sounds.

Sitting down, he flipped through the other pages quickly. A strange book, thicker than anything the printers in Raiaera could produce with such strong bindings, was near the top of the stack. Opening it, he could make out nothing. But near the front of the book was the elvish script again; they spelled out strange sounds, ones he could not associate with meanings, but sounds nonetheless.

He had nothing better to do, and this was clearly an invitation to try to learn how to better communicate with these strange and different people. Turning back to the first pages, he looked at the very first character. The tincotema rose immediately to his mind, and he began to read.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Ballston, Virginia: Two Weeks Later

Stepping off the orange line, briefcase in hand, Reid Eskew strode quickly down the platform and onto an escalator. Walking up the left side of the moving staircase as quickly as he could, he suddenly slammed right into someone standing still.

He had been thinking, thinking hard. About how much Findelfin had advanced in his English, about what he had learned of declension-forms and verb tenses in Elvish. And he was still, two weeks later, trying to get over the fact that there were worlds where elves existed, that the dreams and fantasies of his childhood, mediated to him by authors who had died before he was born, were real and walked on the green earth under the sunlight. And he was worried, because some of the rumors he'd heard from the others working on the project with him suggested that soon, very soon, the top brass would start conducting other sorts of tests on Findelfin ap Fingolfin. And he had grown to like the elf.

But these thoughts had made him oblivious to the world around him, and he shuddered to a stop with a curse, turning his ire on the man in front of him, shaking his briefcase menacingly.

"Will you please stand where you belong? Tourists. When you ride the metro, you stand on the right and on the fucking left, and people run into you if you don't."

The man, clearly a gym-goer, might have been able to take Reid in an escalator fight. But Reid was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the United States Army, and it was clear the man didn't want to risk it. So he stood aside, sulked and apparently shamed, and Reid strode up the escalator, rolled through the turnstile, and out into the air.

It was only a short walk to the Randolph Towers, and Reid put down his briefcase and lit up a cigarette as soon as he was twenty feet away from the station entrance. The attendants at the escalators were sometimes quite prickly about that, something about how smoke drifts into the tunnels. Reid had no idea how smoke drifted downward, but the law was the law. He had taken up smoking just a few weeks ago. Right around when he was first introduced to the elf in the station.

Darkness had long ago fallen, and he crossed the street with just a quick glance to the left and right. Even with the mall so close by, traffic usually dwindled to nothing out in Ballston on weekday nights at eleven o'clock. And then he was standing before the Randolph Towers. Taking a last long drag on his cigarette, he tossed it into the receptacle and stepped into the building.

The elevator took forever to arrive -- it always did. Some foolish computer program had it set to always go straight to the floor where a button was pressed, then deliver whoever entered to their destination, then go to the next floor, and so on. Meaning that it didn't stop between trips to pick up new passengers, and depending on who was going where he often waited ten or fifteen minutes for the elevator to arrive. But he lived on the 23rd floor, and even his Army training didn't mean he wanted to climb that many flights on an empty stomach at the end of a long day.

But the elevator finally came, and he stuck his key in the door with that strange sense of impending relief, with the knowledge that as soon as he walked in and collapsed on the couch the stress and work would wash out of him. It was a tentative sort of happiness, a moment of anticipation before release.

Walking in, he flipped on the light in the living room as he turned to close the door, sliding the deadbolt shut with a firm motion. Turning back around, he felt a thrill run through him, and he leveraged his briefcase like a lethal weapon.

"Who the hell are you?" he shouted, because there was someone already sitting on his couch.

[Taskmienster]

In the darkness of the lonely apartment the intruder waited. He was seated on a plush leather couch, his legs crossed and his hands resting in his lap. Light blue eyes scanned the room, attempting to find not articles of value but those that could tell what sort of man owned the one bedroom flat. Like a reader trying to find the disguised intent within a novel, he looked over every lamp, piece of furniture, and decoration. The man he had come to see was a military man, had been for a short period of time, that much was not only in what he had been briefed but was a small portion of what was streaked across the walls. Pictures of promotions, of graduation from the Green to Gold program, the lieutenant was a smart man who had graduated top of his class in college courses as well as top cadet with the R.O.T.C. His college’s insignia was also framed and hung, but the intruder did not recognize it.

He let his eyes wander further, able to slowly piece together personal characteristics that were otherwise hard to gather from a formal document. Well paid, but not overly grandiose in his choice of living, the officer was obviously a bachelor more by choice or circumstance than by anything else. A single chair, which he sat in quite often, was settled next to a tall lamp, obviously one for being alone late at night. The matching leather couch must have been part of a set, though both the chair and couch were far too nice for the apartment to have been pre-furnished by the Randolph Towers. A copy of “Starry Night” graced one side of a nearly empty white wall that started the short hallway; the opposite side was adorned with one of the many sunflower paintings Van Gogh was famous for. A lover of fine art, abstract and relatively peaceful, the intruder could only assume that the man was going to be open to the message he had brought.

A click of a lock moving in its socket, and the door slid open without a creek. It was well oiled and properly maintained, just as the rest of the small apartment was. The lights flickered on, and the intruder blinked away the relative comfort of the dark room to favor the bright overhead fixtures. It could be gathered from the way the light was set, and its brightness that the owner of the small place was not someone who was accustomed or enjoyed a dim atmosphere. The click of the deadbolt and the sudden revelation of another made the man smirk in his borrowed comfort.

“I see we both carry the same weapon, though mine is wielded for much more… political means.” The lieutenant’s astonishment and assumed anger were ignored. The intruder changed his smirk to a placid visage as he lifted a briefcase of his own and set it on his lap. “I assume you are Lieutenant Eskew? Military Intelligence Officer with the United States Army? By your silence I’ll assume I’m correct.”

“Who the hell are you? I won’t ask again before I call security.”

The man stood from the couch, reluctantly leaving the plush seating to be more polite in his introductions. He stepped towards Eskew, watching as the man tentatively stepped back. For being a military man, in uniform, he was awfully cautious and expressed a form of uncertainty that was not common for an officer. “No need to cause an alarm,” he said as he placed the briefcase on its side and smiled the most genuine smile he could force. “I am Collin McFerrin, before you ask… no, you do not know me. Though, I know quite a good deal about you.”

“Just what do you know, how do you know my name and where I live?”

“Those are the least of what I know, Reid. Do you mind if I call you Reid? I have never been too keen on calling people by their title and last name. Call it a generational issue if you will, but it seems all people my age grew up that way.” The casual conversation was not something that the lieutenant seemed to be expecting, a simple tilt of his head and slow nod was the only response Collin received. “Good to hear it,” he continued, “I am a program designer for the virtual reality company known as TechFront Inc. We seem to have a small issue in regards to a prisoner being held, one of a very high priority. I am here to negotiate with you about what to do about the… predicament at hand.”

Collin smiled as the man’s face became drawn, his mouth slightly open as if what the intruder was alluding to could – or should – be what he was assuming. “I am going to assume that your face means you know what I am talking about. Does the name Althanas or Findelfin mean anything to you then? If so, we have quite a bit to talk about.”

The man was already quite informed as to how much Reid Eskew knew about Findelfin, the lieutenant was chosen by him after all as the way in. Documents were printed about his background, his life in the military, and his previous and former employment as a military intelligence officer – even some about the possible future of his career. All of the information about the man Collin had personally gathered through meticulous and delicate probing, and a fair amount of extremely illegal hacking into government files. There was a reason he had come to Virginia all the way from Florida. Eskew could be used, a block of unmolded clay that could be transformed into a valuable tool. Collin knew, it was his job to mold the man into what TechFront Inc. needed.

“I need a drink,” the man muttered as he put his briefcase down finally, removing his coat and placing it on a hanger.

“That would be awesome,” Collin said as he followed the man towards the kitchen. He looked at the empty space, noting that the man had a full set of knives and kitchen wares but none look like they had been touched as of late. “You seem to be on the go quite a bit, not enough time to spend at home as of late?”

Eskew looked into the blue eyes of Collin and simply shook his head. After pouring two glasses of whiskey on the rocks he handed one to the man with the information. He side stepped around him cautiously, as if McFerrin was a coiled snake hissing, and took a seat on the far end of the couch. Collin followed and seated himself on the other end, letting his briefcase be their barrier. “Let’s not talk about my home life. What is it you want?”

Without speaking, or even sipping the smooth alcohol, Collin opened his briefcase and removed a small handful of papers. The letterhead pronounced the information was obtained or retained by TechFront, the front page held a single word on it: Althanas. “This is what Althanas is,” he said as he handed the papers to Reid and dug out a few more to organize before handing those over as well. “These are documents regarding the man you have captured and are now holding. Findelfin ap Fingolfin, born of the nation of Raiaera, high elven bard and holder of the Diadem Key; he is very important to Althanas as well as the programmers of TechFront.

“You see, he was formerly an incharacter – or I.C. – administrator and was, and still is, a valuable asset to the community as a whole. His actions and deeds on the server have shaped and founded a lot of what is currently set forth. To have him imprisoned on Earth, how exactly that happened we are still unsure, is an issue that we need to fix. The longer he is away, and the longer he stays in our world, the more questions arise both IC and OOC – or out of character, that being those of us in the real world. We need you to help us remove him from captivity and return him to Althanas so that the continuity of the world is not jeopardized further.

“Please, read as much as you would like before making your decision. Though it needs to be made as soon as possible. The document you are looking at now is a description, albeit a short one, about what Althanas is and how it is run. The other document,” Reid slid the first packet under the second as he followed along, “is another document in regards to the background and importance of Findelfin. It is most easily understood when you first understand that Althanas is a game, a world of fantasy and creativity. The elf that you have, he cannot understand English because in its form on Althanas it is referred to as either tradespeak or common; he doesn’t speak either one. I’m sure you’re having difficulty understanding him as well, since Elvish is not a spoken or written language that someone can pick a book up and learn from.

“All of this is to say that he is not supposed to be here, we both know this. An elf in the real world? That’s some crazy shit,” Collin said dropping his, to that point, uncharacteristically formal tone. “What do you think about it all? I can answer questions if you have any, and we can start talking about entrance and exit strategies to get Findelfin out of whatever prison you’re keeping him in.”

[Sighter Tnailog]

As the stranger talked in his slow and calm fashion, the lieutenant increasingly felt less ill at ease. Most of what the man was saying made no sense, but at the least...he was vaguely non-threatening. He also did not appear to be armed. Though you never knew. Reid was wishing that his sidearm wasn't in his dresser-table. But there was, as yet, no plausible pretext for returning to his bedroom.

He sipped his drink slowly, perusing the material that had been handed to him. It was all very strange; apparently, this elf Findelfin was the creation of a real person. But somehow..and this is where it all grew hazy...the electronic medium of Findelfin's existence had mediated his transformation into flesh-and-blood, into something real.

The possibilities were staggering, but something was not quite right. "I'm afraid you're a little bit wrong, friend. Findelfin does speak common, or at least I assume he does. His journals are filled with a variety of voices and languages, and any one of them might be 'tradespeak,' as you call it.

"But the other languages...they are not wholly foreign, you see. Elvish is a language one can pick up in a book and learn; Tolkien wrote extensively on the subject, as have those in his vein, and any number of fantasy authors have elaborated on the language. And there are more fantasy languages which this elf appears to know something of, from R.A. Salvatore's work on the Drow to a strange blend that can only be described as semi-Tolkienic Khuzdul.

"But he also speaks and writes words in these languages that are significantly different from anything I've seen. But they are...similar, one can trace the linguistic origins. So that's where you are wrong, I think. These languages can be mediated, and understood, and they have derivations and attestations in this world."

Reid scowled darkly. Something else in this elf's strange dialectal creole bothered him, but he had been unable to put his finger on it. He longed to consult his journals -- concealed underneath the table in the back room -- but this was not the time.

He fondled the edges of the paper, mulling.

Turning his attention back to the man, he studied him for a long moment. This was crazy. Wholly crazy. A phrase from The Lord of the Rings sprang unbidden to his mind...something about never knowing where the road would sweep you off to. And this was one road he had no intention of setting foot upon if he could help it.

He straightened up, adjusted his uniform, and gestured towards the man

"I'm afraid I can't help you. Although I will admit to a certain interest in your work, I can only imagine what the brass at the Pentagon would think of my cooperation with someone outside of this project. I do have career ambitions, as I'm sure your file there indicates already." Reid smiled ruefully, "I could probably be court-martialed for even admitting to the existence of this elf. I hope you understand...but I will have to ask you to leave."

He opened the door, gesturing politely. "I wish I could be of more service."

[Taskmienster]

Collin listened to the man prattle, his conversational skills were immaculate and his knowledge of fantasy based text even more so. The younger civilian, originally little more than an internet hacker playing his coding games in a barely legal intrusive sense, was not as well versed in fantasy linguistics. He had once chosen the world of Althanas as his next target of virtual reality hacking simply on a whim, as if the world had called to him first. In time he had been hunted by the administration in charge of the continuity of the server, and in a way the fiscal responsibility that went hand in hand with the job. The company that ran the server was not so worried that a single person had found their way into the game without the necessity of a legally sanctioned proof-of-purchase code; they had been concerned with Collin’s spectacular ability to warp the schematics. It had taken months for them to track him down, a task made easier thanks in part to his careless misuse of coding and lackluster attempts to hide. It had taken only a single message, transmitted without his knowledge directly into his television at his apartment, to convince him to change his ways.

The younger man took a gulp of his drink and placed the cup on a coaster, the ice tapping the glass in a semi-superfluous movement. Melodramatic in his motions, Collin gathered his papers and placed them in the briefcase, clapping it shut with more emphasis than necessary. He looked over the edge of his shoulder at the uniformed man and smirked. There was much more than simply known military records in the pile of papers contained within his leather case. An ‘ace in the hole’, so to speak, was remaining, forming on the tip of his tongue even as he packed his things to leave.

“It seems you have outwitted me on the linguistics of high-fantasy; that I must concede. An odd man you are for being in the military. I’ve met many people, from the eighty-eight mike’s, who really have as much sense as a civilian truck driver, to the thirty-five bravo’s, our militaries men in blue. None of them, despite their chosen career paths in the military, have ever stood out as anything more than another common soldier. You, however, have knowledge of someone who should be playing games online much more than carrying a firearm, which I doubt you look comfortable doing.”

The hacker turned spy stood upright and tucked the edge of his shirt behind a belt that screamed adolescence. He adjusted the heavy metal belt buckle that was off center to the left, and picked up the uncharacteristic briefcase. “You are right, you know. Court-martialing is a possibility for even the slightest cooperation with me, or TechFront. I’ve done a little investigating, and a dishonorable discharged soldier is the black-sheep of society, one who’s court-martialed normally doesn’t even get to venture into society. You’ll be out in Leavenworth, chillin’ in the cells next to other military miscreants that have done much more heinous things than acknowledge the existence of a fairytale creature. Imagine that, stuck in a prison filled with the men you used to work with, looked at with as much hatred as is imaginable. Of course, your top secret work with the military wouldn’t be on their tongues… I doubt the government would even publically release any documentation on why exactly you’d be imprisoned.”

Collin stopped in front of the man, placing his hand on the edge of the solid wood. His fingers clenched around its smooth surface and he looked into Reid’s eyes. His gambit was slowly forming, the foreshadowing to his privy knowledge played smoothly.

“No, I think they would go at something much more easy to dishonor you, something that they may not be able to court-martial you for but they could easily use it as a scapegoat just in case. It would really only take a few e-mails sent to the right people and all of it would be sealed. They don’t like to play around with the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy, but you don’t really have to tell… especially if other people have the knowledge enough to tell for you. You’re future paths with the military are in this briefcase, this was unfortunately the worst should something happen where I’m asked to leave, even as politely as you have done.”

“Still wish for me to go? Or would you like to talk business and help out a friend?”