Fantastic Filigree

Ikora's personal library is her haven from the world. Only a few people know it exists; even fewer can come and go as they please.

A gloved hand sets a paper bag on the desk next to her. Ikora looks up. "How was lunch?"

Chalco pulls up a chair and slumps into it, knocking their shoulders together. She looks wearier than she does after some field missions. "Lunch was his idea, so I'd say you already know."

Ikora reaches out, fingertips finding the knots of tension in Chalco's back. There's more every year.

"He's intelligent. Personable. He has a sense of humor. He's adjusting." All compliments, but Chalco looks unhappy. "Talking to Orin, you couldn't forget that you were conversing with something really, truly alien. But he's so… Human."

"You think he was chosen to lower our guards. Because he could get close to us."

"Not just us. You. You have to remember he's got a bit of the Nine in him."

Ikora has explored this line of thinking many times. "I do. I also believe that the connection is mutual."

Chalco raises a brow. "You think there's a bit of Lodi in the Nine now? That's not necessarily a good thing."

"I know." Ikora smiles when she opens the paper bag—dumplings, still hot, if a little squashed in transit. The simplest food in the City is its most luxurious. "That's why I'm counting on you."

Chalco sighs, but her lips finally curve up. "Always."