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Nov. 12th, 2014 06:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scp_foundationThe guards, who still wore full riot-gear in the wake of the containment breach, led Heather through the winding hallways and into an elevator. None of them reacted to Heather, and indeed would have appeared to be ignoring her if not for the occasional cautious stiffness in their movements. They were familiar with her file, knew she had the potential to be very dangerous.
The floor that they exited onto was unlike the utilitarian concrete and steel doors. It was far from cozy or welcoming, but the simple carpet and addition of drywall and wood trim made it seem more like a government building than a prison.
One of the soldiers knocked, paused, and then opened the door without being bid. They nudged Heather inside and hurriedly closed the door behind her.
The room was painted an off-white that bore a striking resemblance to years of nicotine stains. The walls had no decoration, save a large television mounted on the far wall. The only furniture was a wooden table that did not properly fill the empty space, and four chairs. Sitting at the head of the table was a woman with a notepad, a cup of coffee, and a cannoli in front of her. Several silent seconds ticked by before the woman looked up from her note-taking.
"Miss Mason," she acknowledged, in a tone that walked the line between crisp and bored. "Please, have a seat."
The floor that they exited onto was unlike the utilitarian concrete and steel doors. It was far from cozy or welcoming, but the simple carpet and addition of drywall and wood trim made it seem more like a government building than a prison.
One of the soldiers knocked, paused, and then opened the door without being bid. They nudged Heather inside and hurriedly closed the door behind her.
The room was painted an off-white that bore a striking resemblance to years of nicotine stains. The walls had no decoration, save a large television mounted on the far wall. The only furniture was a wooden table that did not properly fill the empty space, and four chairs. Sitting at the head of the table was a woman with a notepad, a cup of coffee, and a cannoli in front of her. Several silent seconds ticked by before the woman looked up from her note-taking.
"Miss Mason," she acknowledged, in a tone that walked the line between crisp and bored. "Please, have a seat."
