Hi, Anon! I haven’t given up hope of completing that story, but currently it’s stuck and I’ve been working on other things, so I can’t promise anything.
But in the meantime, I can share what I’ve got so far. Subject to change, of course, but here you go!
“Gotta get pretty for the bosses?” Gabriel teases him—mocks him, really, these days—whenever he catches Jack getting ready for a sub-committee meeting.
It’d be better if Gabe just pulled a gun and shot at him, honestly. Every time, it comes out a little nastier, Gabriel only growing more bitter with every passing day. Jack knows he’s slowly losing his friend, but his lips are sealed. They’ve got him bound in gag orders and carefully unspecified threats. He can’t even explain to the man who most deserves to know that all the primping and polishing is under orders, let alone that the position Gabe’s eating himself alive over has become…this.
Nothing Gabe would want, that’s for damn sure.
He knows the figure he cuts as he strides through the halls of the Geneva Office, blond hair and brass trim gleaming, UN-blue coat swaying around his calves, ballistic ceramic-coated boots ringing against the marble floors. The armor stays off for a formal meeting, but the boots are part of the uniform and they lend a sense of ‘active duty’ that adds a certain something to his image. People step out of his way, turn to stare as he passes them. He walks with a measured stride he’s perfected with long practice, brisk but unhurried, exuding confidence and calm. Overwatch Strike Commander Jack Morrison, on his way to answer to the chosen representatives of the people of the world.
The small amphitheater is one of the smaller ‘cozy’ meeting spaces in the building. Even at that, it’s sheathed in understated splendor, paneled in carved tropical woods and beaded mosaics in homage to the cultures of Oceania. Jack walks down the ramp to the crescent shaped floor in the center and turns to face the 15 members of the United Nations Sub-Committee on Oversight of the Overwatch Initiative. The Chair is the only one sharing the presentation space. The others occupy the first two levels of chairs surrounding them.
“Strike Commander Morrison,” the Chair acknowledges him, the ring of his Belgian accent flattened by the carpeted, sound-baffled room. It’s not Gabrielle Adawe, anymore. She’s moved onward and upward as a liaison to the Security Council these days. This would never have happened on her watch.
“Sir.” Jack snaps to attention. The committee may be made up of low-lifes, but disrespect to them is punished. He made the mistake of telling them exactly what he thought of them when they first started this. The lesson they gave him was memorable, and then they warned him that they’d take it out on his people if he did it again.
“We have discussed your latest report,” The Chair says. “You have been inventive, recently.”
That isn’t a compliment. Jack grits his teeth and braces for the follow-up.
“You seem to need reminding of who you belong to.” The Chair spreads his legs and points to the floor between them. “On your knees.”
Jack takes the few steps forward and sinks to the carpet, sweeping his coat tails out behind him. The Chair grabs Jack by the hair and pulls. “Suck, Strike Commander.“
Jack closes his eyes, ignores the contempt, and lets his mouth fall open, unresisting as he’s tugged forward to meet the Chair’s dick. The picture of obedience, that’s what they want from him. With his eyes closed, they can’t see how badly he wants to draw his sidearm and blow them all away.
from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2tkBuA5