EYE OF THE TIGER

where: her home

when: sometime in the past few years?

Sofie smirked faintly as she turned the corner, the steady rhythm of her own running shoes against pavement no longer echoed by the heavier set that had been following her since she stepped out of her home. Even when hired by her own company she hardly wanted someone shadowing her every move, much less a member of Scotland Yard. She could handle herself and whatever unsettled individual who thought threatening her husband was a bright idea.

Rolling her eyes faintly as she stepped inside the house making her way toward the kitchen for a water. "Darling, if you're going to have someone follow me on a run, they are going to need to learn to keep up or atleast be prepared to wander off the path." As she turned expecting her husband, her eyebrow raised finding someone who was decidedly not him. "Sorry, what was your name again?"

Ender wasn't even supposed to be on duty right now, but Morrison had radioed when he'd started to lose ground and Ms. Fortier hadn't responded to his warnings to stay with him. And as the senior officer, it was Ender's job to handle all the unpleasant details. He'd seen her arrival on the security cameras, getting to the kitchen just after she did, and while her casual use of darling made more sense once she seemed to be surprised it was him, that didn't mean he wasn't still annoyed about the rest of it.

But he tried to remain civil: "Ma'am, you do realize there's a threat on your life. You need to stay with your escort and stay on paths where we can reach you." He'd outlined all of this in their security meeting, their written instructions, and he was sure Morrison had reminded her, too. But she couldn't even remember his name. "Ender Alparslan," he said, just as a radio call and the sound of the front door opening announced that Morrison had made it back. "If you continue to disregard instructions, we have the authority to restrict your activities."

He lets Ender pull him up, snagging his cane on the way up and doing his best to shift and his support his weight again before gritting his teeth against the pain, ready to turn back to ender appreciatively- Only to have to stop and fix him with a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed look at the offer. "... Skip arms this week, commander? There are easier, more practical feats of strength."

And he doesn't miss the grimace that precedes the sarcasm. "Can you walk that far?" he shoots back. "It's easier to move a bench than to carry you."

For now though, if Samuel had to guess, he was willing to wager that Ender was also never questioned about the information in his reports - or lack thereof. "There's a shocking amount of stuff that's... simply not there." He gestured to the papers in a motion that suggested he was baffled, eyebrows raising and pulling a breath in through one side of his mouth as though he had to deliver bad news to someone but he wasn't sure how to best go about doing so.

"If I don't have relevant information, I leave the space blank," he said finally. That was true, and maybe even standard for some of the spaces. After all, anyone on a solo assignment would leave "additional officers" blank, right? So it was the same thing to not fill in "warrant number" if he hadn't had a warrant. But that couldn't explain away everything--he just needed to speak carefully. "...Sir, we're dealing with active threats. We don't always have time to complete every step of every procedure. But everything I put down can be traced and proven. If you want me to back something up, I will." In fact, that was why he left so much off the reports--if he made something up, or included something that was done in the wrong way, the truth could come out. It was better not to give anyone that starting point.

Mishka, for her big, soft eyes and stubby, plodding little body is deceptively conniving. Zmei fears he's been a bad example, bringing her along sometimes when he coaches, because now she's decided she likes a clean takedown as much as the best fighters, always gleefully standing on his chest for the pin and licking his face victoriously whenever she can successfully take him to the ground. She knows to go for the knees, or has been known to walk off with his cane like incapacitating him is a game to her, and now it seems that Mishka must have also told her new, bigger friends from the dogpark to exploit his weaknesses as well.

But no matter how heelish or unsportsmanlike his dog might be, Zmei still finds himself laughing as his back hits the soft grass, sitting up as best he can before he can get trampled and throwing the ball she'd dutifully brought back and dropped amongst the chaos.

He watches the pack run after it, and finally takes a second to assess. Everything seems fine if a little muddy, but his knee is none too happy about bending enough to get his feet back under him. He reaches for his cane just in time to hear footsteps approaching, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, no worries but, ah... Could I have a hand? I think my knee's had it for now..."

Well, Ender thinks, at least that's one less dog trampling him.

Bridget lopes by his side as he jogs across the field, wagging her tail as they approach Zmei. "Mishka's a natural," Ender tells him, reaching down to grip his hand. "I had to train Bridget to take people down." Right now, though, it looks like his dog is just curious about what Zmei's doing on the ground. Shoving her cold nose into Zmei's face, she gives him a thorough inspection. "Tamam, tamam," Ender tells her, "go get 'em."

As she streaks off to rejoin the pack, Ender hauls Zmei to his feet. "You wanna sit down?" he asks. "I could bring a bench over."

But the light conversation was short-lived, as he probably should've expected from the commander. Samuel's small half-smile faltered and he nodded, maintaining steady eye contact with the man. "I'd like to discuss methodology with you, if I can be frank.

But when talk turned to business, and Samuel prefaced it with if I can be frank--never a good sign, especially coming from someone Ender already thought of as straightforward--he frowned, even as he gave a nod for the commissioner to go ahead.

And whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this. For a moment, Ender just looked at him, not sure he'd even heard correctly--what was he on about, that being fired or placed on leave should even be a possibility? For what?! "I don't lie," he said flatly. "Sir, if it's in my reports, it's true." Even in the Army, when others had suggested it might be easier to falsify information, he'd never done it--liars always got caught. But there were plenty of things Ender didn't put into his reports in the first place. And if the sections where he was supposed to fill in warrant information or permissions or precedent were sometimes left blank, or deleted entirely...well, nobody had ever asked questions before. Going through all that paperwork took long enough even if he'd abridged it a little. "Are you looking at a certain incident?"

Handing the candle back to her, he asks, "Will your cats eat it?" Bridget probably would--it's been a long time since he's left out anything that might smell like food to a curious dog.

He took little pleasure in needing to reprimand subordinates and all things considered, it could've been much worse but as it stood (or rather, as he sat behind the organized chaos that was previously known as "the commissioner's expensive mahogany desk"), Samuel had gotten the feeling that too many of these officers had slid through the cracks, under the radar and some of them weren't even that subtle about it, having grown complacent in their behaviours.

Samuel Knight was many things, observant being among the most important of his traits. And it was telling that a handful of officers he'd spoken to seemed legitimately taken aback during the conduct reports he'd been issuing. This time, among the byzantine sea he'd created on his desk, he viewed the records of Ender Ali Alperslan, the prestigious head of the MET's Potection Command.

This wasn't a standard constable, to say the least.

He tried to ignore the piles of paperwork, though, figuring some, if not all, must be classified, and instead kept his focus on the commissioner. "Fine," he said. "How was your birthday?" Ender wasn't above a little small talk--in fact, he liked getting to know his coworkers--but he had a feeling his superior officer hadn't called him down to headquarters just to exchange pleasantries. "What can I do for you, sir?"