Chapter Text
Headquarters turns out to the commons in shifts; if everyone’s out to lunch, who’s watching what needs watching, who’s fixing what needs fixing, that sort of thing. No one has the same lunch break every day either; they joke it’s for variety, but like most things in Headquarters, it’s really about security.
Watcher Three understands the sensibility of it, of course. Yet, such a system can make sitting with friends (or, in Watcher Three’s case, co-workers that like having him around) a challenge. Then again, he figures “time with friends” is not very high on the list of Imperial Intelligence’s priorities. It’s probably down there with getting more heating units since the complex is always so damn cold.
He gets into line and is handed a tray of unappetizing red mush with a side of distressingly odorless smoked meat (whether or not it’s really meat is questionable), which he accepts with a small thank-you despite speaking to a server droid. As he leaves the line, he pokes at the fake-looking meat and notes the not-very-meat-like texture. Honestly, he’d rather have double portions of the weird red mush than fake meat pretending to be real meat—not that it’s trying very hard to pretend.
Watcher Three then looks out across the cafeteria, deciding on where he’ll sit, when he spots a familiar figure sitting alone at the further end of a table near the back. They stand out from the crowd, the typical uniform replaced by roughed-up, stained field gear, and a distinct, white-furred face. Imperial Intelligence is not lacking in aliens, but he’s only seen one Cathar.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he crosses the room until he reaches the table. He awkwardly clears his throat, and the Cathar agent looks up from zir tray. “May I sit here?”
“Be my guest,” ze replies in a tone that suggests ze doesn’t much care. Watcher Three sits down next to zir and nudges the red mush around his tray with his spoon.
“Ah—I should introduce myself; I’m Watcher Three, from—”
“From Operations,” the agent interrupts with a cool smile, “I remember.”
“Oh—oh, you do, that’s,” Watcher Three clears his throat, “that’s good. We didn’t really speak much, so I wasn’t sure.”
The agent sets down zir fork and holds out zir hand. Watcher Three shakes it. “Nymihr,” the agent says with another, perhaps more genuine smile. You can never really tell with field operatives. “Though, Intelligence doesn’t seem particularly fond of names.”
“Names are liabilities,” Watcher Three replies and spoons up a bit of red mush. It tastes acidic and vaguely fruity, almost like a very strange, very disturbed applesauce. “Especially for field agents. After Hutta, I don’t think it’ll be long before you’ll be given your own designation.”
Nymihr makes a face at that, but it doesn’t stay long enough on zir face for Watcher Three to decipher it. “Names are liabilities, sure, but some liabilities are smaller than others. Not to say your position isn’t important, but data analysts don’t strike me as a big enough risk to warrant codenames. Fixers, either.”
“Why take the risk if you don’t need to?” Watcher Three responds around another mouthful of food. Nymihr makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s not just liability, either. Everyone has their role in Intelligence, and designations help communicate that.”
Ze stabs zir fork into a piece of fake meat with a frustrated expression. “Oh yes, the well-oiled Imperial machine,” ze mutters with barely concealed disdain. Ze catches zirself and schools zir face into something more neutral. “It doesn’t bother you?” ze asks after another moment.
Watcher Three quickly looks down at his tray and surveys his spoon with sudden interest. “It…” he pauses and entertains the probably paranoid thought that Nymihr is testing him, looking for cracks. He doesn’t outright push the thought away; he won’t look good denying his feelings defensively. “I suppose it does if I think about it,” he finally says and pointedly gestures with his spoon, “which is why I don’t think about it.”
Nymihr snorts. “Not the answer I expected from a Watcher. Isn’t your job thinking about things?”
“Thinking about data,” Watcher Three corrects, “and, because I’m just a regular Human, I have to go by priority of importance. I’m not some … specially bred Watcher who can think about a thousand things at once.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s more than a thousand,” Nymihr’s lips twitch into an amused smile at Watcher Three’s exasperated groan.
“Point is,” Watcher Three continues, “is that I have responsibilities, and those have to come first before any personal feelings I have.”
He watches the smile falter on the agent’s face, but ze manages to keep zir face placid. Ze nods, considering, before replying, “a utilitarian point of view.”
“It’s the way it is,” Watcher Three responds in practiced neutrality. He measures Nymihr with a critical eye. “Mind if I ask a personal question?”
“I assume you’re going to anyway.”
Watcher Three hums and looks back at his meal again. “The way you talk about it, it sounds like … well, like you haven’t lived in the Empire very long. Is that true?”
Nymihr goes very quiet, very still, and Watcher Three kicks himself for asking such a forthright question. But then, carefully, ze draws a small breath and shakes zir head. “I’ve lived in the Empire my entire life, but my parents haven’t. They lost their home in the last war and, through a series of unfortunate events, they ended up here,” ze explains. A bitter smile crosses zir face. “And the thing about the Empire is that once you get in, it’s very difficult to get back out.”
Watcher Three stares at zir in stunned silence. He wasn’t expecting such an answer, and he almost suspects ze’s just screwing with him. Trying to garner pity, sow seeds of doubt in him. Of course, if that was zir plan, it’s not a wise one. People in Intelligence don’t stay patriots very long, if they were ever patriots to begin with. Not with the kinds of things they do, the things they see.
But Nymihr doesn’t look particularly interested in his reaction. Ze finishes the last of zir food on zir tray, then turns zir head to watch the rest of the cafeteria.
Watcher Three frowns. “So, joining Intelligence, that wasn’t your idea either, then?”
“Is it anyone’s?” ze asks. Zir eyes narrow. “Was it yours?”
He swallows roughly and scrambles for a way to respond. But before he can reply, Nymihr interrupts him. “I’d put that question further up on your priority list,” ze says, tone dripping with venom. Then, as if nothing had happened at all, zir face shifts back to the unbothered, disinterested expression he’d found zir with. “Enjoy your meal, Watcher Three.”
He watches the agent remove zirself from the table and stalk through the crowded cafeteria towards the doors. Once ze vanishes from his sight, he turns back to his half-eaten tray.
He’s not hungry anymore.