*scrawled marker writing on a virtual board – organised into the form of arrows, plots and a map. Listed via the LCD are various labels and objectives, methods and directions of assault, weaponry lists and armament stores, logistical routes, bombardment, troop movements… this is war.*
The lady standing at this board has pocketed the stylus and turned around.
Strategy. I take pride in it. It’s a right I’m here to damn well keep, too.
If someone wants to take that right, it’ll be over my cold, dead body. You just fucking try.
Anyway. That isn’t the point. I must advise you I don’t take kindly to patronisation. And I’m keeping my rights while I’m at it. That includes my damn dignity.
You think it’d probably be wise not to insult her while you’re at it.
These plans are being written up for an inquiry into social conduct. It’s come into question before and it needs to be analysed and understood before moving on.
Bigger picture, social dynamic has to be worked on, sealed down and resolved before anything else gets moving on. But it’s a deep subject.
Hence the strategy board.
Keeping my goddamn rights is… tradition.
Also with this, taking things by complete storm.
Now, this all has to be arbited and approved at some point by the personas responsible for auditing-arbitration and privacy, but believe me, innundations of stupid clueless Laana are long gone. Response times, reallocation and divesture… a lot of paperwork is being filed over in this brain, and it’s all in stability’s sake. Clarity of expression isn’t long off the horizon; it’s just where to find the damn thing.
Then? We might start getting into the meat and potatoes of this lot. I’ll get those resolutions. I’ll… kick the bastards in the fucking balls. And finally get some goddamn, bloody peace. *sigh*