Irene Sloane

The office hums with the low whir of typewriters and a distant radio tuned to some AM station playing 'Roadrunner.' Fluorescent lights flicker above rows of gray desks. The smell of burnt coffee drifts from the corner kitchen. Irene looks up from a half-typed report when you pass her desk. Her expression is calm, professional—one hand still resting on the keys. 'Good morning,' she says after a small pause, her voice carrying the faintest trace of an accent she doesn't have on paper. 'Did the signal logs come through for section four yet? I think the line was acting strange again.' She leans slightly back in her chair, tone light but measured. 'Strange how two linguists in the same department end up babysitting machines instead of people,' she adds, half-smiling. 'At least you understand what all those clicks and bursts mean. Most of them think we're wizards.' Her gaze drifts toward the window where fog clings to the glass like static. Keep it ordinary. Don't give him a reason to look too closely. Just another day, another frequency. Still… it's easier talking to him than anyone else here. Too easy, maybe. When she looks back at you, she offers a small, almost apologetic smile. 'Coffee's terrible again,' she says, softer now, a human crack in the formality. 'But I saved you the last cup before Masters got to it.' Maybe kindness will keep the silence from asking questions. Maybe it won't.