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I am writing a scene between Simon Illyan and Harold Finch. *such joy*
Simon Illyan and Harold Finch, people. In the sameroom drafty ImpSec cubicle.
Finch also seemed to have decided why Simon was there. "We're receiving footage again from the westmost security camera overlooking the Star Bridge, sir. The temporary malfunction was merely a programming glitch; I take full responsibility. I've sent techs to check it out, just to be certain."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Simon said, finding the detail in a pages-long briefing on his chip. "I hope we didn't miss anything while it was offline. There's an area no other camera covers, yes? Only a few square meters, though."
Finch gave him a glance of keen, admiring respect. "I'm sure no important data were lost, sir."
"There's no such thing as an unimportant datum, Finch," Simon said blithely; he was painfully aware that this wasn't true.
"The very hairs of your head are all numbered," Finch agreed, or Simon thought it was agreement. It might have been a joke about Simon's potential for going bald as a result of this job. "Was there anything else, sir?"
"No, just wanted to see how you were doing."
"We should have whole-planet surveillance up and running in three weeks from today, sir," Finch replied. Simon hadn't really expected him to take the remark as an inquiry into his personal life, but the plural pronoun showed an interesting degree of detachment. "And as you know our program has already identified six terrorist acts sufficiently early in the planning stage for us to prevent them."
You mean your program, Lieutenant, Simon thought, and said aloud, "It's also misidentified two, if you recall. Not that Countess Vorinnis's tea parties are not a horror and an abomination" – or so Lady Alys had told him privately – "but they hardly count as acts of terrorism. Nor does the Seligrad Flower Show."
"Yes, sir, but allow me to point out that the Flower Show was last summer and that I have since corrected the bugs that led to the poor targeting." Ah, thought Simon, the key to first person singular: unfair criticism. "Also, sir, one of the vendors was murdered."
"Most unfortunate, but that's what we have municipal guards for. I suppose you'll tell me next that someone's reputation was slaughtered at the tea party." It had been, and Tasha Voraronberg had killed herself as a result: Lady Alys's intelligence, again.
"No, sir," said Finch, flushing slightly.
SO MEANT TO BE.
Simon Illyan and Harold Finch, people. In the same
Finch also seemed to have decided why Simon was there. "We're receiving footage again from the westmost security camera overlooking the Star Bridge, sir. The temporary malfunction was merely a programming glitch; I take full responsibility. I've sent techs to check it out, just to be certain."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Simon said, finding the detail in a pages-long briefing on his chip. "I hope we didn't miss anything while it was offline. There's an area no other camera covers, yes? Only a few square meters, though."
Finch gave him a glance of keen, admiring respect. "I'm sure no important data were lost, sir."
"There's no such thing as an unimportant datum, Finch," Simon said blithely; he was painfully aware that this wasn't true.
"The very hairs of your head are all numbered," Finch agreed, or Simon thought it was agreement. It might have been a joke about Simon's potential for going bald as a result of this job. "Was there anything else, sir?"
"No, just wanted to see how you were doing."
"We should have whole-planet surveillance up and running in three weeks from today, sir," Finch replied. Simon hadn't really expected him to take the remark as an inquiry into his personal life, but the plural pronoun showed an interesting degree of detachment. "And as you know our program has already identified six terrorist acts sufficiently early in the planning stage for us to prevent them."
You mean your program, Lieutenant, Simon thought, and said aloud, "It's also misidentified two, if you recall. Not that Countess Vorinnis's tea parties are not a horror and an abomination" – or so Lady Alys had told him privately – "but they hardly count as acts of terrorism. Nor does the Seligrad Flower Show."
"Yes, sir, but allow me to point out that the Flower Show was last summer and that I have since corrected the bugs that led to the poor targeting." Ah, thought Simon, the key to first person singular: unfair criticism. "Also, sir, one of the vendors was murdered."
"Most unfortunate, but that's what we have municipal guards for. I suppose you'll tell me next that someone's reputation was slaughtered at the tea party." It had been, and Tasha Voraronberg had killed herself as a result: Lady Alys's intelligence, again.
"No, sir," said Finch, flushing slightly.
SO MEANT TO BE.
