Faction HQ

"Miss, that's n-" Vamptok starts, before realizing who he's talking to. If Ambriel's cop girlfriend (who could probably bring all of Intersection and/or her divine patron's wrath down on their heads) needs to talk to him right now, then she's going to talk to him right now. If that means telling Squiddly to step aside or moving one of Needs' rituals out into the hall, so be it.

"Fine, this way. He was in the middle of-nevermind, it's not important," Vlad corrects himself, hurrying down the corridor, giving a fiendish look towards anyone who so much as dares to delay his mission to escort Ithuriel through the base for even a moment. Needs is going to have to talk about saving the world later, thank you very much. Haz better stop chatting in the middle of their way and press his back against the wall if he doesn't want to get run over.

"Mind the wires," he warns Ithuriel, gliding over the floor as they enter a room where the floor is covered in thick, tangled cables, and every wall is plastered in computer monitors, regaling the viewer with all sorts of esoteric and seemingly nonsensical data about a long list of unidentified individuals, displaying everything from heart rate to political views, hourly wages to horoscope readings. I think Ithuriel might be up there, Subject 3452 possibly, but it's hard to tell, given the endless tide of data washing across the screens. Ambriel looks surprised to see her, pulling an odd VR helmet-looking thing off his head as he raises an eyebrow and wordlessly looks to both her and Vlad for an explanation. Why didn't someone send him out there to meet her? Why have her walk all the way here and let her look at all of this stuff? It's nothing he'd be ashamed to tell her about, but it is work stuff, and he's been trying to keep his personal life out of that nonsense.