Somewhere in the room, Gideon's phone was losing its shit. The young man cracked his eyes open and immediately regretted the move as blinding light poured into his vulnerable eyes. Blinking twice, he was at last able to gain a decent picture of his surroundings. He was in the living room of the modest apartment he had been afforded as a member of Teirland's diplomatic attache to Algareth, laying on the couch he vaguely remembered collapsing on at some point after the dreadfully tedious diplomat's ball he'd attended the night before. Judging by the absolute mess the room was in, the splitting headache swimming behind Gideon's eyes and the fact that he could not seem to find his shirt, it seemed fair to guess that the party had gotten a lot less boring at some point.

The phone was still ringing. In a daze, the soldier swung his hand over the the glass table where it lay and swatted at the screen in a vain attempt to make it stop. His struggling was resisted, and reluctantly Gideon grabbed the device and read the message that had appeared on the screen. He paused for only a moment, and then immediately sprung into action.

Or perhaps it'd be better to say he rolled into action, as his first attempt to rise from the leather couch met with disaster. On the second try he managed to get to his feet, and dashed quickly to his apartment's changing room. Ten minutes later, he emerged, having transformed handily from hungover ruin to a well-groomed military gentlemen, though he'd been wise enough to avoid anything in his wardrobe that made his national allegiances explicit.

Lastly, he slung the holster of his twinblade over his back and began sauntering towards the door. "John, get the car ready," he spoke brusquely into the apartment's intercom, then exited the room and slammed the door behind him.

The garage was only a short drive away from the diplomatic offices, a distance further scrunched by the reckless pace Gideon was driving at. He left his car parked next to what he was pretty sure was Mirany's motorcycle and strode over to the lift, whistling quietly to himself the whole way down. Finally, the doors opened into the Safehouse and Gideon stepped out, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders.
 
"Do you suppose," he announced to the room, "That the brass could be [i]convinced[/i] to give us more than an hour's warning next time? I might've been in the middle of some important diplomatic business."