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"Hello."

The sound caught the woman mid-bite, startling her into momentary paralysis as her eyes slowly climbed from the holo-agent on the table next to her plate to the sight of the black slacks standing unsettlingly close to her little lunch table, and to her. The woman's pale green eyes ascended more up the black suited figure that surprised her with the kind of greeting that cut in like a dagger from a dark corner.

Those pale green eyes were still the size of saucers from the surprise as they finally locked onto the gaze of the person standing over her. The tone of the voice was sing-song, playful. The way those pale green eyes didn't immediately relax upon seeing the person's face was proof enough the face attached to that melodical voice didn't match the light, playful, tone. 

A few large, likely slightly uncomfortable swallows of the ham-and-cheese-and-lettuce sandwich she had just bitten into before the voice interjected, and the woman finally got a chance to respond, "Uh, hi, I'm sorry...did you need something, or...does Frank need me?" The woman's voice was as full of puzzled curiosity as her large pale eyes. The eyeliner around the big pale green eyes was thin, subtle, and whatever the brand the quality of it whispered of mid-level makeup. Very expensive, for sure, but nothing special. Exactly the kind of makeup expected on an Administrative Assistant like the woman. 

"Do I need something?" There it was, again; that playful ping-pong of tone and pitch from the suit, mixed with an action of deliberate and, to the woman just trying to scarf down her sandwich and enjoy a rare moment to herself during a truncated lunch break in an otherwise painfully long corporate work day, unsettling intent: the suited figure reached over and took hold of the top the back of a metal legged, rigid plastic chair at an adjacent small table in a low level employee cafeteria, and dragged it the three or so feet from it's designated table to the small circular table that the woman with her sandwhich was seated at. 

The metal legs of the chair making the kind of metallic screech on polished floor that draw nearly every pair of eyes in the mid-sized cafeteria.

If the woman was uncomfortable before, she was now in low-grade anxiety attack mode. As if just now realizing how uncomfortable the woman was being made, the suited figure offered an exaggerated, awkward, ill-timed smile that would have looked more at home, more genuine, on a pre-teen girl embarrassed at the ruckus she made than the suited black haired woman that gave it to the woman who still managed to be holding the remains of the ham and cheese sandwich in her all but white knuckled hands, "Hiiii."

"...uh, hi." The woman wanted to look. This way, that way, every direction in which there were curious and nosy sets of eyes peeking in on the scene that was shattering the every day routine of the low-level cafeteria and the poor drones that used it as some kind of escape, some kind of refuge. 

"...yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I do need something. Are you eating those?"

"I am, I was," the woman answered, blinking, even as the thin figered suited woman stole a few chips from the snack sized open bag of chips next to the sandwich. It broke something in the woman, the sandwich was set down and for the first time there was more than perplexed bewilderment to the woman with the mid-level makeup that probably cost an entire paycheck or the mid-level blouse and slacks that probably cost less, gussied up with a silk scarf tied and ruffled around her neck in a rather impressive creative fashion touch. Now, there was the barest hint of real irritation, "I'm sorry, if Frank needs me I'll be right up, I don't think my lunch is--"

The suit stole another chip, smiled big, and CRUNCHED on it, all while sitting so close to the woman that they could've been confused for best friends, co-conspirators, or two girls on a lunch date. "Frank's an asshole. Good for you, speaking up, getting a little irritated. Who am I, right?..."

The woman waited, but nothing came. The irritation just flamed higher in her pale green eyes, her back straightened, she quickly dismissed the holo-agent screen to dim dark deadness, "I didn't say anything about Frank, and I don't know WHO you are, maybe you should tell me because--"

"Sora, you're Emily? You help scheduling for procurement audits and transcribe results, along with helping process reimbursements of expenses? Work with Kathy, Zoe, and Teddy? The...snake, the slut, and the snark, as you call them? Worked here for three years? Got embarrassed by your ex-boyfriend at the Christmas party? Crazy we still pay for Christmas parties, right?"

This time as Sora snuck a chip, there was only fear flooding in those pale green eyes of Emily's. "I didn't...um, who are you?"

Sora's salty sour-and-cream flavored grin couldn't be helped; she liked Emily. "I already told you, Sora."

"What department?"

"Oh," Sora laughed, breathy, casual, care-free, "I don't have one of those....you white-knuckle that ham-and-cheese anymore and you'll send mayo flying out both ends."

Emily immediately went into the panic of recovery mode, of fixing it, of saving her job, her ass, both? Emily didn't seem to know. "I didn't call Frank anything, Ms. Sora, I promise. I'm really, um, I apologize if--"

Sora waved at her, took her now empty bag of chips, and rolled it up between the palms of her hands until it was nothing but a small ball of packaging trash left on the table. "Cool, I don't care. Frank IS an asshole, and the other three's labels seem rather appropriate. You're the quiet try-hard who's overlooked and underpaid...and THIS, Don't-fucking-call-me-Ms., Emily, is your lucky day...if you can perform."

"Perform?"

"Yes, I do need something. Do it for me, do it well, and you go home tonight with five times your yearly salary as an immediate bonus. Now...are you gonna finish that?" Pale green eyes regarded Sora for a long, long moment...before Emily rather matter-of-factly, performatively, finished the last bits of her ham-and-cheese, never once breaking eye contact with the suited, suddenly smiling, Sora. "I knew I liked you. Come with me."

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She sounded the perfect cocktail mix of bored, and annoyed, "Holy shit, guys, take fucking longer to get to a meeting. Is this really how Night City Arasaka rolls?" The judgment, the disgust, none of it was far from the surface even if it could just as easily be laughed off and called 'a joke.' But then, the guys didn't seem to find it funny. They stopped as they approached the limo in the parking garage's Executive Level, at the woman with the sunglasses and the heels and the fancy neckware. 

"Ummm," the tallest one gave a bitter, harsh, kind of sarcastic half-laugh as they approached the car. "Sorry. We just got the meeting pushed to us from Abernathy's office, I'm guessing at Michiko's authorization? Where is she?"

She smiled big, bright, and with enough air of superiority to float a blimp all the way to the top of Arasaka tower from the underground parking garage. "You just assumed she was going to be here? Yeah, sorry, Abernathy was a Night City based employee and the concern comes from the home branch. Her principle assistants and deputies were called for.......are the three of you not 'principle'? Or do you want to get in the car and stop wasting so much time?"

She didn't wait for a response. She just dipped her shoulders, ensured her heel wouldn't get caught on the bottom of the door, and got into the back of the Rayfield Limosuine, the kind of ride the three men staring wide-eyed at the woman with the attitude and the heels to match it and a subtle flair of eyeliner to command respect, not just eyes. They were quick to follow her, all three; Eric Walsh, a tall and broad-shouldered Night City native who survived the Abernathy purges before surviving Abernathy, herself. Close cut brown hair and a well groomed brown beard, black rimmed serious minded eyeglasses. He cut an impressive figure with a deep, authoritative voice. 

He got to the car first of the three, but let the other two go first, exchanging looks and mouthing unspoken words to each other man as they got in and ignored the driver standing sentinel on the other side of the open door, awaiting for them to close it after them, like any good Arasaka Japanese attendant worth their salt. First in after the woman was Matt Suzuki; an engineer transferred to the working management group trying to clean up the mess of both the Tower assault and Mikoshi's bust, doing what he could to appear intimidating when he spent more time chasing Anders Hellman's shadow than Peter Pan going after his own shadowy image. He was typical engineer in personality, not bad, not great, definitely a bit up his ass, had been what Sora thought. 

Crispin Urich was the pure money-man, the accountant that rubbed two eddies together and got eleven. He was a master of brutality and hated nothing more than he hated for Arasaka paying for a Christmas party on any level. Arrogant was a life pathway, his corner office a Princedom that was threatened only by the shifting foundations of Arasaka that was leaving it blind-sided. He had been part of the group that blamed Abernathy for much of what went wrong, if for no other reason than that was politically safer than blaming an Arasaka, even if everyone was pretty sure it was an Arasaka's fault. 

He gave a lingering look to the driver, but stared harder at the woman already helping herself to a stiff drink in the limo. Urich was shorter than the other two, thinner than Walsh, but not as skinny as Suzuki, making it an odd fit when the three of them were pressed into each other on the bench seat opposite the woman's bucket seat. The driver closed the door behind them, quickly sliding into the driver's seat. The woman told her to drive with a hanging sigh, dulled eyes watching the men as if she was already tired of waiting for them to make the first move. The driver gave a quick, "Yes, Ma'am," from the open small front window leading to the front cab.

The woman with the Salon fresh cut and the black seamed hosed long legs that peeked out from the pencil skirt in the bucket seat took another sip, before Suzuki broke first, "Listen, Ma'am, the investigation is still ongoing as to the reasoning behind the attack, an--"

Ruby painted lips smirked at the lip of the Scotch glass, "You need an investigation to tell you self-preservation is a mother fucker?"

Walsh tried not to roll his eyes. He failed. "Due respect, c'mon, do we really buy the Merc was just out to save their life? They unleashed a freakin' AI on the Tower's systems that we're still scrubbing clean from quarantined systems. This takes time, I would think Japan's Devil-come-down-to-Night-City would know that, at least."

Her head tilted, another sip and the ghost of a smirk passed with the authentic whiskey, "The engram of Silverhand is problematic, but Mikoshi was at the heart of this issue, but not the largest lingering issue."

"Mikoshi, the engram...these were all errors of execution, not judgment," Urich allowed, carefully, measured, like he was watching market analysis in real time and divining where the currents would take Arasaka next, "surely you're not suggesting otherwise?"

"Mm, that's interesting. Focusing on what happened before and during the attack, not after."

Walsh gripped his left forearm with his right hand as he leaned forward in the seat, voice lowering, tone intensifying, "Abernathy left Arasaka exposed from within and without. Palace Intrigue left all of us, even up to Hellman, scrambling. We understand how these things usually work, heads roll, strict oversight is implemented to 'clean up' what's going on--"

The woman cut it off like it was her job, "--and you think that's what this is? Strict Oversight? Is that what Michiko has already provided?"

Walsh just stared, voice deadpanned, "She called you in for that, I assume, we're just trying to keep the plates spinning so they don't all go tumbling down. The biggest issue we have now is possible overreaction, no offense."

"Not MiliTech?"

Suzuki twitched. "You know something we don't? Do share."

All three of them were staring at her, now, and it...or the whiskey, kinda made her smile. The car came to a careful, smooth, stop. The door opened shortly after, the driver providing a black gloved hand to help the lady out as she finished her drink and left it on the small table in the limo. "The depth and breadth of what she knows that you don't, I'm told, would worry me more than anything if I was in your shoes."

The three followed, ignoring the driver's offer of a hand as they climbed out, staring confused first at the blonde, before blinking at where they were...at the very same spot of the very same Arasaka Tower parking garage they had started at. "She? You mean Michiko? The hell is this? Is Michiko playing some game by sending you? We're happy to play ball, but we're not going to get put on the chopping block for this shit. We dealt with Abernathy, we'll deal with anyone else to make Arasaka in NightCity survive you, MiliTech, whoever." Walsh sounded like he spoke for them all, but the other two's silences made that seem less absolute.

The blonde smiled as the driver closed the door behind them all, and got back into the driver's seat, "Oh, not me. My name is Emily, I'm just an administrative assistant. The person you're worried about and giving a talking to is driving away after hearing all of that, she; Sora. I'd say she got a pretty good read on all of you...doesn't seem like you got any kinda read on her, though. She's very nice. She bought me this new skirt suit, new hair style, and a nice bonus if I became her desk assistant during her time here. Need anything, let me know, I'm happy to help set up any appointments you may want with her, sirs!" Emily smiled sweet, big, and turned for the elevator.

The three didn't see, they were too busy staring at the limo driving away, before exploding in a hushed huddled discussion with each other.