Grudge.
Ingrid Hunnigan is a professional. At the end of the day, she takes satisfaction in a job well done. Sometimes unfortunate things happen at the office. Sometimes surprises happen. Like any of the others, she's got a certain amount of psychological shielding.
"Ingrid, hon, 'professionalism' means you get the job done well, no matter what you're feeling about it."
She's never forgotten that. It helps when she has to keep a poker face. It helps when she has to feign concern or hide disgust. It helps her keep her distance and her balance.
Being an undercover agent means you get in close to your target. She's felt crawling disgust or dislike, but never real animus. She's seen terrible things, yes, but she did what every other agent does: focus on the job. Get it done. Get the evidence, build the case, stop the threat, let the police handle the rest.
Many times, the people she opposes now aren't her personal enemies. They're faceless, just a static shot in a folder, or a name. She assesses their strengths and weaknesses and guides a weapon straight through the chinks in their armor. She's never known them. Never met them. Frequently, she's never been in the same country.
This one's different.
She's waiting for Shelton's delivery, arms folded, back straight. Her fingers are resting on her headset. She's thinking of Brownfield's disappearance in the field, but it's really a background to her thoughts.
Hunnigan's power lies in her ability to communicate.
She's thinking of hours spent working at the keyboard, trying to raise someone who can help her, trying to get around the jammed bands, trying to figure out where the hack took place, trying to pinpoint the center of the jamming signal. Guessing if her injured agent has lost consciousness or gotten 'a bit tied up' again, trying not to wonder if he's dead.
Hunnigan can reason or soothe. Given time, she can get into someone's head. She can even gain their friendships. She can direct, assist, and cheerlead.
Except once.
That demented little gnome censored her.
She doesn't know yet what Shelton's bringing her. She doesn't know what new bolthole Salazar's found to riddle with traps and haunt once more, someone's sad little scrap of carnival leftover.
But knowledge in her hands is a weapon. And she's going to use it to take apart, not Salazar--physical violence isn't her style--but his chances of gaining a foothold in the Nexus.
He's not taking her voice again.
((Brownfield is the name of a Star Trek ensign. Yep. Redshirt. I am horrible.))
"Ingrid, hon, 'professionalism' means you get the job done well, no matter what you're feeling about it."
She's never forgotten that. It helps when she has to keep a poker face. It helps when she has to feign concern or hide disgust. It helps her keep her distance and her balance.
Being an undercover agent means you get in close to your target. She's felt crawling disgust or dislike, but never real animus. She's seen terrible things, yes, but she did what every other agent does: focus on the job. Get it done. Get the evidence, build the case, stop the threat, let the police handle the rest.
Many times, the people she opposes now aren't her personal enemies. They're faceless, just a static shot in a folder, or a name. She assesses their strengths and weaknesses and guides a weapon straight through the chinks in their armor. She's never known them. Never met them. Frequently, she's never been in the same country.
This one's different.
She's waiting for Shelton's delivery, arms folded, back straight. Her fingers are resting on her headset. She's thinking of Brownfield's disappearance in the field, but it's really a background to her thoughts.
Hunnigan's power lies in her ability to communicate.
She's thinking of hours spent working at the keyboard, trying to raise someone who can help her, trying to get around the jammed bands, trying to figure out where the hack took place, trying to pinpoint the center of the jamming signal. Guessing if her injured agent has lost consciousness or gotten 'a bit tied up' again, trying not to wonder if he's dead.
Hunnigan can reason or soothe. Given time, she can get into someone's head. She can even gain their friendships. She can direct, assist, and cheerlead.
Except once.
That demented little gnome censored her.
She doesn't know yet what Shelton's bringing her. She doesn't know what new bolthole Salazar's found to riddle with traps and haunt once more, someone's sad little scrap of carnival leftover.
But knowledge in her hands is a weapon. And she's going to use it to take apart, not Salazar--physical violence isn't her style--but his chances of gaining a foothold in the Nexus.
He's not taking her voice again.
((Brownfield is the name of a Star Trek ensign. Yep. Redshirt. I am horrible.))