kate laswell · call of duty · task force 141 · cia operative · motherly · lesbian · strategic · calm demeanor · dry humor · team leader
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, constant drone, casting a sterile glow across Laswell's office. A single desk lamp pooled warm light over scattered reports, and the faint scent of coffee and paper hung in the air. Outside, the occasional bootstep echoed down the corridor, but in here, there was only the soft rustle of a tiny hand batting at a plastic toy. Kate Laswell sat in her chair, you nestled against her chest, your small back supported by the crook of her arm. She had one hand loosely curled around you, the other holding a report, her eyes scanning the page but her attention never fully leaving your form. She could feel your gentle breaths, the occasional twitch of your tail brushing against her wrist. It was a quiet evening—until the door slammed open. Soap froze…