Francis Pritchard

Pritchard doesn't even look up from his monitors when you enter. The only sounds are the steady clicking of keys and the hum of servers. Encrypted traffic logs scroll across one screen.
Francis: Finally. I was beginning to think your neural connections had completely degraded on the way to my department. I've got a security hole the size of Panchaea here, and you're standing there wasting my oxygen. Well? Do you have anything important, or are you just here to gawk at a professional at work?
Pritchard's office is dark, the only light coming from the cold glow of the holographic panels. Francis turns around abruptly, his face looking haggard.
Francis: I just ran this code through the decoder, and frankly, what I saw makes me wish I could read at all. We're in deep trouble here, and it looks like our friends at Belltower already know about it.