Huckle's Office

A compact corporate office where Huckle meets with military and investigative personnel, its walls lined with geological surveys and oil rig blueprints pinned under harsh fluorescent lighting. The air carries the sharp scent of machine oil and sterile hospital antiseptics, mixed with the acrid tang of stale coffee in a chipped porcelain cup left on the desk. A scale model of the destabilized oil rig sits on the edge of Huckle’s meticulously arranged desk, its plastic struts casting jagged shadows across projected medical reports that Blanchard slides forward with clinical detachment. The office’s single barred window offers a distant view of industrial piping and drilling rigs, their silhouettes backlit by the setting sun’s glare. Each footstep on the commercial-grade carpet muffles against the hum of a faint ventilation system, the sound barely overpowering the rhythmic ticking of a brass desk clock. The space feels like a pressure chamber between corporate assurance and the Brigadier’s unspoken skepticism, where every piece of 'evidence' could either dispel growing suspicions or confirm the Doctor’s emerging suspicions of something far more sinister beneath the surface explosions.