first day of work!
Lora-bribe #3
Officeverse
Title: Starting Out
Wordcount: 940
Michael, newly-hired Graphic Expressionist (no puns please) at Fleming and Flagg Cosmetics, and rumfled from the high winds outside, turned to close the automatic door behind him. In his defense it was 8:25 in the morning, which sucked even when you weren't body-clocked to the nightshift and had yet to ingest any caffeine. He blinked at the murky glass. A newspaper zipped by like a wing-twisted seagull.
Michael pivoted on his heel and settled his satchel higher on his back. He'd been told to submit a list of materials to Kim on the third floor, whoever Kim was and whatever his-or-her job was, and had been assured that they would appear in his soon-to-be-assigned office without delay. Nevertheless he had all of his own materials in his satchel at Clive's insistence. It'd fuckin suck to be stuck playing Solitaire in your head all day 'cause there was nothing for you to art with. Or doing everything with those crappy Bic pens! Take your crap with you. Sensible Clive, their other roommate called him, and if he was usually sarcastic nobody minded.
The receptionist today was a short sturdy Asian dude with bristly short-cropped hair and a mildly cranky expression. He wore the headset as if it were sparkly tiara he'd been forced into by drunken friends. "Walker?" he grumped. Michael nodded. Receptionist dude shoved an envelope that jingled at him. "Keys," he said. "Top floor, you're in the cubbyhole between Fleming's office and Flagg's. Expect lots of 'hi draw this I want to see it in ten minutes' from Flagg."
Michael winced. "Thanks," he said, and went for the elevator. His sneakers made soft squeaks on the glossy floor even though he'd wiped them carefully. The elevator smelt of coffee today, the warm pleasantly bitter hazelnut kind from the Monkeybeans Café down the road. Michael inhaled deeply, glad there was nobody there to watch him enjoy the smell of someone else's coffee.
The top floor was mostly deserted, offices dark behind frosted glass hall-facing windows. Fleming's office was a spill of yellow light on the carpet at the far end of the hall. Voices drifted down the hall, Paul's and another Michael didn't recognize. He performed all the usual checks; shoes (clean), zip (up), hair (as smooth as could be expected after the squall outside), buttons (all correct and tidy), breath (minty). Phew! Michael wore the grey suit again, with a heron-blue button-front shirt he'd worn at the bar. Michael peeked around into the office.
"Hey come in!" Paul tossed Michael a distracted smile and turned back to the tall and narrowly-built brunette who leaned arms-folded on the desk. He wore a lab coat and reflective owl-round glasses, which he adjusted with two fingers. "Who's this? Is this the new artist? Are you sure? There's no room for a computer in that bag."
"Um. I use my hands," Michael said, then immediately bit the tip of his tongue. Crap! Barely 8:30 and he already had a number in the 'stupid things I've said today' column.
"Bah."
"Kin!" Paul yelped. "Can't you behave I've seen his work, he's good."
Kin-Flagg?-tapped one spidery finger on the tabletop. As Michael came closer he saw the sketch he'd done yesterday of Paul. Kin's fingertip smeared the mulberry pastel of the scarf. Michael winced. He hadn't had time to seal it.
Paul swatted Kin's hand away and rescued the sketch, cradling it protectively on both open palms. "You smudged it!"
"That's exactly my point! I don't care how fluffy-bunny it is, it's a transient medium! He won't be able to modify anything on cue, we won't be able to email examples to investors or foreign partners, what happens if he's sick and has to work from home?"
"He's good, Paul said, his face set mulishly. "And he's portable we can take him with us to conventions and stuff. He's a lot quicker overall than a computer-guy would be and you got to hire the last guy and LOOK how well that went."
Kin snorted and shrugged. "As you wish." He pivoted to face Michael. "I can't wait until the world catches up. Technology is only as useful as it's use. I'll go get the concept crew, you'll be working most closely with them," and with that he swept out.
"Kin," Paul snapped, and Michael resisted the urge to back off out of the line of fire. "I swear your manners get worse every day."
Kin paused in the doorway and blinked back at him, the gesture visible only by the minute movements of his face behind the reflective lenses. "We are on a deadline," he said, as if that justified anything.
"And long after the deadline poor Michael will still remember what a jerk you are. Stop it."
Kin's forehead crinkled. "Michael?" he said.
"Um. Hi," Michael said.
"What kind of coffee would you like?"
"Bit of milk, bit of sugar," Michael said, and stuffed his hands into his pockets to hid the nervouse clench of his fingers.
"Right," Kin said, and left.
Paul let out a gusty breath. "That's as close as he gets to 'I'm sorry I was a jerk', Paul said. He was regarding the smudged sketch of himself with a mournful look.
Michael watched Paul's face. He wasn't used to being defended, especially not by somebody pretty and friendly and wearing a fairy-green skirt-suit. His boss.
Oh crap. But Paul was still regarding the sketch as if it were a dying bird. Michael scooped it out of his hands carefully, his fingers brushing Paul's made his belly flip. He said, "It's okay. I can fix it."
END
Officeverse
Title: Starting Out
Wordcount: 940
Michael, newly-hired Graphic Expressionist (no puns please) at Fleming and Flagg Cosmetics, and rumfled from the high winds outside, turned to close the automatic door behind him. In his defense it was 8:25 in the morning, which sucked even when you weren't body-clocked to the nightshift and had yet to ingest any caffeine. He blinked at the murky glass. A newspaper zipped by like a wing-twisted seagull.
Michael pivoted on his heel and settled his satchel higher on his back. He'd been told to submit a list of materials to Kim on the third floor, whoever Kim was and whatever his-or-her job was, and had been assured that they would appear in his soon-to-be-assigned office without delay. Nevertheless he had all of his own materials in his satchel at Clive's insistence. It'd fuckin suck to be stuck playing Solitaire in your head all day 'cause there was nothing for you to art with. Or doing everything with those crappy Bic pens! Take your crap with you. Sensible Clive, their other roommate called him, and if he was usually sarcastic nobody minded.
The receptionist today was a short sturdy Asian dude with bristly short-cropped hair and a mildly cranky expression. He wore the headset as if it were sparkly tiara he'd been forced into by drunken friends. "Walker?" he grumped. Michael nodded. Receptionist dude shoved an envelope that jingled at him. "Keys," he said. "Top floor, you're in the cubbyhole between Fleming's office and Flagg's. Expect lots of 'hi draw this I want to see it in ten minutes' from Flagg."
Michael winced. "Thanks," he said, and went for the elevator. His sneakers made soft squeaks on the glossy floor even though he'd wiped them carefully. The elevator smelt of coffee today, the warm pleasantly bitter hazelnut kind from the Monkeybeans Café down the road. Michael inhaled deeply, glad there was nobody there to watch him enjoy the smell of someone else's coffee.
The top floor was mostly deserted, offices dark behind frosted glass hall-facing windows. Fleming's office was a spill of yellow light on the carpet at the far end of the hall. Voices drifted down the hall, Paul's and another Michael didn't recognize. He performed all the usual checks; shoes (clean), zip (up), hair (as smooth as could be expected after the squall outside), buttons (all correct and tidy), breath (minty). Phew! Michael wore the grey suit again, with a heron-blue button-front shirt he'd worn at the bar. Michael peeked around into the office.
"Hey come in!" Paul tossed Michael a distracted smile and turned back to the tall and narrowly-built brunette who leaned arms-folded on the desk. He wore a lab coat and reflective owl-round glasses, which he adjusted with two fingers. "Who's this? Is this the new artist? Are you sure? There's no room for a computer in that bag."
"Um. I use my hands," Michael said, then immediately bit the tip of his tongue. Crap! Barely 8:30 and he already had a number in the 'stupid things I've said today' column.
"Bah."
"Kin!" Paul yelped. "Can't you behave I've seen his work, he's good."
Kin-Flagg?-tapped one spidery finger on the tabletop. As Michael came closer he saw the sketch he'd done yesterday of Paul. Kin's fingertip smeared the mulberry pastel of the scarf. Michael winced. He hadn't had time to seal it.
Paul swatted Kin's hand away and rescued the sketch, cradling it protectively on both open palms. "You smudged it!"
"That's exactly my point! I don't care how fluffy-bunny it is, it's a transient medium! He won't be able to modify anything on cue, we won't be able to email examples to investors or foreign partners, what happens if he's sick and has to work from home?"
"He's good, Paul said, his face set mulishly. "And he's portable we can take him with us to conventions and stuff. He's a lot quicker overall than a computer-guy would be and you got to hire the last guy and LOOK how well that went."
Kin snorted and shrugged. "As you wish." He pivoted to face Michael. "I can't wait until the world catches up. Technology is only as useful as it's use. I'll go get the concept crew, you'll be working most closely with them," and with that he swept out.
"Kin," Paul snapped, and Michael resisted the urge to back off out of the line of fire. "I swear your manners get worse every day."
Kin paused in the doorway and blinked back at him, the gesture visible only by the minute movements of his face behind the reflective lenses. "We are on a deadline," he said, as if that justified anything.
"And long after the deadline poor Michael will still remember what a jerk you are. Stop it."
Kin's forehead crinkled. "Michael?" he said.
"Um. Hi," Michael said.
"What kind of coffee would you like?"
"Bit of milk, bit of sugar," Michael said, and stuffed his hands into his pockets to hid the nervouse clench of his fingers.
"Right," Kin said, and left.
Paul let out a gusty breath. "That's as close as he gets to 'I'm sorry I was a jerk', Paul said. He was regarding the smudged sketch of himself with a mournful look.
Michael watched Paul's face. He wasn't used to being defended, especially not by somebody pretty and friendly and wearing a fairy-green skirt-suit. His boss.
Oh crap. But Paul was still regarding the sketch as if it were a dying bird. Michael scooped it out of his hands carefully, his fingers brushing Paul's made his belly flip. He said, "It's okay. I can fix it."
END