[Location | Speares - Theta's Shop]
Paul Smecker had had his duties explained to him-- keep the shop and the apartment above it in order, clean, swept, dusted, etc. Cook meals three times a day-- but do not nag if she didn't want to eat them. The use of the in-the-building-hatch to get ingredients for the meals had been explained; he had said he'd just as soon walk to the nearest grocery store; she had shrugged and said it hardly mattered to her as long as things were on time.
And she had gone upstairs, and he had looked at his cleaning supplies, and decided what the hell, get started.
How much of this was due to a coping mechanism of just wanting to stay busy he didn't want to analyze. But the idea of having a specific task to accomplish, a specific simple task in which he could judge his progress, was appealing. For that matter, he'd always found cleaning somewhat therapeutic.
So Paul had dug out his mp3 player from his pocket, popped in the earbuds, and lost himself in some Chopin and some industrial-grade dusting. He compiled lists of things to do as he worked, not least of which was start gathering information on everyone he ran into in Taxon, try and ascertain what if anything was the common thread binding them all. See about getting a weapon. That would (might?) require money, which this job worked towards. See about finding his own place, even if this worked as a temporary measure.
Paul couldn't focus entirely on his own internal thoughts-- possibly because dusting required he move various clockworks out of the way, off the shelves, and a lot of them were distractingly... well... alive. Little toy soldiers walked along shelves in short marches; a teapot scuttled away from his feather duster in a way that suggested wariness.
It was disturbing, but then, he was rapidly reaching a numbing point for disturbance.
He dusted for an hour, the time it took to get everything clean, and felt frustrated when he looked around and found nothing else to dust. So then he went back into the supply closet, took out the bucket and rags he found there, and set to washing the inside of the shop's display windows.
Then the outside.
By the time he had moved on to sweeping the floor, Paul had already had several trains of thought complete themselves in his head. The first was how much this reminded him of his early days in New York, doing all sorts of shit grunt work to survive. The second was that surprisingly he didn't mind it-- back then it had all been someday I'll be out of this, I'll be goddamn FBI. Well, he'd tasted being goddamn FBI. It wasn't all shits and giggles, and it was damn well never as straightforward as clean this room.
Third was plans to go shopping. For some tools of the trade, not clothes. He was developing Plans on that front. They might not work, but they were plans. He made a note to discuss them with Westen. Maybe Cain.
For that matter, four was to see if there was anyone else in this city he felt on the same approximate wavelength with (Paul drew the line at saying 'anyone he could trust.'
Fifth was that it was awfully quiet in the shop, and he was getting hungry.
He put the broom away and pondered. Finally he went up the narrow stairwell to the upstairs suite and knocked on doors. "Ms. Theta? You about ready for some supper?"
There was no answer.
After some debate, Paul started opening doors. After five minutes it was very evident that Theta was nowhere in the building.
He frowned, then dismissed it. He'd had his earphones on-- she could easily have gone down the stairs and exited the shop's back door when he'd been cleaning. She didn't strike him as the sort of person who needed to inform her subordinates of her every move. No doubt she'd be back. He went out, got himself some dinner at a little Chinese place, came back, and went to sleep in the second bedroom she'd said was his.
The next day he cleaned the upstairs, the living quarters. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen-cum-small-dining area. Dusted, swept, windows washed, vacuumed. No sign of Theta. Paul debated with himself whether or not to turn over the Open-Closed sign in the window. If anyone came by, well, he didn't know fuck-all about the clockworks.
On the other hand, the register was fairly straightforward, and the clockworks all had price tags. Paul shrugged, said to hell with it, and put the sign to open again. Bosses rewarded initiative in his experience.
He spent the rest of the morning examining one of the clockworks, out of intellectual curiosity as much as anything else, and keeping an eye out for the return of his boss-- or anyone else coming through the door.
[OOC: Open to anyone who would be passing by Theta's former shop and curious; especially open to any of the characters who were talking about buying clockworks! Paul will still sell them to you even if he has a limited idea of what he's doing...]
And she had gone upstairs, and he had looked at his cleaning supplies, and decided what the hell, get started.
How much of this was due to a coping mechanism of just wanting to stay busy he didn't want to analyze. But the idea of having a specific task to accomplish, a specific simple task in which he could judge his progress, was appealing. For that matter, he'd always found cleaning somewhat therapeutic.
So Paul had dug out his mp3 player from his pocket, popped in the earbuds, and lost himself in some Chopin and some industrial-grade dusting. He compiled lists of things to do as he worked, not least of which was start gathering information on everyone he ran into in Taxon, try and ascertain what if anything was the common thread binding them all. See about getting a weapon. That would (might?) require money, which this job worked towards. See about finding his own place, even if this worked as a temporary measure.
Paul couldn't focus entirely on his own internal thoughts-- possibly because dusting required he move various clockworks out of the way, off the shelves, and a lot of them were distractingly... well... alive. Little toy soldiers walked along shelves in short marches; a teapot scuttled away from his feather duster in a way that suggested wariness.
It was disturbing, but then, he was rapidly reaching a numbing point for disturbance.
He dusted for an hour, the time it took to get everything clean, and felt frustrated when he looked around and found nothing else to dust. So then he went back into the supply closet, took out the bucket and rags he found there, and set to washing the inside of the shop's display windows.
Then the outside.
By the time he had moved on to sweeping the floor, Paul had already had several trains of thought complete themselves in his head. The first was how much this reminded him of his early days in New York, doing all sorts of shit grunt work to survive. The second was that surprisingly he didn't mind it-- back then it had all been someday I'll be out of this, I'll be goddamn FBI. Well, he'd tasted being goddamn FBI. It wasn't all shits and giggles, and it was damn well never as straightforward as clean this room.
Third was plans to go shopping. For some tools of the trade, not clothes. He was developing Plans on that front. They might not work, but they were plans. He made a note to discuss them with Westen. Maybe Cain.
For that matter, four was to see if there was anyone else in this city he felt on the same approximate wavelength with (Paul drew the line at saying 'anyone he could trust.'
Fifth was that it was awfully quiet in the shop, and he was getting hungry.
He put the broom away and pondered. Finally he went up the narrow stairwell to the upstairs suite and knocked on doors. "Ms. Theta? You about ready for some supper?"
There was no answer.
After some debate, Paul started opening doors. After five minutes it was very evident that Theta was nowhere in the building.
He frowned, then dismissed it. He'd had his earphones on-- she could easily have gone down the stairs and exited the shop's back door when he'd been cleaning. She didn't strike him as the sort of person who needed to inform her subordinates of her every move. No doubt she'd be back. He went out, got himself some dinner at a little Chinese place, came back, and went to sleep in the second bedroom she'd said was his.
The next day he cleaned the upstairs, the living quarters. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen-cum-small-dining area. Dusted, swept, windows washed, vacuumed. No sign of Theta. Paul debated with himself whether or not to turn over the Open-Closed sign in the window. If anyone came by, well, he didn't know fuck-all about the clockworks.
On the other hand, the register was fairly straightforward, and the clockworks all had price tags. Paul shrugged, said to hell with it, and put the sign to open again. Bosses rewarded initiative in his experience.
He spent the rest of the morning examining one of the clockworks, out of intellectual curiosity as much as anything else, and keeping an eye out for the return of his boss-- or anyone else coming through the door.
[OOC: Open to anyone who would be passing by Theta's former shop and curious; especially open to any of the characters who were talking about buying clockworks! Paul will still sell them to you even if he has a limited idea of what he's doing...]