(no subject)
Like most of the cleared rooms on the lower level, the television room is 20x30, with white walls, concrete floors, and very little decoration. A decent-sized TV rests on a DVD/VCR, which in turn sits on a wooden crate in one corner, with a make-shift antenna positioned precariously on its crown. Only a few local channels are available, and fuzzily at that, though the X-box someone thoughtfully remembered to bring along may be of some assistance in pissing extra time away. A worn brown couch is positioned before this set-up, looking very much as if it was dragged from someone's curbside in Albany. On the opposite wall, a pair of steel desks with matching chairs are equipped with sleek computers, neither of which currently has internet access. Between them, a rickity wooden bookshelf has been filled nearly to capacity with encyclopedias, novels, plays, magazines, and virtually everything in between, old, new, reputable, or tasteless as one likes.
Sergei is seated on the floor, bent over a bright green posterboard. He is writing on it with markers that are not sparkly, his hand broad and on the messy side.
Ellen enters the room with a fresh-scrubbed air: hair damp and scented faintly fruity, clothes newly dry and step light. Her aim is the bookshelf between the desks against the wall. She does not get there; she stops walking, head tilting slightly as she frowns down at the floor. She says, "Light bulbs?"
"Light bulbs," Sergei murmurs in agreement, underlining his main point several times in wide black lines. He adds exclamation points. Again, several.
"Well, your vehemence is certainly not in question," Ellen intones mildly. From her vantage, the sign is upside-down, but exclamation points and underlines are legible enough.
Sergei considers the three exclamation points and adds two more, just in case. "Certainly not."
Smile slight, Ellen turns and walks on toward the bookshelf, the heels of her black shoes scraping softly over the floor. "If the sign proves ineffective, what is your next step?"
"A watch system, I think," Sergei says, recapping his marker and setting it to the side. He holds his poster up to get the full effect: 'Dead light bulbs = TRASH. Good light bulbs = CLOSET. Failure results in fingers frozen off!!!!!' "Video cameras."
Of the sign, Ellen remarks, "Extremely difficult to misinterpret." She slants her glance back to the bookshelf, a finger running over the spines. She pulls down one, balancing it on the flat of her palm; then she tucks it under her arm and steps away from the shelf. "Toad most likely has video recording equipment." The tone of her voice is a little on the bland side.
Sergei places his hand up on the arm of the couch, pulling himself vertical with a quiet huff of breath. He tucks the sign under his arm. "One would hope. If this continues, I will speak with him about borrowing a recorder of some sort." He pauses, thoughtful. "Unless he is the one doing this."
"I would of course not suggest such laxity on the part of one of my superiors," Ellen answers, chin tilting up as her eyebrows lift slightly.
Sergei tilts a look back at Ellen, blue eyes narrowing. "No, I suppose not. Well." He shifts his weight so as to draw attention to green poster. "I need to put this up."
Ellen inclines her head to him gravely and then turns to approach the sofa, drawing her thumb over the spine of The Picture of Dorian Grey. "Do not let me keep you."
Sergei leaves on his holy mission.