Brand New Job

[Colin]

It was one weird as hell looking building, that was for sure. From the taxi, Treadstone Tower had looked ordinary enough; or at least, it looked like a building that obeyed all the laws of physics as Colin understood them. It was one of those silly modern looking buildings with too much glass and concrete and not enough sturdiness or classic style for his liking: but this was Los Angeles, and expecting LA to do anything with even the slightest bit of class was an exercise in futility.

Then the cab had pulled around to the main plaza. It looked like some idiot in a giant truck had smashed the corner off the place - some kind of weird, supposedly stylish curve (http://www.thelocationportal.com/101%20Brand/IMG_8474.JPG) had been carved through the lower floor. And then there were escallators, outside (http://www.thelocationportal.com/101%20Brand/IMG_8465.JPG). What was that about? Were people too lazy to walk the extra few meters to the door, and they'd decided it was more efficient to cut out a little elevator time by posting them in part-way up the building? Or was the inside too full of breakout areas with comfy chairs and drinks machines to actually fit the damned stairs inside the damned building?

It was too damned modern, that's what it was. Worse: he had the sinking suspicion that Miss Ericsson was expecting him to work here. He shuddered at the thought. "Maybe I'll just retire," he grumbled to himself.

Yeah, his mind whispered back. Like that worked the last two times.

Colin breathed deep, letting his resolve mix with the oxygen into the most combustable mix he could muster, before he surged on forwards. Stubborn determination steered him away from the escallator and towards the doors on the ground floor. It looked like that was the wisest call: inside he found a lobby, which seemed to be the proper way into the building. What the hell were the escallators about, then? Honestly, he had no idea: and sincerely hoped he wouldn't be sticking around long enough to find out.

He walked slowly enough to let a few of the permenant employees make their way through security first. Back in Louisiana, you just swiped your card and it unlocked the door: nice and easy, simple to understand. But the one they'd given him for here? You had to touch it on something. Or maybe rub it. Stroke it. Something. And then there were flashing lights and sliding bits of glass, and a security guard so large that it looked like he might Russian doll into a whole security force if you didn't have the magic touch.

That wasn't the only way in, of course. There was a visitor's desk, and they had the power to let you through the magic doors and into the building. But in order to do that he'd need to admit that he didn't really know what he was doing. Maybe he didn't want the new job working in this god-awful building; but he'd rather it was offered and he said no than have it not offered at all because he'd failed the initiative test at the entrance.

He slapped the flimsy bit of pastic with his photograph against the sensor. The light flashed green - success! - and the glass gateway parted; unsure of how long he'd have to get through, he set off at a brisk walk, and burst out of the gate on the other side.

He slowed immediately, and glanced about himself to see if anyone had noticed. It seemed they had not. Relieved, he charted a course towards the elevator, and ducked inside.

At least he didn't have to worry about remembering which floor to go to: if Miss Ericsson was going to be anywhere, it was all the way at the top.

[Kat Harriman]

This was Tom's idea, and she already hated him for it. Personally, she hadn't seen what was wrong with her sitting at home all day catching up on television. Tom provided the food, paid for the electric, and didn't even charge him rent. Everything was totally, completely fine.

But fine wasn't good enough more Mister Improvement. He was always tinkering, always poking and prodding, trying to make it better or faster or more efficient. When it came to people's lives, he treated them just like another science experiment. What will happen if we suggest that the emotionally traumatised baby sister gets a job? What if we have a word with out boss, and arrange for her to start on Monday? What if we lie, and say that it's so that she can have some disposable income of her own to go out and enjoy being in LA, rather than being honest and admitting that it's just a ploy to get some secret alone time with the girl you won't even admit that you're in love with?

Why did people even bother having a secretary-slash-receptionist anyway? I mean sure, she knew why guys had a woman constantly sitting outside their office, but why did someone like Dahlia Ericsson need one? Was she incapable of using her Blackberry to keep tabs on when meetings were? Were her fingers too manicured to operate a keyboard correctly and fire out emails?

She sighed heavily, her head slumping back against the chair as she rocked herself from side to side. "This is so not fair," she lamented, her eyes closing.

And then the lift pinged.

Sitting bolt-upright, Kat's hands instantly lept to the keyboard, as if she was in the process of writing something incredibly important. She wasn't: she was playing Solitaire. That particular window was briskly minimised, and Microsoft Outlook popped up onto the screen in it's place. She eyed it intently, skimming over the emails that she'd already read as if she was searching for important messages.

She caught sight of a figure approaching out of the corner of her eye; she resisted the urge to look up until the last possible moment, as if she really was busy. And people said she was rubbish at acting.

Finally, she turned her eyes upon the new arrival, and offered him a sweet smile that instantly made her feel sick and ashamed. "Hello, there! I'm Kat. How can I help you?"

[Colin]

"Somehow, I doubt that you can," Colin replied, only half paying attention to the young woman behind the desk. Too young, if you asked him. She was probably one of these young people who had spent the last four years earning a degree in something not particularly useful. That seemed to be the major decider in employment these days. God forbid that they actually employ someone who had the common sense to spent those for years working and getting genuine experience, rather than racking up needless debt on a qualification that had no bearing on any job they ever actually had.

He sighed; he was taking his frustration out on the poor girl. It wasn't particularly fair, but he wasn't particularly in a mood to apologise right now.

"I'm here to see Miss Ericsson," he explained. That was somewhat obvious, of course. There weren't many other people he could have been on this floor to see, and the fact that he was conversing with her personal assistant was something of a clue.

He frowned at himself. "Tell her that Colin is here."

[Kat Harriman]

Somehow, Kat's smile didn't falter, but inside she was seething. Something about the man had instantly rubbed her up the wrong way, and every word that tumbled from his lips made her more and more frustrated. He had an irritating air of self-importance, as if the whole world revolved around him, and everyone else existed only for the sake of his comfort and convenience. What kind of person lived their life consumed with that kind of unapologetic arrogance?

Still, she was being paid to be friendly no matter how insufferable the people she encountered were. And while work wasn't mandatory to her survival, it was mandatory to the resurrection of her wardrobe, which had been selected with British weather and not Californian weather in mind. There were only so many times she could wear the same three pairs of jeans and six light-coloured shirts before she lost the will to leave the house.

Outlook was conveniently open, so she began to scroll through Dahlia's calendar for the day. A large block of empty was currently displayed; nothing on her screen seemed to match with the name Colin, or even with the initial C.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch your last name. Do you have an appointment, Mr -?"

[Colin]

The muscles in Colin's jaw bunched. "That's because I didn't give you a surname," he pointed out with a scowl.

It was a simple situation. He'd provided a simple instruction. Clearly however, this young woman's incompetance was boundless, and she couldn't fathom even such basic tasks. It was like the world was conspiring against him, to make his jetlagged morning as intolerable as possible. First it had been the people at the hotel. Then that insufferable woman who had insisted on smiling at him when he bought coffee. What kind of backwards person was awake enough to smile before coffee? Then the taxi driver had been insufferably chatty. It was all shaping up to be a terrible day.

They weren't to blame, of course. The secretary wasn't to blame either. They were all suffering from the mind-dampening effects of living in Los Angeles. He'd begun to feel it himself: the oppressive weight of the city sapping his mind, and dulling his common sense. It was the only way to explain it - the only possible way he could wrap his head around the ridiculous political and economic decisions that people in this part of the world had made over the last few years. Something about Los Angeles - maybe even California entirely - was turning them all into a herd of common senseless morons.

"It's not complicated," Colin explained, as patiently as he could. "Just pick up the phone, and tell Miss Ericsson that Colin is here. That's absolutely all you need to do."

[Kat Harriman]

Kat was very glad that her mutation hadn't given her heat vision. If it had, she was fairly sure that her eyes would be burning a pair of holes through her monitor about now. It took every ounce of self control she had not to hurl insults - or perhaps even something blunt and heavy - at the insufferable visitor. She kept her composure, barely.

Her smile was tight now: it was the only way to maintain it. As instructed however, she picked up the handset of the telephone on her desk, and dialled the relevant extension to reach the office behind her. The phone rang idly for a few moments, and a swell of hope manifested in Kat's chest at the prospect of being able to send her visitor away empty-handed.

Unfortunately, Dahlia eventually picked up a second or so later.

"Sorry to disturb you, Miss Ericsson," Kat spoke into the handset, as politely as she could, "But there's a rather disgruntled man called Colin glaring at me out here. He says you'll know who he is - shall I send him in, or call security?"

[Dahlia Ericsson]

The back of her office chair was turned to the frosted glass door of her office, with the blonde ensconced comfortably in it. Music (http://youtu.be/RxWEvV9zYj4) was turned up, echoing in the comfortable space, but not beyond it. It was her haven, this comfortable office appointed with glass, crystal, and the comforts of home.

The only thing it lacked was Athalie's little footsteps, and that broke her heart.

As the song faded away, the fact that her phone was ringing finally intruded on her reverie. Which wasn't a bad thing. It wasn't even ten in the morning, and she was already contemplating making herself a drink. She tilted her chair and picked up the receiver.

Kat's voice brought a smile to her face. The young woman was utterly priceless, and though Tom likely meant for his sister to annoy the hell out of her, Dahlia liked her immensely.

What she said brought a peal of happy laughter. "That's Colin alright. I'll come get him." Tossing the receiver back in its cradle, she all but lept out of her chair and rushed to fling open her door.

"Colin! You're here!" Dahlia (http://www.polyvore.com/dahlia_new_job/set?id=48562807) crowed with delight, flinging herself at Grumpy and wrapping him up in a hug.