Amber Sweet (miss_sweet) wrote in genetic_opera, @ 2009-02-25 17:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | amber sweet |
Setting: Amber's office.
Time: A little before two p.m. on a Wednesday.
Characters: Amber Sweet
Rating: G/PG
Summary: Something's missing.
Though Amber hated to admit it, there were problems. Problems with GeneCo. Problems at home. Her brothers had become stranger since the power shift, even if they stood by it in theory. They weren’t acting the same as they used to. There was a rift between them. Well, between them and she, at least. It was an error in communication, their family therapist had said. Trauma over the death of their father. Resentment over newfound responsibility. They needed to learn to express their needs better to each other. That had sounded okay, actually. Too bad Luigi had decided to kill the therapist before she'd taught them how to do that. He hadn't exactly liked her insinuating that he needed anything, and had proceeded to stab her repeatedly in the throat. Amber wasn’t sure what exactly she needed, let alone how to express it. Well, one of the things she needed was an older brother who wasn’t an inconsiderate, psychotic asshole. Was there a better way to express that?
Probably.
There was also a lot more to running the company than she’d expected. How had her father managed it so smoothly? He’d always seemed to have time for his petty personal pursuits. She could remember him sitting in his office, seemingly doing very little save avoiding his children for hours at a time. But here she was constantly responding to calls and messages, with very little time to herself. There was a never-ending river of paperwork to wade through, urgent decisions to be made…
It wasn’t that she didn’t have help. There were hundreds of employees at her beck and call. Speechwriters, financial advisors, PR representatives… But none of them were there all the time. And it still felt like a lot of the tedious stuff was falling to her.
The very definition of not fair.
“I think I need a personal assistant,” Amber said, to her room in general. Under the impression that she was delivering a very short monologue, her two henchmen said nothing in response. Great. A lot of help they were. It was bad enough playing at introspection without anything to take the edge off (and oh, how her newest scars itched; it was definitely making her more irritable than usual), but to do it alone was criminal. Sure, the henchmen were good protection. They were decent décor, did their jobs without question, and even talked back when spoken directly to… but they weren’t exactly deep conversation. Their place was to be an extension of Amber’s own will. Might as well be a couple of robots or vacuum cleaners. She was forced to answer herself. “Good idea. Now if only I had a phonebook…”
Nothing. God! Why couldn’t they take subtle hints? Why did it always have to be direct? “Are you both deaf? One of you idiots should get me a phonebook.”
There. That did it. One of them split off from the pair and left the room to fetch what was required. She thought it was the taller one, but couldn’t exactly be sure. She’d never bothered to learn their names in order to tell them apart. That wasn’t exactly necessary. She got up dramatically so that she could pace. The silk robe that she was wearing had a long hem, and twirled gracefully as she skulked across the floor. A personal assistant. That’d be good. Someone to sign papers for her. Discuss decisions without telling her what would be best. Someone mousy enough to recognize her superiority but interesting enough to hold a fucking conversation. Someone who might show a little interest now and again. Ask questions, instead of offer calculated advice. Maybe someone close to her own age, with shared interests.
Someone who would help take some of the responsibility off of Amber’s shoulders, but who wasn’t ambitious or greedy enough to vie for her position. Someone tough enough to handle Luigi, and tasteful enough to blow off Pavi. Someone who was just there for her, and no one else. No ulterior motives… except a monthly paycheck, of course.
It never once occurred to Amber that she was essentially forming a mental want ad for a friend.