It. (rasatabula) wrote in repose, @ 2017-02-11 18:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, adrian march, jack penhaligon |
Jack + Adrian: Repose News
Who: Jack P + Adrian(?)
When: Recent.
Warnings: TBD. Likely language
From the outside, Repose News didn't look a hell of a lot more than it had done previously. But he couldn't do a damn thing about the door, which was frosted glass and had a placard nailed to the front of it that looked like it had been an antique on the day it was put up, and not one of any value at all. It had the name of the newspaper, and the date of its establishment. Why, Jack didn't bloody know. It wasn't long enough ago to have been forgotten in the annals of time, it was barely even Victorian. But that was that. The entrance didn't look suspiciously grimy anymore, but neither did it look bloody welcoming. It wasn't. It was open, because the ads in the community college and up in the Capital pointed toward the building and Jack didn't mind if they showed up. It wasn't a sanctuary, it wasn't even a bloody hole to crawl into to feel sorry for himself in. The cleaning women had taken care of that.
Up the stairs, however it was a little more inviting than it had once been. The air smelled of strong coffee, courtesy of a machine shoved into the back corner. The eye-wateringly expensive computer equipment was idling: laying out a paper, even a piss-poor local paper, was more difficult than it had any right to be once you'd banished the template to hell - or thrown the computer that knew how to do it out the sodding window. The thing was finicky, and the only other person who had been in occupation earlier was a timid-looking student from the college and christ, it was a test of newly-made determination not to send him straight out the door when he had come through it. Still the student wasn't there, in his cardigan and his wide-set spectacles. It was just him, in the little office carved out of the floor-plan. The couch was still there, battle-scarred leather but the bookshelf above was denuded and the desk was clear of most things except a sleek-looking Macbook and a cup of coffee that hadn't cooled to temperate yet. The room smelled strongly of cleaning fluid, but it was a step up from cat urine and whiskey, which had been scoured out of the carpet fiber, possibly by black magic. He hadn't spent long with the cleaning women.
Jack didn't expect anyone. God alone knew he was looking up how to lay the paper out on the ridiculously complicated computer Cat had purchased the newspaper, and was determinedly not looking at the open Word document, flashing cursor on empty page, in the window next to it. The heat in the newspaper office was on low, and he wore dull blue wool over a collared shirt and the reddish-brown of his hair was near enough on end to qualify for the description.