I don't know where this came from, but here it is:
Footsteps on the stairs meant someone was heading for their office. There was nothing else in the basement but the snack machine, and no one had used that since rats had moved into it last winter. The rats were gone now – like half the staff, they hadn’t stayed after Sierra had been named division chief – but nobody wanted to eat from a formerly-rat-infested vending machine. Gabriel said they shouldn’t tell the new staff. Clara would argue with him, but it was pointless. There wasn’t any new staff. And there wasn’t likely to be any. No one would send more people to an office that didn’t do anything. Clara had knit three pairs of cabled socks since July. Her feet would be warm this fall, if it ever got cold.
“The vending machine had rats last winter,” she yelled out the door, but the footsteps continued.
“What?” said a voice, and a man stood in the doorway. “Is that a code?”
Clara dropped her yarn. “Um, no. It’s rats.” He was wearing a badge. He had red hair and freckles and looked like that actor, the one who wore armor in all his movies. “I thought you were coming downstairs to get food because you didn’t know any better.”
“I was coming to find Captain Sierra,” he said. “I need to give him my transfer paperwork.” He held up a sheaf of papers and then looked around the office. He didn’t say, “What the hell?” but Clara could tell he was thinking it.
Clara looked guiltily around the room. It was large, but it was also where everyone in the building had put things they didn’t know what to do with for at least four decades. There was a manual typewriter on one of the desks. Gabriel freely scavenged everything that people left alone for more than half an hour, but that didn’t make the office look any neater. What with Gabriel’s tinkering and the general lack of any real work, it looked like a cross between a machine shop and a yarn store.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Clara Lindgren. Gabriel went to get pizza. The Captain won’t be in until later.”
“Pizza,” he said, with the air of someone grasping at the one thing that made sense. “Because the vending machine had rats.”
“Right,” Clara said. “I’ll call him and tell him to get extra.”
“I’m Kieran,” he said. “Cavanaugh. Are you really Clara Lindgren? The Clara Lindgren?”
She was blushing, she knew it. She wished she could hide, but the only door besides the one he was standing in was the door to Sierra’s office. “Probably,” she said. “But whatever you heard probably isn’t true.”
He looked at her seriously. “I heard you destroyed an army of gargoyles single-handedly, refused promotion and ended up in, you’ll excuse me, some backwater dump.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s true. Gargoyles have smaller armies than you would think, though. Their generals aren’t good at keeping them loyal. It was only about sixty-five.”
He was staring openly now, and only looked away when he seemed to realize he was being rude. He examined a wall calendar with an array of take-out coupons stapled to it. Clara pushed her bangs to the right, making sure they still hid the scar on her forehead.
They both turned at the sound of someone coming down the hall. Clara expected Gabriel, but it was Sierra. He grinned at her – he knew she was embarrassed, drat him – and then shook hands with Cavanaugh. “Glad you’re here,” he said. “If Gabriel ever gets back from stuffing his face, I need to talk to you all.” He looked at Clara. “You’ve got a case.”
no subject
Footsteps on the stairs meant someone was heading for their office. There was nothing else in the basement but the snack machine, and no one had used that since rats had moved into it last winter. The rats were gone now – like half the staff, they hadn’t stayed after Sierra had been named division chief – but nobody wanted to eat from a formerly-rat-infested vending machine. Gabriel said they shouldn’t tell the new staff. Clara would argue with him, but it was pointless. There wasn’t any new staff. And there wasn’t likely to be any. No one would send more people to an office that didn’t do anything. Clara had knit three pairs of cabled socks since July. Her feet would be warm this fall, if it ever got cold.
“The vending machine had rats last winter,” she yelled out the door, but the footsteps continued.
“What?” said a voice, and a man stood in the doorway. “Is that a code?”
Clara dropped her yarn. “Um, no. It’s rats.” He was wearing a badge. He had red hair and freckles and looked like that actor, the one who wore armor in all his movies. “I thought you were coming downstairs to get food because you didn’t know any better.”
“I was coming to find Captain Sierra,” he said. “I need to give him my transfer paperwork.” He held up a sheaf of papers and then looked around the office. He didn’t say, “What the hell?” but Clara could tell he was thinking it.
Clara looked guiltily around the room. It was large, but it was also where everyone in the building had put things they didn’t know what to do with for at least four decades. There was a manual typewriter on one of the desks. Gabriel freely scavenged everything that people left alone for more than half an hour, but that didn’t make the office look any neater. What with Gabriel’s tinkering and the general lack of any real work, it looked like a cross between a machine shop and a yarn store.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Clara Lindgren. Gabriel went to get pizza. The Captain won’t be in until later.”
“Pizza,” he said, with the air of someone grasping at the one thing that made sense. “Because the vending machine had rats.”
“Right,” Clara said. “I’ll call him and tell him to get extra.”
“I’m Kieran,” he said. “Cavanaugh. Are you really Clara Lindgren? The Clara Lindgren?”
She was blushing, she knew it. She wished she could hide, but the only door besides the one he was standing in was the door to Sierra’s office. “Probably,” she said. “But whatever you heard probably isn’t true.”
He looked at her seriously. “I heard you destroyed an army of gargoyles single-handedly, refused promotion and ended up in, you’ll excuse me, some backwater dump.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s true. Gargoyles have smaller armies than you would think, though. Their generals aren’t good at keeping them loyal. It was only about sixty-five.”
He was staring openly now, and only looked away when he seemed to realize he was being rude. He examined a wall calendar with an array of take-out coupons stapled to it. Clara pushed her bangs to the right, making sure they still hid the scar on her forehead.
They both turned at the sound of someone coming down the hall. Clara expected Gabriel, but it was Sierra. He grinned at her – he knew she was embarrassed, drat him – and then shook hands with Cavanaugh. “Glad you’re here,” he said. “If Gabriel ever gets back from stuffing his face, I need to talk to you all.” He looked at Clara. “You’ve got a case.”