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September 10th, 2019
"That's the last of it," says the man - Connor, his nametag reads - who's been loading boxes from a nondescript truck into The Archive for the past two and a half hours, and Christ there are a lot of them. 'The last of it' brings Martin's count up to either far too many or surely at least three metric tons.
"Thank you," says Martin rather weakly. The little space, on the cusp of being actually open for alleged business, is now overcrowded to the point of being a fire hazard with boxes and boxes of files, delivered to them so generously (and, honestly, a little too eagerly) by Darrow's City Council. Their application to function as de facto record keepers for the City's constantly shifting array of newcomers had been accepted with rather alarming quickness and efficiency, considering what they'd been given to understand about the soul-numbing bureaucracy of it all. It had felt like a relief - no fuss, no appeal, not even a follow-up; just an agreement and a generous offer of payment that should be more than enough to keep themselves afloat, especially with the aid of John's... extracurricular acquisitions. But really, Martin thinks as he takes in the new weight they've just collected, all that apparent convenience should have been a much greater cause for concern.
Connor, for his part, shrugs, busily setting up the invoice. "If you say so," he says, and turns the digital pad over to Martin for a signature. "I'd wish you luck, but, uh..." He looks around the neatly stacked mess he's made and shrugs again. He doesn't need to add the implicit god rest your sorry soul, that's loud and clear. Martin limits himself to a professional grimace as he fills out the invoice and hands it back.
"Is it just you?" Connor asks with that apathetic energy Martin's come to expect from the locals - they ask questions where appropriate, but they don't really seem to listen.
"No," says Martin absently, his attention on the rows of empty shelves, trying to calculate if they actually have room for all this. "My partner's in the back."
Partner slips out easily, and he reddens by reflex, but Connor's already halfway out the door.
"Well, hope they're good at lifting," he says as he departs, the door swinging shut and leaving Martin in thick, cardboardy silence.
"Hah," Martin replies belatedly. John is presently shuttered in his office and, he believes, recording one of the piecemeal Statements they've managed to gather. He's been having to sort of ration them. Surviving, but not exactly thriving. Martin has more of his strength, but he can barely reach the highest shelves. They'll be able to do it, the two of them, but Christ, it could take weeks.
Well, first things first. He blows air through his teeth and goes to fix them some tea.
"That's the last of it," says the man - Connor, his nametag reads - who's been loading boxes from a nondescript truck into The Archive for the past two and a half hours, and Christ there are a lot of them. 'The last of it' brings Martin's count up to either far too many or surely at least three metric tons.
"Thank you," says Martin rather weakly. The little space, on the cusp of being actually open for alleged business, is now overcrowded to the point of being a fire hazard with boxes and boxes of files, delivered to them so generously (and, honestly, a little too eagerly) by Darrow's City Council. Their application to function as de facto record keepers for the City's constantly shifting array of newcomers had been accepted with rather alarming quickness and efficiency, considering what they'd been given to understand about the soul-numbing bureaucracy of it all. It had felt like a relief - no fuss, no appeal, not even a follow-up; just an agreement and a generous offer of payment that should be more than enough to keep themselves afloat, especially with the aid of John's... extracurricular acquisitions. But really, Martin thinks as he takes in the new weight they've just collected, all that apparent convenience should have been a much greater cause for concern.
Connor, for his part, shrugs, busily setting up the invoice. "If you say so," he says, and turns the digital pad over to Martin for a signature. "I'd wish you luck, but, uh..." He looks around the neatly stacked mess he's made and shrugs again. He doesn't need to add the implicit god rest your sorry soul, that's loud and clear. Martin limits himself to a professional grimace as he fills out the invoice and hands it back.
"Is it just you?" Connor asks with that apathetic energy Martin's come to expect from the locals - they ask questions where appropriate, but they don't really seem to listen.
"No," says Martin absently, his attention on the rows of empty shelves, trying to calculate if they actually have room for all this. "My partner's in the back."
Partner slips out easily, and he reddens by reflex, but Connor's already halfway out the door.
"Well, hope they're good at lifting," he says as he departs, the door swinging shut and leaving Martin in thick, cardboardy silence.
"Hah," Martin replies belatedly. John is presently shuttered in his office and, he believes, recording one of the piecemeal Statements they've managed to gather. He's been having to sort of ration them. Surviving, but not exactly thriving. Martin has more of his strength, but he can barely reach the highest shelves. They'll be able to do it, the two of them, but Christ, it could take weeks.
Well, first things first. He blows air through his teeth and goes to fix them some tea.
