Gosh, a continuation. With names and a hint of plot(which, is non existent).
Perhaps hell has frozen over.
Ah well. Its a new year, and its time to shake those cobwebs and add in another drabble to this small collection.
Happy 2010 folk(s).
(And if you didn't get my first sms of the year, blame SingtTel's lousy handling capacity. I SENT IT. rawr.)
Edit: Because mixing tenses up left right and center does not sit well in my stomach.
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Scientific fact: Ice melts at 0 degree Celsius.
With that said, Christopher Evanson was a scientific mystery. How else- in a city that had a temperature range which never dropped below 20, much less 0-would he be able to sustain his icy exterior, 24/7? A mystery. An enigma, if you will. You see, Christopher Evanson, storm grey eyes and all, possessed the qualities of an iceberg. All of them save one- he didn’t melt.
Christopher was not pleased today. The source of his misery was simple: Alexandria. Alexandria Richards. Conveniently missing Alexandria Richards. Conveniently missing Alexandria Richards whom he was given the task of finding, along with another 3 hapless saps, who couldn’t find their own noses if their lives depended on it.
He snorted. It would make sense that he found her first, wouldn’t it? Murphy’s Law. Since he found her, he needed to take her back, and hence, convince/coerce/force her to go back to the damned company, and bring her to face Mr. Ian Bos. The Boss. Head honcho, ruler supreme (where the company was concerned), resident jackass. With any luck, he’d get frostbite, blisters, migraine and a 10 cent pay rise. The gods hated him. Truly, they did.
He stared at her, assessing the damage, or lack of thereof.
Alexandria Richards: safe, unharmed, sitting on a cold pavement, twirling a cigarette, looking like a druggie, and offering said cigarette to him with nary a care. Was the girl idiotic? Lacking in common sense? On a death wish? Nobody left the company without clearance. Nobody snubbed Mr. Bos, call him the residential jackass (no matter how true that was) and walk out through the swinging doors. What, did she think she was doing? And here she was, sitting on the pavement, twirling a cigarette, and offer- he stopped himself.
"What," he hissed," do you think you're doing?" Honesty, they said, is the best policy. Never lie. Always speak your mind, or forever remain silent. The company taught him well. Quid pro Quo, they said.
If Alexandria Richards was going to bring him that much inconvenience, it would be best to let her have a piece of his mind. To give her as much grief as she would give him, and save him from prison. He wouldn’t want to cause her bodily harm. Not now, and anyway- it would go against his morals and murder wasn’t exactly something he wanted on his résumé.
Morals! Next thing he knew, he would be handing out cookies to the poor. Best to keep ranting.
"Do you know," he took a deep, shuddering breath- after all, everything was about the effect- “how many people were looking for you?" Build up on the suspense- let her think the iceberg was finally melting . A little fear never hurt anyone. She was young anyway. Unlikely to die of heart failure and whatnot. He didn’t care much; Mr. Bos could handle it. His employee, his business. “ How to save your own skin 101”- the employee handbook. Let it never be said he wasn’t dedicated to his job. March on, soldier.
And with great aplomb, Christopher marched on. Emotion, gestures, expression- he displayed them all. Society would have dropped its jaws like a 20 ton brick. Everything was going well. With any luck, Alexandria would be so shaken, she’d follow him back like a contrite puppy and hopefully, for once, shut up.
No such luck. Alexandria, curse her heartily blackened heart, did not die of fear, or become contrite. Heck, she didn't even stop twirling the cigarette. She had, quite amazingly, come up with some ridiculous answer to his question. His rhetorical question. Did she not know how to recognize a rhetorical question when she heard one? Perhaps the girl wasn’t around when they decided to hand out brains. That would explain a lot.
He blinked. The girl, the monster, the epitome of evil, Satan’s spawn, hand of death, bubonic plague- she was gone. With a pitter-patter of feet that echoed in the alley, resonating in his head; mocking him.
“Shit.”
