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Because I know I'm going to lose this sooner or later, and if I lose it, I'll give up:
The first day of work. Today, she will wear her shiny new badge for the very first time (on an official basis, God knows she's been modeling in front of the mirror enough in the last few days), she will walk down the halls (at least, she assumes there are halls, no one she knows has actually been inside), she'll be part of a group. One of a highly respected, highly sought-after group. She is going to be one of the King's Own EMDs.
Of course, her mom was still hoping she'd change her mind, go back to her residency and become a 'real' doctor (better prospects there, my dear, and at your age...) and give up this new job for a lark. It'd been the cause of the fight last night - a three hour row with both combatants screaming across the holocron connection (You are wasting your life! You think I'm better as a doctor's wife, not a real doctor!) But she'd held her own against the onslaught of motherly 'concern', citing that as an adult, living on her own, she gets the last say in her own life. That'd gone over like a lead balloon. The fight had gone on for another hour after that, and was particularly nasty.
Now, however, was he first day of work, and she, Robin Chimra, was going to join the King's Own, the m ost advanced and daring EMD team in New London. She's all ready to go, eager to start this new chapter in her life. It's just too bad she doesn't actually have to leave her two-bedroom apartment for another four hours. She stands at the plate-glass window, staring out over the pre-dawn city of New London, cradling a steaming hot mug of greenhouse grown coffee - expensive as hell but oh-so-worth it. The tropics-grown stuff that's still sold at greasy spoons like McDonalds and Chip King is usually so contaminated with environmental carcinogens the current head of the World Health Allied Treaty Signatories (WHATS) spends more of his time pushing public education of the danger of drinking tropics-grown coffee than he has warning about the dangers of smoking. Of course, the 'war' against smoking has been going on for over two hundred years now, and not showing an signs of coming to a successful close.
Three and a half hours later, she's drank another two cups of coffee (even taking the time to hand-grind the beans, which is, after all, the proper way to prepare a good cup of coffee), polished her new badge (the unicorn and lion on the seal gleam now, even in low light), watched the morning news (An orca whale found in the Thames! Scientists scrambling to study this strange and unusual creature that has so conviniently landed upon their doorstep. In other news, Lankoria has demanded that the worldwide ban against whaling be raised, seeing as there's so many of them now that they are turning up in the Thames River) and has contemplated what her day might be like, from start to finish, roughly a doezen times - some ending with her as the new crew hero, some with her being out of New London entirely for her sheer incompetance.
Beep beep
Maybe her mother is right, as much as she hates to admit it. Maybe she isn't cut out for the fast moving life of the King's Own.
Beep beep
Maybe she's doomed to failure. Maybe she should call in sick, start another day. Maybe she should call in dead.
Beep beep
Maybe she should answer the holocron.
The stern (ruggedly handsome, according to New London Today) face of the leader of the King's Own appears, his close-cropped curlly hair picking up the glow of the lights on the control board behind him.
"Good morning, Miss Chimra." He greets her, his voice gravelly and solemn to her ears.
"G-g-g-good morning, sir. Um. I... I..." She stutters, meaning to apologize for no answering the holocron on the first signal. Oddly, her hands are shaking, and she hurridly hides them below the field of the holocron's camera. Clearly she's had too much coffee today. Even if it was really good.
"Are you ready for your first day?" He asks, and he actually smiles, white teeth showing brightly against his dark skin. It's a smile that would make hoardes of young teenyboppers swoon. it's a smile that would make her swoon, if he wasn't her very very new boss.
"Yes sir." She's so very proud that she's m anaged to answer him without stuttering for once. Never mind that it was only a two-word answer.
"Very well. Set the coordinates of your hopper... I assume you have a hopper?" He asks, meaning the personal dematerialization-rematerialization devices popular in New London, and continues at her nod. "Set the coordinates of your hopper to Four-Two-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot."
"Four-Two-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot, aye sir, I've got it." She assures him eagerly, then hurries off to the hopper's controls. After a moment, there is a polite cough from behind her. She spins, horrified. She just walked away from the leader of the King's Own! He's smiling, however, though it does little to reassure her.
"You may also wish to turn off your holocron, Miss. Chimra." He points out drily, ignoring her mortification. "Mathorn Hornwell out." The screen blanks for a moment, then the standard BellCom signal bathes the room in a bright blue glow.
"I should call in dead." Robin groans as she slaps the power switch on the holocom unit. Still, they are expecting her now, and the coordinates are already in the hopper. Might as well get the worst over with. They can't laugh at her all day, right?
The apartment around the hopper's pad dissolves away, to be swiftly replaced with a room Robin has never seen before. The walls are a slick black, lit with a muted orange track lighting at the ceiling and floor, and from the same orange glow from the hopper pad under her feet. There also doesn't appear to be a door out. This could be troublesome.
"Um. Hullo?" The walls absorb the sound of her voice, deadening and muting the sound, distorting her sense of space.
Also? Got an A on the virology exam. Life is good.
The first day of work. Today, she will wear her shiny new badge for the very first time (on an official basis, God knows she's been modeling in front of the mirror enough in the last few days), she will walk down the halls (at least, she assumes there are halls, no one she knows has actually been inside), she'll be part of a group. One of a highly respected, highly sought-after group. She is going to be one of the King's Own EMDs.
Of course, her mom was still hoping she'd change her mind, go back to her residency and become a 'real' doctor (better prospects there, my dear, and at your age...) and give up this new job for a lark. It'd been the cause of the fight last night - a three hour row with both combatants screaming across the holocron connection (You are wasting your life! You think I'm better as a doctor's wife, not a real doctor!) But she'd held her own against the onslaught of motherly 'concern', citing that as an adult, living on her own, she gets the last say in her own life. That'd gone over like a lead balloon. The fight had gone on for another hour after that, and was particularly nasty.
Now, however, was he first day of work, and she, Robin Chimra, was going to join the King's Own, the m ost advanced and daring EMD team in New London. She's all ready to go, eager to start this new chapter in her life. It's just too bad she doesn't actually have to leave her two-bedroom apartment for another four hours. She stands at the plate-glass window, staring out over the pre-dawn city of New London, cradling a steaming hot mug of greenhouse grown coffee - expensive as hell but oh-so-worth it. The tropics-grown stuff that's still sold at greasy spoons like McDonalds and Chip King is usually so contaminated with environmental carcinogens the current head of the World Health Allied Treaty Signatories (WHATS) spends more of his time pushing public education of the danger of drinking tropics-grown coffee than he has warning about the dangers of smoking. Of course, the 'war' against smoking has been going on for over two hundred years now, and not showing an signs of coming to a successful close.
Three and a half hours later, she's drank another two cups of coffee (even taking the time to hand-grind the beans, which is, after all, the proper way to prepare a good cup of coffee), polished her new badge (the unicorn and lion on the seal gleam now, even in low light), watched the morning news (An orca whale found in the Thames! Scientists scrambling to study this strange and unusual creature that has so conviniently landed upon their doorstep. In other news, Lankoria has demanded that the worldwide ban against whaling be raised, seeing as there's so many of them now that they are turning up in the Thames River) and has contemplated what her day might be like, from start to finish, roughly a doezen times - some ending with her as the new crew hero, some with her being out of New London entirely for her sheer incompetance.
Beep beep
Maybe her mother is right, as much as she hates to admit it. Maybe she isn't cut out for the fast moving life of the King's Own.
Beep beep
Maybe she's doomed to failure. Maybe she should call in sick, start another day. Maybe she should call in dead.
Beep beep
Maybe she should answer the holocron.
The stern (ruggedly handsome, according to New London Today) face of the leader of the King's Own appears, his close-cropped curlly hair picking up the glow of the lights on the control board behind him.
"Good morning, Miss Chimra." He greets her, his voice gravelly and solemn to her ears.
"G-g-g-good morning, sir. Um. I... I..." She stutters, meaning to apologize for no answering the holocron on the first signal. Oddly, her hands are shaking, and she hurridly hides them below the field of the holocron's camera. Clearly she's had too much coffee today. Even if it was really good.
"Are you ready for your first day?" He asks, and he actually smiles, white teeth showing brightly against his dark skin. It's a smile that would make hoardes of young teenyboppers swoon. it's a smile that would make her swoon, if he wasn't her very very new boss.
"Yes sir." She's so very proud that she's m anaged to answer him without stuttering for once. Never mind that it was only a two-word answer.
"Very well. Set the coordinates of your hopper... I assume you have a hopper?" He asks, meaning the personal dematerialization-rematerialization devices popular in New London, and continues at her nod. "Set the coordinates of your hopper to Four-Two-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot."
"Four-Two-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot, aye sir, I've got it." She assures him eagerly, then hurries off to the hopper's controls. After a moment, there is a polite cough from behind her. She spins, horrified. She just walked away from the leader of the King's Own! He's smiling, however, though it does little to reassure her.
"You may also wish to turn off your holocron, Miss. Chimra." He points out drily, ignoring her mortification. "Mathorn Hornwell out." The screen blanks for a moment, then the standard BellCom signal bathes the room in a bright blue glow.
"I should call in dead." Robin groans as she slaps the power switch on the holocom unit. Still, they are expecting her now, and the coordinates are already in the hopper. Might as well get the worst over with. They can't laugh at her all day, right?
The apartment around the hopper's pad dissolves away, to be swiftly replaced with a room Robin has never seen before. The walls are a slick black, lit with a muted orange track lighting at the ceiling and floor, and from the same orange glow from the hopper pad under her feet. There also doesn't appear to be a door out. This could be troublesome.
"Um. Hullo?" The walls absorb the sound of her voice, deadening and muting the sound, distorting her sense of space.
Also? Got an A on the virology exam. Life is good.