Purgatory was sterile and corporate. It was the kind of place where you could get written up for having dirt underneath your fingernails, or even a smudge on your glasses. Pierce understood that Hell was just as rigid, if not worse - but Hell also had coffee machines in their break room. In Purgatory there was only the water cooler, and your 'break' was the five minute round-trip between it and your desk.
Pierce fidgeted in his seat, adjusting his tie anxiously as his grey eyes sought desperately to land on an object distracting enough to tear his attention away from what he was about to face. There was nothing, of course. He was seated in the only chair, the seat of which was uncomfortably relaxed. It was impossible to sit down without shrinking an extra foot, the leather groaning in protest and hissing a sigh when you leaned too far back. The leather was soft and buttery - what most would consider a luxury, but to him it just made the whole thing feel greasy. He could only picture how many larger, sweatier reapers before him had sat down in this very spot - rubbing their anxious elbows against the worn arms while mopping their streaming brows.
Aside from the chair, there was a matching couch and an end-table wedged between them. The table was barely big enough to fit the pretentious lamp that sat on top of it, and there had certainly been no need to clutter it with the same three issues of a magazine that had been there since Pierce first tightened a rope around his neck. Hell was always up-to-date on the latest gossip rags, and Heaven kept religious track of its lifestyle periodicals. Here there was a certain level of apathy one was expected to maintain. It wasn't supposed to matter that there was only one magazine with apparently only three worthy issues. If you cared, that meant you were still too human to do your job.
The whole place smelled nauseatingly of bleach. It was overwhelming, even for someone who used to huff it.
The office door opened. Anxiety gripped him, and Pierce suddenly felt riveted to his seat. For a split second, he couldn't have moved if he wanted to. His eyes were glued to the door as a secretary emerged, lipstick red heels taking a few dogged stabs at the short cream-colored carpet.
"You're on, Fletcher." her pale green eyes flickered up and down, judging every inch of his disheveled appearance. It was always last names, here.
Pierce forced himself to stand, the plump cushions making every effort to suck him down in resistance. Finally, he pried himself away from their grip, stumbling forward a step. His right leg had fallen asleep; the unpleasant static feeling traveled all the way up to his thigh.
The secretary vanished into the office. She sat down behind her desk once more, and Pierce walked right past it - heading for the set of doors that were off to the side. They were glass, and he could clearly see through to his boss' space. The senior reaper was busy jotting something down in a thick ledger - that couldn't be a good sign.
Pierce didn't know if he should knock or just walk in. He stood at the doors for a full minute before tapping the glass sheepishly and then pulling on one of the handles. The door opened with disturbing ease, hissing softly as it swept over the carpet. Pierce's throat convulsed as he swallowed nervously as stepped into the office, which was twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the building.
At first, it was so quiet that he could hear the fine tip of the boss' pen scratching against smooth paper. Pierce stood awkwardly by the doors. He wasn't about to sit without being told, but his presence hadn't been acknowledged yet, either. Perhaps if he was very still, he would just be forgotten and allowed to disintegrate...
"Fletcher. Have a seat." Mr. Yates had a voice more forceful than aerosol.
Pierce sat down immediately,