Roland was a man who enjoyed all the pleasures life had to offer. Hearty food, strong drinks, warm company, a soft bed... and this. Something that he hadn't gotten a chance to do since the Embryon had suddenly burst out of nowhere and thrown the entire order of Roland's world upside down and inside out. But now there was a moment of peace, and it would have been foolish not to seize the opportunity.
Therefore, the pale man was stretched out on the couch in his office, a single lamp providing all the illumination he would need. The coffee table bore a snifter filled with something quite a bit stronger and more cheery than mere coffee. That table was also the recipient of Roland's long coat and radio, carelessly tossed there as soon as Roland had gotten his brief snatch of freedom; next to that coat was his shotgun, the ammunition still loaded, within easy reach.
Yet at that moment Roland wasn't interested in thinking about why he'd need that weapon. Rather he leaned back against the arm of his couch, his legs resting on the far end, one hand adjusting his glasses as the other idly ran over the cover of one of his greatest treasures: a hard copy of "The Jungle," one of the few books that had been saved through all of the twists and turns of Roland's destiny. The battered cover and the worn edges betrayed much perusal, and yet the slight grin on Roland's face was still genuine.
It was a moment to be savored; therefore, everything had to be just so. After holding the book out to optimal reading distance, that grin shifted into a frown. The light was soon adjusted just a shade brighter, and the man frowned as he walked over to his desk and removed a cloth, wiping his glasses clean. Then it was the tiniest of sips from the snifter before Roland stretched out on the couch once more. A good minute was spent arranging himself to take the best advantage of the less-than-luxurious contours, settling himself as comfortably as he could before again holding out the novel at just the right distance.
With those kinds of preparations, he could lose himself for hours in the squalor that Upton Sinclair captured so vibrantly. It was easy to draw parallels between his situation and that one, between his present and the world's past... and no matter how many times he read through that novel, it never failed to spark Roland's introspective side. Never failed to make him think. Never failed to send his thoughts along the lines of man's treatment to man, the inevitable oscillation of public goodness and corruption, the woes that mere ignorance could inflict on everyone, the power of the written word to survive when all else had been wiped away by God's wrath.
...but such was not to be. Just as he'd cracked open the pages, his radio announced itself with an angry screech. Whatever it was, it was important; so important that it drew a curse from the man as he gently lay the book down on the table, his gray eyes glaring daggers at the offending piece of machinery. The moment was gone just like that, all of his careful preparations were thrown out the window, and who could tell when next he could find another reprieve?
His left hand grabbed the radio, the atma mark on the back of that hand beginning to glow from his sheer frustration. Whoever it was, whatever it was... God help their souls if it wasn't a matter of life and death.