I realise that I have a habit of writing little speeches at the beginning of my chapters, but two things: This story is inspired by a series called Mad Men. And I own nothing; Nintendo does.
The summer rain pats gently against the window, and the little drops run blissfully down on the glass.
It was a hot day, and it still is. In fact, the entire summer has been marked by sweltering heat. People have been pushing blocks of ice into public swimming pools and then jumping into the still not-so-cool water. Ice has been on great demand this season.
Regardless of the heat however, the city never sleeps. It won't sleep tonight either, and neither will Ike.
He's glad that the summer is almost over, but with its end comes the fall and with the fall comes more work.
The raindrops running down the window are silently racing against each other, and Ike rhythmically throws the white ball in his hand into the air and catches it, preoccupied in thoughts.
He should get back to work. He should get back to thinking, to being productive. But drop number three has captured his gaze as it outdistances drops number one, two and four, but then suddenly number five, whom Ike has thought chance-less, begins catching up. It gets ahead of number three and the race ends in the window frame.
"Urgh." Ike frowns. He has bet a lot of imaginary money on number three, but it's not like betting is his strength. This year he has accompanied mother and Mist to the Kentucky Derby, and it was the last time. Never again.
His hand closes around the worn baseball; playing with it is just another thing he shouldn't be doing. It was his father's most beloved item, a priceless unicum signed by the NP Yankees' Falco Lombardi Sr.
His musings are abruptly ended by an energetic knock on the door. "Just a moment," he shouts and quickly takes the few steps to the desk to put the ball back into its little showcase.
There— it's as if it's never been moved.
"I'm coming in," a voice declares, and simultaneously the door is being pushed open. A woman with a red bun, glasses on her nose and a remarkable stack of papers in her arms walks in. "I've got some more letters for you, don't ask me why they didn't arrive in the morning —I'm guessing Shinon was the recipient— and a lot of people called. I wrote it all down, you'll have to go through the list and tell me who to get back to."
"Thank you, Miss Mato."
Titania drops the papers on Ike's desk. "I see you've been playing with that ball again."
"… Pff, no? That's an assumption out of nowhere." Ike scratches his head, abashed.
His secretary sends him a scolding, but motherly look. "It has to be upturned like this, so the signature is well visible," she mutters and tenderly grabs the ball to turn it around. "Just in case someone might want to take it out and put it back in." Ike rolls his eyes at that subtle suggestion— but it's an advice he'll be sure to remember. "What— The telephone!" Titania has now spotted the cable on the floor and hurries over to it. "You pulled the plug? No wonder no one could reach you. Oh, what am I going to do with you, Mister Greilsson?"
"That sounds just so wrong. What will it take for you to stop calling me that? Do I have to cut your pay?"
A little red light on the phone begins to blink, signaling that it's connected. Titania stands up after putting the plug back in. "You're my boss, what else should I call you? Ike? Commander?"
"Hah." Ike shuts his window. I could get used to 'Commander'. "For the fifty-first time, 'Ike' is just fine."
Titania readjusts her glasses and searches for something in a drawer of the big oak desk. Ike doesn't mind. "You know it's hard for me to get used to that. To adjust myself."
He takes his cup of coffee to taste the beverage. It's cold and too sweet for him, but refreshing given the heat that's still raging both outside and in the building itself. "Really. It's been ten months, Miss Mato. You had no problems switching from 'Ike' to 'Mister Greilsson' within twenty-four hours. It doesn't sound right, you could be my mom!"
"I could not!" Titania looks flabbergasted. "Your very youthful aunt, if anything! And don't even consider cutting my pay, your father would turn in his grave, may he rest in peace." She walks back to the door, laden with a few files and folders from Ike's desk. "I am also to inform you that Sir Mario wants to come over before he leaves, so don't go home early."
"I wasn't planning to," Ike confesses, holding on to his cup. "I'll work through the night."
Titania stops in the door and sighs. "Again? Don't overexert yourself. I'll bring along breakfast in the morning."
"Thank you." He nods, and Titania gives him a pensive smile before she closes the door behind her.
Ike fishes the baseball out of its showcase and gets back to kneading it.
He's brooding over a financial report as the door is almost being kicked out of its hinges.
"Ike, my boy," the melodious baritone of Sir Mario Mario, the other senior partner, sounds through the office. "Working hard, are we? A little bird told me you want to spend the night? What's happened? Is your sister making dinner today?"
"She actually took a cooking course during the summer." Ike has moved out of home during his studies already, but he's tired of reminding Mario of it every single time.
"Ah, that's a relief. Be that as it may, I brought you two sandwiches and a coffee for later. Can't have you starve, son." Thus, the corpulent man slaps a brown bag on Ike's desk. "So what's so important this time? Something overdue? Not the Lowell Acoustics case, I presume?"
"Not the Lowell Acoustics case." Shit. Where did he misplace that folder?
"Good, good." Mario twirls his moustache and walks around the office, inspecting the paintings on the walls and the furniture until Ike wonders why the man has even decided to come over. It's not like he sees the paintings for the first time, they've been here for as long as Ike can remember. "Keeping quite your distance to your father's chair, I see?"
Ike looks up from his papers. It's true, he's been leaning against the windowsill, but he likes it here. Especially when it's so hot; in case of an open window, the wind passes right through this spot, and if it's closed, the fan's just a step to the right. And in this heat, Ike has taken off both jacket and tie.
He eyes the huge leathern office chair. His father always looked so impressive in it, almost as if it were meant to be his throne.
Ike isn't small or puny himself, but whenever the sits in that chair, he feels as if he were drowning, as if the chair would swallow him in its massiveness.
Both men are staring at the piece of furniture in silence, then Mario takes a little metal plate from the desk and examines it. "Well. You've got big shoes to fill, son. Not everyone's worthy of a war hero's legacy, eh?"
A high sound rings through the room as the award is being placed back on the desk, as the little medal falls against the metal plate.
"Oh, your father was one hell of a man. We were the Terror of the Fronts," Mario mutters. "But I think you already know that story by heart, don't you? Nowadays we have to evoke terror in our competition. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, my boy?"
"New Pork City shudders at the mere sound of your name, Mario."
Mario suddenly slams his fists on the expensive desk (at which everything on it briefly jumps a few centimetres into the air) and points a finger at Ike, grinning. "Hah! That's my boy! Your father raised you well! Now let's get back to why I came over," he says a little calmer and puts the tips of is fingers together, business-like. "I got a call from Harkinian earlier today."
Ike briefly scours his brain for that name. "The business magnate?"
"This very one! Turns out he's interested in us promoting his company, so I'll need you to do a little research on Triforce Enterprises' stats and form an opinion. I've already called in a meeting for tomorrow."
Someone knocks on the door, but Ike is too busy with choking on the fresh coffee Mario brought him to answer. He can hear Titania shout 'no no no no no,' but the door opens anyway and in slips a buxom blonde in a pink dress and white heels.
"Tomorrow?" Ike repeats after Mario. Usually the discussions about whether to take a new client on don't take place at such short notice, and everyone has more than enough time to prepare. But Ike only has one night. Which he's now looking forward to even less than before.
Mario extends his hand to the woman, who's tottering to him on her high heels. Probably his most recent trophy, Ike concludes. Looks like his second wife, but thirty years younger.
"Ah, let me introduce you two. Ike, this is Penelope Toadstool. Penelope, meet Ike Greilsson, Subspace Advertising's other senior partner. I know he looks quite junior for a senior, but I outclass him when it comes to experience."
Mario gives the girl a very raunchy look, but she ignores him and flutters her eyelashes at Ike. Their handshake lasts a moment too long for him to feel comfortable with it. "Call me Peach," she warbles.
"Oh, and she's as sweet as a peach, this one," Mario hollers and wraps his hand around his young friend's waist to pull her to him. "So energetic, so full of vigour!"
With that last word, he's apparently grabbed the girl's butt, because she squeaks and jumps. Then Peach begins to giggle and Mario joins in with his booming laughter.
"Well, I've got work to do. You kids have fun," Ike declares and reaches for a pen to chew on. Mario absolutely loves it when Ike treats him like they're peers.
"We will! My yacht is waiting for us, ain't it so, Peach?"
Peach giggles.
"Eat the sandwiches, Ike, or I'll get an earful to hear from your mother," Mario adds as he pulls his new friend out of the office. "See you tomorrow, buddy!"
"Bye-bye, Mister Greilsson," Peach breathes and winks before the door slams shut, and Ike is alone at last.
Ike sinks into the huge chair and stares at the files piling up on his desk. A stray loch has fallen over his eye, and he pouts as he blows it away. Great, now he also has to go to the barber's (his mother has already offered to trim his hair herself, but he fears to end up looking like a cow has licked his head).
He has to look for this damn Lowell Acoustics folder, and on top of that gather information on Harkinian and TE, and he has no idea where to start.
With the coffee. Ike reaches for the cup and then for the first file.