Arthur Kirkland was a man whose roots trace back to London City. He grew up in the English city from birth to the age of sixteen. He has no mother or father, both are now late. Kirkland had grown up in a small household. Father worked, mother cooked. They had no pets, he had no siblings. He rarely spoke to his parents and simply attended school. Kirkland graduated with what was necessary: no more, no less.
A few days after graduation, his father handed him a ticket. A ticket to a docket, a military based passenger carrying boat. To America. Not a word was said as in the next two days, he prepared, packing every article of clothing he owned and little household items, and then left. He knew what he wanted from the "land of Freedom".
Not waiting a single moment to pause, he entered his office, which was adjunct and to the side of a much larger, older building. The structure that he was given had been built only seven years ago, intended to be a storage closet for photographic material. The finished process of photography had to go somewhere, his boss gingerly explained when he first put a heavy duty box of pounds of photos down, and this was the perfect spot. Kirkland had nodded at it, unbuttoned his heavy winter attire, and set off to organize. Today, every single glossy bit was stored away in an alphabetical cabinet. Each one had it's tab and sleeve, protecting it from damage in the back of the office. Fingerprints on the sheets were like malicious fingertips crawling up a skirt, itching to take away the most innocent purity.
This scenic monotone space was not that large. It was homey and cozy, two bodies could be seated comfortably and speak to him from in front of his desk. All his files on his desk were clearly neat and ready to be stored away, the chairs were swept clean, the desk was kept clothed down until it gave off a glow, and the only window on the side was periodically dusted. Just enough to maintain a flow and order. Other present items were a small, iron name card indicating who he was. A collection of charcoal pencils and the best writing utensils available for the company's budget.
The quadrant was dimly lit with a grey hue, the essence of a cloudy, monochromatic atmosphere. His eyes greedily ate up the masking of the undertone every day. His room did not need the sun, Kirkland decided. Such a beauty for a workplace was worth much more than that.
Setting down the case and bag right next to his personal coat hanger, he hung his coat and cap before closing the door, rolling back his shoulders and parting ways to the desk.
"Mister Kirkland, hello! I like it- Kirkland. Gotta nice ring to it. Kirk-laaaand. Never heard someone from Baltimore get that kinda monicker," was what he was instead greeted with.
Straw blonde hair, blue-grey eyes that resembled the same dreary sky of that day. A heavy tan, where it was obviously a farmer's as white skin peeped out from beneath a shirt collar. A shirt, with an emblem of the military sown onto the upper left area of the chest. Refined arms, scars covering him like freckles. Strong, worn hands. The glitter of a dog tag.
There was a U.S. Soldier seated in his office, cross legged with his combat boots, pants stuffed into them and t-shirt present, contrary to the weather outdoors. His hair faintly glossed over with the hint of rain when the mere light reflected against it.
Arthur Kirkland stood a foot in front of his door, then continued to progress through his regular schedule. Treading towards the desk, he stepped behind it, seated in a few moments. Pulling up to the desk, a new piece of parchment appeared from the cabinet. A pencil was taken, momentarily sharpened with a flick of a blade, soon returned back to it's hiding place in the same cabinet. The new found company watched, darting from the pencil to Kirkland's eyes, then back to some other focal point.
Pausing, the office chair creaked as the male sat back. Silent, his gaze rested on the stranger. He was poised with a hand in his lap and another holding his chin.
A few breaths of quiet passed. Kirkland waited.
The other tapped his foot onto the carpet. A bit shaggy, muffling the heavy combat boots to a null thump.
This unknown variable, x, stared intently at Kirkland after a minute and a half passed. Somewhere next door, right against the wall, a grandfather clock made it's familiar coffee process.
An awkward, disfigured tension grew from variable x to Kirkland. From Kirkland, to variable x, there was no tension. Just awaiting.
Two minute mark. Finally, this x spoke.
"... Well, I guess it's time for introductions, since you're gonna remain verbally anonymous." The soldier's eyes tracked the nametag, the bolded words engraved into metal. "I'm Alfred F. Jones,-" Kirkland's hand began to move in a hairbreadth time after the new information was announced, ratifying it on parchment. Jones, our now identified x, was obviously unfamiliar with Kirkland's equation.
"2nd Lieutenant. Sharpshooter, grade Sergeant. I'm not wearin' my fancy badges and acorns, but I'm still quite a decorated man," Jones leaned forward a bit in the seat, hands splayed on his knees with an equally splayed grin.
Kirkland appointed this too, jotting down notes without haste. His pencil paused, gearing back to watch Jones. He tapped off a bit of dust on the parchment, to avoid rubbing in extra charcoal.
Jones' smile faltered, and it lessened, but it still embroidered his expression.
"Alright. Tough crowd. I get it."
"Interview?"
Jones nodded, popping his knuckles from consequential habit as he spoke, "I was sent by, uh, that Shifflet guy. Your boss, sorry. He said you were looking for an active Soldier to document and interview."
Kirkland tapped his pencil in affirmation, or perhaps, urgency. Jones' knee bounced in response. His lips pursed for a moment, then spoke once more:
"So, here I am, your guinea pig. Do what you will."
"Did you bring your personal documents, identification, enlistment papers?"
"Eh, no."
"Bring them tomorrow. We will be meeting every day at exactly this hour," eyeing his watch, the man nodded, "6:30 AM."
"Where are you from, Mister Kirkland? You're a weird guy," Jones chuckled, shifting again in his chair to try a different position, as it may be more comfortable and help ease the lack of safe net energy in the room.
"Down South-West, Virginia." Kirkland's voice did not carry an English accentuation. Syllables did not curve royally.
There was no English sound at all. This was a practiced American. He was American.
"Oh, that explains why you don't sound like you're 'round these parts." Jones had never been to the country of Virginia. Not yet, at least.
"6:20 AM would be preferable, you're not coming after 6:30 AM. You're going to be here at 6:30 AM, or before." Reiterated, a few more bits of information were noted and circled before the pencil rested peacefully on the desk.
"Yes, sir," the other American did his best to not dice in sarcasm to the statement, but Kirkland did resemble a corporal giving him orders.
"Go talk to Shifflet. He'll give you the rest of the information you need," the document was then being placed into a side cabinet on the desk, also filled with manilla folders to a square cut system. He put the document in the newest one, sliding it out to adorn the tag with a new owner's initials.
"Gotcha." Standing up, Kirkland's company stretched momentarily before back-stepping, providing a "see ya 'round, Virginian!" before walking out of the office and closing the door. T-shirt and all.
Kirkland blinked at the door, and then resumed to prepping Alfred F. Jones' new portfolio under the name of his company, and more specifically, his office. The meeting was quick, brief, and didn't allow for much wiggle room. It was exactly what he had desired for every interview, and each had gone as such.
