Black Death- Chapter 1
"I'll pay you one of these days."-Creed of the bureaucrat on a budget
I slid into the office, not entirely comfortable. Which, for one such as myself, is quite an unusual frame of mind. There was something about dealing with bureaucrats that always put me on edge, however. The man siting at the desk gave the impression that you could find near-perfect copies of him in offices all over most of the Confederacy; in other words, he was of indeterminate age wearing a moderately expensive business suit, with hair coloured hair and eye coloured eyes. He didn't even look up when I entered, leading me to believe that he had not noticed me. This theory was also supported by the fact that he seemed to be engrossed in a stack of papers on his desk. Although, upon reflection, since his office seemed to contain nothing BUT stacks of paper, this was not entirely unusual. Of course, why he wasn't using digital recording devices along with the rest of the galaxy was another question altogether. Then again, Bureaucrats WERE always the last ones to accept change. And most seem to have a perverse addiction to giving out paperwork.
After standing there for several moments without any sign of recognition, I decided that rather than stand there all day, I would risk an interruption. I cleared my throat politely; or, at least, as politely as possible given that I was trying to resist the urge to reach over and teach him some manners in the way I am most accustomed; which is, to say, physically. At last he seems to realize that someone is there. Not that there was any physical reaction; he still continued to read the papers. But since he did bark out a quick "Name?", I figure he probably knows I'm there.
"Jace Winson", I reply in what I hope is a surly but suitably polite tone.
The suit still doesn't look up, but he does pull out a data pad. Glory be.
"Your business?"
At this I resist the urge to tell him that since he is the one with all the paperwork, he should be able to find that out for himself. Instead I growl "I'm here to get paid."
He taps a few keys on the pad, and still without so much as acknowledging my presence with a glance, he nods to himself and reaches into a drawer in his desk. His hand emerges with a standard, non-descript credit stick. He pushes it across the desk to me, and resumes perusing his documents. I glance at it, and with some disgust I notice that it was nearly two thousand credits short of what was upon.
"This isn't what I was promised!" I snap before I can stop myself. I attempt to salvage this gaffé with a belated ".Sir", but he doesn't seem to care, as he replies almost immediately with
"I'm afraid you'll have to take that up with you're contact. I'm just the paymaster."
I snorted to myself mentally; Yeah, right. As if I had a few days to waste chasing paper trails. probably to no avail. I wasn't going to solve this with words. Outright violence would also be a mistake, however. Threading my way through the paper littering the floor, being none to careful of my muddy boots on any stray papers, I covered the distance between the door and the desk so quickly he doubtful never even noticed me until my shadow blocked out his light. I leaned over the table and said in my softest, most dangerous voice,
"Are you shorting me my fee?"
He shirks away as if slapped. Not surprising for several reasons. One, I doubt he ever had to deal with many physical threats in his life. Especially not with security a button press away. But since I hadn't actually threatened him, there wasn't much he could do about it. yet. The second, and probably more persuasive reason, however, was quite simple. I had not showered in around a week, and for nearly half that time I had been piloting a ship, confined in close quarters with a close-circuit are recycler. which wasn't great at reducing smells. In other words, I had developed a very unique odour of my own which, needless to say, was far from pleasant. No doubt the stench had been slowly working it's way across the office towards him since my arrival, and I had just hastened it.
"Er. no, of course not. Mr. Winson" he choked out, looking back down at the pad.
"How about we give you another thousand as a bonus, and leave it at that?" he squeaked out.
You notice that he is now asking ME if the fee is acceptable.
I grinned my most menacing smile, and said
"That'll be just fine."
It was probably the best I was going to get out of this rat.
He quickly made the adjustment, and I snatched up the credit stick, and flashing him one last devilish grin, I tossed him a wave and left the office. I needn't have bothered; he had gone back to his papers. Returning to my ship at last, my business completed, I thought happily to myself about the new upgrades this payment would buy, and set off to fill my belly and then get roaring drunk.
"I'll pay you one of these days."-Creed of the bureaucrat on a budget
I slid into the office, not entirely comfortable. Which, for one such as myself, is quite an unusual frame of mind. There was something about dealing with bureaucrats that always put me on edge, however. The man siting at the desk gave the impression that you could find near-perfect copies of him in offices all over most of the Confederacy; in other words, he was of indeterminate age wearing a moderately expensive business suit, with hair coloured hair and eye coloured eyes. He didn't even look up when I entered, leading me to believe that he had not noticed me. This theory was also supported by the fact that he seemed to be engrossed in a stack of papers on his desk. Although, upon reflection, since his office seemed to contain nothing BUT stacks of paper, this was not entirely unusual. Of course, why he wasn't using digital recording devices along with the rest of the galaxy was another question altogether. Then again, Bureaucrats WERE always the last ones to accept change. And most seem to have a perverse addiction to giving out paperwork.
After standing there for several moments without any sign of recognition, I decided that rather than stand there all day, I would risk an interruption. I cleared my throat politely; or, at least, as politely as possible given that I was trying to resist the urge to reach over and teach him some manners in the way I am most accustomed; which is, to say, physically. At last he seems to realize that someone is there. Not that there was any physical reaction; he still continued to read the papers. But since he did bark out a quick "Name?", I figure he probably knows I'm there.
"Jace Winson", I reply in what I hope is a surly but suitably polite tone.
The suit still doesn't look up, but he does pull out a data pad. Glory be.
"Your business?"
At this I resist the urge to tell him that since he is the one with all the paperwork, he should be able to find that out for himself. Instead I growl "I'm here to get paid."
He taps a few keys on the pad, and still without so much as acknowledging my presence with a glance, he nods to himself and reaches into a drawer in his desk. His hand emerges with a standard, non-descript credit stick. He pushes it across the desk to me, and resumes perusing his documents. I glance at it, and with some disgust I notice that it was nearly two thousand credits short of what was upon.
"This isn't what I was promised!" I snap before I can stop myself. I attempt to salvage this gaffé with a belated ".Sir", but he doesn't seem to care, as he replies almost immediately with
"I'm afraid you'll have to take that up with you're contact. I'm just the paymaster."
I snorted to myself mentally; Yeah, right. As if I had a few days to waste chasing paper trails. probably to no avail. I wasn't going to solve this with words. Outright violence would also be a mistake, however. Threading my way through the paper littering the floor, being none to careful of my muddy boots on any stray papers, I covered the distance between the door and the desk so quickly he doubtful never even noticed me until my shadow blocked out his light. I leaned over the table and said in my softest, most dangerous voice,
"Are you shorting me my fee?"
He shirks away as if slapped. Not surprising for several reasons. One, I doubt he ever had to deal with many physical threats in his life. Especially not with security a button press away. But since I hadn't actually threatened him, there wasn't much he could do about it. yet. The second, and probably more persuasive reason, however, was quite simple. I had not showered in around a week, and for nearly half that time I had been piloting a ship, confined in close quarters with a close-circuit are recycler. which wasn't great at reducing smells. In other words, I had developed a very unique odour of my own which, needless to say, was far from pleasant. No doubt the stench had been slowly working it's way across the office towards him since my arrival, and I had just hastened it.
"Er. no, of course not. Mr. Winson" he choked out, looking back down at the pad.
"How about we give you another thousand as a bonus, and leave it at that?" he squeaked out.
You notice that he is now asking ME if the fee is acceptable.
I grinned my most menacing smile, and said
"That'll be just fine."
It was probably the best I was going to get out of this rat.
He quickly made the adjustment, and I snatched up the credit stick, and flashing him one last devilish grin, I tossed him a wave and left the office. I needn't have bothered; he had gone back to his papers. Returning to my ship at last, my business completed, I thought happily to myself about the new upgrades this payment would buy, and set off to fill my belly and then get roaring drunk.