Delivery [Open]

[Emil Steilsson]

He didn't want to be up this early. Who the hell woke at five in the morning? Oh, right. Him. Today. For work. He was the hapless victim that got chosen to grab the orange envelope from the office of the Architect firm he worked part time; and, take it to the client to see if they agreed with the arrangement plans. Since he'd have to go right after school, he had to get the envelope in the morning.

Bathroom routine, get dressed, get coffee, and out the door by 5:30AM. He locked up the door behind him, lidded coffee mug in one hand. The keys were shoved into the front pocket opposite of the pocket that held his wallet. A leisurely stroll found him at a white motorcycle. He finished the coffee and shoved the mug into the saddlebag before fishing his keys out.

The engine roared to life and the boy took off, stopping by the office, where he used his office key to get in the back door. Rummaging around the dark for the envelope and heading out just as the first worker came in. He raised a hand in silent greeting; and the other man patted him on the back on the way past.

Next, he flew off to school on the white bike. Each class was a bore; and, more often than not Emi was staring at the window. Lunch passed by with Emi sitting by himself on some steps in the back of the school -the way he prefered it. He transferred late and didn't really know any of these people. And finally, finally, when the end of the day bell rang -he shot out of the classroom like a bullet.

He was out to his bike and on the road as quick as a whip. The envelope securely in his messenger bag with his binder. He checked his phone at a stop sign for directions before making a turn and heading toward the building. Eventually he found the place, and pulled over. Double-checking his phone for the name of the place, he headed inside and looked around. Wordlessly questioning if anyone was about, ".....?"

[Leon]

One of the nice things about being largely in control of his own life was that his schedule was flexible. His nights were mostly spent at the bar, naturally, but unless he got an early call (or a very, very late one), he had the morning free to take care of his own business. Cooking, exercise, laundry–there was no need for him to rush to the closing hours of the local businesses as more regular working hours would entail. It was a rhythm he found that he enjoyed; although he had no requirement for "productivity" in the same way as he had when he was in school, this timetable sat well with him. He was never really pressed for time, and he had plenty to spare for a visit to the library or a café. He slept better too, strange as it may seem, since he wasn't exactly a welcome guest in the great nation of Russia, and who knows what his parents were up to?

There were various reasons for the sound and dreamless sleep that had accepted him once he settled down in Archadia and found a routine–a rhythm–but if he were to be honest it was less likely the change in workload or scenery, but rather, the change in company. Here, he hadn't many friends either (that was all right, as he never really had them anyway), but it was a far cry from living underneath the oppressive watchfulness of his parents and his ex, and perhaps that made all the difference. In any case, it wasn't a topic he liked to philosophize about, and so far he had simply enjoyed the fact that he felt much more at ease as a fugitive than he ever had at home. The truth could be strange sometimes, and sometimes, it was better not to dissect it.

What he did know was that he was decently content with this arrangement. He had time to himself until five in the evening, four days out of the week, and from that pay along with whatever his clients could rake in, he could cobble together enough for bills and food. He set aside a certain amount to replenish his supply of rubbing alcohol and anesthesia (sold to him by someone who knew someone, who also happened to get their hands on the rare prescription drug from time to time), and those slowly depleted again as more people came knocking. It was unexpectedly unexciting for being an outlaw of sorts, but it was also his best defense against getting caught. There were others who had a penchant for getting into trouble it seemed, which was what made business for him, so he supposed he had no reason to complain about it except that he sometimes worried. If Archadia was famous for something, it wasn't its remarkable human rights record.

But today was one of the days he didn't have to worry. No one had appeared at his door, and his "work phone" remained dead and silent. He arrived at the restaurant without incident–early, actually–and he circled the motorbike around to the parking lot behind the building before pushing through the back door. He tugged off his helmet in the staff room and stripped off his street clothes, changing into the white dress shirt and dark pants he wore as uniform. As far as locations went, this was a pretty fancy one, right in the shopping district with plenty of well-to-do patrons, and naturally he was expected to look professional (not that it was much of a challenge for him after years and years of suits and tuxedos). Fastening a black apron around his waist, he left it as the final touch before heading into the main part of the building to prepare for his shift.

He had just finished wiping off and reorganizing the glasses beneath the bar when he heard door open, announced by the jingle of a brass bell. Standing, he looked over the counter to the newcomer–a young man (or a boy? He could always be one of the local school students) with hair so white it might have been bleached, and skin almost to match. One had better hope not to lose him in a snowstorm, Leon thought idly to himself. The arrival stayed in the doorway, glancing around at the empty establishment. The customers had already departed after lunch, and would not return for another hour or so for dinner, and Leon supposed the rest of the staff were in the kitchen or taking their breaks. Waiting was, technically, not his job, but he assumed he could take care of this quickly. Perhaps the kid was just lost.

"Can I help you?" he asked, stepping out from behind the counter and slinging the handtowel he'd been using over his shoulder. "I can get someone to serve you in a moment, but if you're here for the bar, it doesn't open for another half-hour." He paused, briefly seizing the other up, before adding, "Though I might have to request an ID." It always struck him as funny somehow when he had to police the high school students' alcohol purchases, considering that the identification he'd provided for himself to get this job was forged by some miscreant somewhere between the border with China and Archadia. Talk about hypocrisy, but that was an offense he could live with.

---

Emil Steilsson

[Emil Steilsson]

Emil's gaze turned as he saw the bartender walk out from behind the counter. The other was shorter, with dark brown hair and russet eyes. He could -almost- be confused for a girl, Emil mused silently in his head. Wax the eyebrows, put on a long wig, find a dress. And tada. The man was certainly short and petite enough for it. But Emil wouldn't say such rude things; no, of course not. It was impolite and he was on business!

Or at least that's what he'd like to say. Fact is though, his words weren't exactly polite or covering up his thoughts. The other's rude sizing up lead to a smart alec comment in front of his actual business talk. Which, if the other whined about it, would probably get Emil in trouble with his boss. But then again, those at the Architect Firm already knew about Emil's flustery little Harden-Shell personality.

"Miss, I'm not here for consumption of anything you've got. I have something I'm suppose to give to your boss-man from my workplace."

He reached into his messenger style school bag and dug out the large envelope with the a list of possible concepts; and, of course a place for the client to suggest their own concepts that Architects can then go over and decide if they are plausible -and of course, concept arts for the client to look over to see if they liked, even though Egineers would still have to go over them to see if they were possible. He held it up and gave it a light shake; yet, he did not hand it over to the other. No, rather, he gave the other a blank stare like he was waiting for the other to pick a fight.

Though, his eyes eventually wandered off the other's face to glance around at the establishment. It wasn't bad, it could be better. Definitely. But not bad. While lost in thought of the ways it could be improved, Emil off-handedly remarked, "I wouldn't drink in a bar anyways."

Emil had a bit... of a bad habit when drunk. His truer nature came out; and, he didn't like it. Not one bit. There was nothing good about letting people see what was truly inside. Not one thing. After a few moments, Emil's eyes drifted back to the person in front of him; and, he sighed. Rolling his eyes, he walked right passed the man to go sit on a stool at the bar-counter and dragged a few bills out of his pocket to set atop the counter, "You at least have Cola until you can get your boss or someone who can accept the folder, right?"

Emil sat the envelope on the counter before grabbing his sketchbook and a pen from his school-bag and flipped through pages of unused Architecture Designs to a blank page to draw a different version of the current establishment. He had gotten to do small things like design a stair rail, and was allowed to input the determined floor plans into autocad, or take minutes at meetings, but he never got to do anything big. He just got to be the Firm's Errand boy.

[Leon]

The hard edge to the young man’s voice made Leon wonder if he’d struck some sort of nerve, but he shrugged it off. It was his job to make sure they ran a “reputable establishment” after all, which included limits on what drinks they could serve to what age group, though the other quickly made it clear that he wasn’t there for that. Leon’s gaze shifted to the envelope the other pulled out with a half-hearted look. He didn’t know if Miss Kaminskaya was expecting some sort of delivery, but it wasn’t like he took a particular interest in the mail that went in and out of the business. What he did know was that Kaminskaya usually left before his shift, which meant that the delivery boy had come at a rather bad time.

Brushing off the mistaken gender, he took his place behind the counter, though he arched an eyebrow at the comment about “not drinking in a bar.” After a short bemusement, he shrugged that off as well, deciding it wasn’t really his business. He was just there to serve drinks and occasionally make conversation, but not to ask questions. That was always his policy.

As the other had requested, he pulled a Cola from the fridge as he answered: ”Miss Kaminskaya, my boss, is out at the moment. She usually is before five, but I can ask around and see if someone’s supposed to take it.” He set a glass with a straw and ice in front of the other, then poured half the Cola in. The can he set beside it as he took the money and passed back some change. ”Can I get a name?" he asked. "And mind telling me whatever that is?” He nodded to the envelope on the counter, the action bringing to his attention the pages the other had spread out before him. At that, he did feel a slight spark of curiosity. It wasn’t polite to pry, he supposed, but it also wasn’t every day he got a customer who sidled up to the bar and proceeded to pull out a sketchbook. For the moment, however, he didn’t ask, and instead tore his eyes away from the other’s fluid pencil strokes. Depending on whether anyone had actually been instructed to receive this delivery, there’d be plenty of time for conversation later.

---

Emil Steilsson

[Emil Steilsson]

The news was hellish. Emil had been too late; the woman had already left for the day. He came right from school, but it had been a pain getting there and because of that he missed her. He inwardly groaned and outwardly his eyes rolled up to the back of his head like he wanted to flop over dead at the discovery. It wasn't necessarily that he couldn't give it to another employee. It's just that it would have been best to give it directly to her and maybe get a reply.

He eyed the glass of Cola; and, picked it up to take a drink. He debated answering the man, but sighed. It was for work. Of course he had to answer the other. Perhaps the other would be able to help him -or even be able to take the envelope and make sure it was given to the boss of this establishment. First. He would start with answering about what his name was if only to go in the order the questions were asked and be polite-ish, "I'm Emil. Emil Steillson. I work after school, part-time, at an Architect firm. Which, brings us to the answer of your second question."

He didn't take anything out of the envelope; but, he did pick it up to hold it out, "It wasn't exactly a planned meeting, we just wanted to see what she thought of these ideas. They thought it would be a GREAT idea to make the highschool kid wake up before the fudgin' sun to go to the office to get it and then bring it out after class. Because, you know, their daily lives are so much more busy. Don't suppose you're within a position to make sure she gets it?"

He really shouldn't ask the man; but, it's not like he could make it here any sooner tomorrow or the next day unless he cut from his last two classes. Which, tempting as that might be, he had no desire to have to repeat his last year. Catching up after moving during the school year had already been hellish. He didn't bother to keep looking up at the other after his question. Instead, violet eyes focused on the sketchbook and cola sat in front of him.

He did add, in a rather tiny voice albeit, an apology, "Sorry for calling you Miss in response to being asked for ID."

Such a great apology! Not. Still, he tried.

[Leon]

He watched the other’s dramatics with an eyebrow slightly raised in amusement. Being in high school was a difficult thing, wasn’t it? Not that he quite understood–he’d always been home-schooled until college, and he knew even less about Archadia’s school system. Still, he read widely enough, had been exposed sufficiently to film in ways he imagined weren’t all totally fictitious about the realities of public schooling. And it wasn’t like the local high schoolers didn’t visit this place often enough, sometimes flashing him their fake IDs (which was a bad mistake, as far as mistakes went, to be showing someone with a fake ID a fake ID).

Nevertheless, the other’s–Emil’s–troubles didn’t fall on deaf ears. It was unhealthy to wake students as early as the school system required (they’d done studies on this, Leon had read about it in the science and medical journals he subscribed to), much less waking him earlier to pick something up from work. “I don’t work tomorrow,” he said (and even if he did, he usually worked late shifts), “but I’ll give this to someone who can get it to her. Just excuse me a moment…”

He took the envelope, but before he could step away, Emil muttered something else under his breath. Leon barely caught it, but since he did, he couldn’t quite resist the small, amused smile that flitted across his lips. “No offense taken,” he said. “Occasionally other kids like to try their forgeries on me, but I shouldn’t have assumed.” He gave Emil a small nod, then held up the envelope. “Now, let me see what I can do about this.”

Miss Kaminskaya’s office was located just above the restaurant, accessible by a stairwell in the employee’s-only area. He turned the envelope over in his hands on his way up, the front right corner of it emblazoned with the logo of what he assumed was Emil’s architecture firm. It didn’t stop him from carefully unclasping the flap to check its contents–he liked to know what was passing through his hands, something that came with being on the run, he supposed, just to make sure that he didn’t suffer the ironic fate of personally delivering a message from his parents–and when everything seemed to be in order, he peeked into the office.

The envelope ended up being turned over to Kaminskaya’s secretary (just on her way out), which Leon relayed when he got back to Emil. “She said she’d ask the boss to email you once she’s looked it over, and also that she’s sorry she can’t thank you personally, and that you’re welcome to a drink on the house,” he said, ticking off the things the harried woman had said to him. Apparently, she’d been late for a celebratory dinner with her friends. “So, want anything? Another Coke?”

---

Emil Steilsson

[Emil Steilsson]

Emil was silently thankful that the other man accepted his quiet apology. He sipped his cola down while he waited for the man to come. Absent-mindedly sketching the man’s face from memory. It wasn’t quite the same contours as buildings; but, the other had pleasant enough features. Sharp enough features to be drawn. He was shading in the quick rough-sketch when the man came back. He glanced up and shut his book to listen to the other.

Emil would give a few silent nods as the other man talked. That was fine. Emil glanced about trying to find the words he needed to be adequately polite. It came hard to him; but, he managed. A simple, “Thank you. Sorry for the trouble.”

It would suffice. He couldn’t really think of any other way to say it. He had to think over the offer for another cola; but eventually, he made up his mind and nodded. He didn’t feel like heading out yet. So he flipped the sketchbook back open and continued shading the quick sketch. “You have nice facial features. Shame you aren’t really a Miss.”

A blunt attitude from a blunt child. He eyed the man, observantly to get more details down in the sketch. Really. How could people not see this was SUCH a better use for his time than school work. He was obviously being much more productive. Not really. He was being a procrastinator. He’d rather stay and draw than do homework. And they likely didn’t expect him at the firm given they made him wake early. They knew better than to believe Emil could survive a full day.

Emil finally glanced up in thought, “Did I get your name?”

It was a passing thought; but, he couldn’t recall if he’d been given the other man’s name. Which really didn’t matter; but, now that it was a thought it would bug him until he got it. After all, he had given the other man his name. It wasn’t such a bad thing to expect the courtesy to be returned. Then again, it could have been; and, he just hadn’t been paying any bit of attention when the man gave a name. Which would have been bad on his part. However, at least he was bothering to try and get the other man’s name. Even if only because the thought would vex him until he knew it.