Christ. Virgil interrupted his cigarette for a needy sip of coffee, then went back for another drag, staring down a pointless folder of sketches and so on. He'd been precisely tired enough to have walked into "work" - via the clandestine entrance Cerberus allowed him, one of many, he was sure - forgetting, for a few, blissful hours, that his last fitting of the day was with Granite. Joy.
Imara wasn't the only Level 1 who'd lost friends to what'd gone on, when he - when whatever he'd been made all that mess. Or who knew enough to despise the sight of him. She was, however, perhaps the worst at hiding it. She simply didn't. At all. It wasn't that he blamed her. Moreso that they both understood that any session Cerberus scheduled her for was a waste of fucking time. Imara wouldn't so much as look at whatever he put together, anyhow. And all he could do was, well, his so-called job. So thoroughly that they couldn't accuse him of being the problem, here. Perish the thought. But, for fuck's sake - he had shit to do.
"I have a proposal," he began, the moment his appointment stalked through the workshop door. "That being," Virgil leaned back, with a quick crack of his neck, "we spend our timeslot forgoing any paper-thin pretense that you and I can make some sort of progress, today. Hm?" That folder stayed shut, on the presentation table. "If anyone asks, we had an uncommonly lovely meeting. So productive. In the meantime, I can get some actual work done, and you can help yourself to coffee and... I don't know, catch up on paperwork? Read a book? Doomscroll? Whatever. So long as you don't touch anything." Brilliant idea, wasn't it? Terribly.
@iridescences
