Post by trish on Aug 15, 2006 23:36:52 GMT -5
Lars had sent everyone home.
There had been little else he could do. The look of horrified disappointment on their faces when he had broken the news of Kennedy Associate's inevitable demise had distressed him far more than he could cope with, so he'd taken the Executive Decision to shut the office down for the afternoon.
Annette hadn't wanted to leave him. She'd never seen her young boss so miserable, but he had accepted her offer of a hug and sent her on her way.
Then he'd left a message on the office voicemail giving his mobile number to contact in case of emergency, called a cab and had it take him to the nearest bar.
And he'd started drinking.
Finally, she'd managed to sit down for five minutes and take a look at the research that they were doing on this local hero. One of the interns had made a couple of phone calls to local shop owners and the like, and she had been given the name of someone that kept coming up in the interviews.
A 'Lars' - working locally, though not a local, and apparently he fit the description that the grainy CCTV video had shown. The intern had scribbled a phone number down, apparently the contact for this Lars character, but hadn't actually made the call himself. Will have to teach that kid some backbone. She was glad that she'd been left something to do, though.
Dialling the number, she was disappointed to get onto a voicemail. The disappointment was soon gone, though, because there was a number to contact in case of emergency.
"Yeah, this is an emergency." With a smile, Trish wrote it down and hung up the phone, dialling the new sequence of digits.
He was well on the way to inebriation, but still enough in control of his faculties to sound part-way professional when he answered his cell phone.
“Lars Anderssen, Kennedy Associates, how may I help you?”
His tone was filled with bitterness, even though he didn’t mean it to. The few people in the bar this early on had all started feeling somewhat depressed when the young blond came in, a sense of dark and gloom coming over them, the air becoming fractionally less breathable.
Things had begun to improve a little as alcohol let him relax a little.
His accent was clear over the telephone; that faint glimmer of European mixed in with an other fairly neutral American accent.
Holding the phone in between her ear and her shoulder, Trish started to take notes. She scribbled down her observations on the pad in front of her, tapping the pen on the notepad in what had originally been a nervous habit and had developed into an unthinking motion that she was known for.
Lars Anderson (sp?) - Kennedy Associates.
Possibly European.
"Mr Anderssen, my name is Trish Tilby, I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about an incident that happened today." She kept her voice professional and calm. It was entirely possible that he wasn't the guy on the footage, but was just a bystander who could point her in the right direction, and she tried to keep her tone even so that he wouldn't think she was accusing him of anything.
“N’incident?”
Possibly European, possibly drunk.
“Dunno what you’re on about,” he said, curtly. “This is Kenasoc Associdy. Kennedy Associates. Architects, designers, builders. Goin’ out of business, like, REAL fast. Like…gone. Poof. Bye-bye.”
Remove the word ‘possibly’.
Raising her eyebrows, it was only through years of having worked with all kinds of people that Trish managed to keep her voice steady.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Anderssen. Perhaps I can help you."
She made a note next to 'Kennedy Associates' - Architects, designers, builders. Out of business.
"I've had a tape sent to me. Apparently there's a bit of a local hero in your town and we're trying to track him down."
Would he bite? Would he even know what she was talking about? It seemed entirely possible that he wouldn't remember right now, even if he was involved.
“S’lots of local heroes,” he said, seriously. “Firemen, p’licemen, amb’lance drivers…”
He slithered off the bar stool and giggled a bit. The pressure in his immediate vicinity went up a little and a few people smiled good-naturedly at his antics. They felt good. “Why d’you ask?” He got up off the floor and moved to a booth where he was less likely to fall on the floor again.
Definately drunk. Did he just fall over? Her thoughts didn't make it onto paper this time.
"We're trying to track down this local hero to do an interest piece on him. Apparently, he stopped a thief. Quite amazing, and we think he'd be a wonderful candidate for our program. We have a segment about ordinary people doing extraordinary things."
It was true, though she doubted that this one would turn out to be an 'ordinary person'. Eyewitnesses had described an unsual occurance in the area, and according to the notes from the intern, lots of them had claimed that he was a mutant. She squinted at the boy's messy scrawl. 'Not all bad.' What did that mean? Definately going to have to talk to that boy.
There was a long, awkward pause, during which Lars’ personal oxygen levels wavered up and down in confusion. It had the effect of sobering him up slightly.
“That was me,” he said, and he was surprised to discover he was actually rather proud. “But it was nothing special.”
He'd been silent for so long that Trish thought he might have passed out.
Just as she was opening her mouth to say his name again, though, Lars spoke.
"Oh, there's no need to be modest. WNBC is very interested in you, they'd like to send me down to interview you." She paused. Paul had only asked her for an interest piece, but she was sure she could get him to agree to an interview if she could manage to get Lars to.
"You would of course be reimbursed for your time." She was staring down at her notepad, focused on the part that said 'out of business'.
“Reimbursed?”
Lars had never been that interested in making money. It was a good thing to have, sure, and had allowed him to get decent clothes, to buy designer sunglasses, own a nice car and a decent apartment. And if it was a decent reimbursement, it might be something he could add to his savings while he looked for other work.
If anybody else would employ a mutant.
“I dunno it’s such a good idea,” he said, a little uncertainly.
There were several ways of going about this. The fact that Trish had no visual contact with Lars made it difficult to determine which was the best to use with him, but she decided to give him the power. And possibly gain her the time to get clearance from Paul.
"Listen, I completely understand where you're coming from. So what I'm going to do is give you my number, and give you a little time to think about it. We'd love to have you on the show, but it's totally up to you." Besides, if he didn't call her back, it was no big deal. She had his name, his details, and footage to go with his admission that it was actually him. They'd still get a story.
"Do you have a pen?"
“’Course I gotta pen. Man like me, always gotta pen.” He fumbled in his pocket and extracted said writing implement. “G’won.”
He wrote down the number she gave him on the closest thing to hand, which was the sleeve of his expensive, designer shirt, and grinned into the phone. “I think ‘bout it, Trish. Get your people to call my people. We’ll do lunch. Mean it. No, bye. Bye!”
Then he hiccupped, hung up and planted himself face first in the table.
There had been little else he could do. The look of horrified disappointment on their faces when he had broken the news of Kennedy Associate's inevitable demise had distressed him far more than he could cope with, so he'd taken the Executive Decision to shut the office down for the afternoon.
Annette hadn't wanted to leave him. She'd never seen her young boss so miserable, but he had accepted her offer of a hug and sent her on her way.
Then he'd left a message on the office voicemail giving his mobile number to contact in case of emergency, called a cab and had it take him to the nearest bar.
And he'd started drinking.
Finally, she'd managed to sit down for five minutes and take a look at the research that they were doing on this local hero. One of the interns had made a couple of phone calls to local shop owners and the like, and she had been given the name of someone that kept coming up in the interviews.
A 'Lars' - working locally, though not a local, and apparently he fit the description that the grainy CCTV video had shown. The intern had scribbled a phone number down, apparently the contact for this Lars character, but hadn't actually made the call himself. Will have to teach that kid some backbone. She was glad that she'd been left something to do, though.
Dialling the number, she was disappointed to get onto a voicemail. The disappointment was soon gone, though, because there was a number to contact in case of emergency.
"Yeah, this is an emergency." With a smile, Trish wrote it down and hung up the phone, dialling the new sequence of digits.
He was well on the way to inebriation, but still enough in control of his faculties to sound part-way professional when he answered his cell phone.
“Lars Anderssen, Kennedy Associates, how may I help you?”
His tone was filled with bitterness, even though he didn’t mean it to. The few people in the bar this early on had all started feeling somewhat depressed when the young blond came in, a sense of dark and gloom coming over them, the air becoming fractionally less breathable.
Things had begun to improve a little as alcohol let him relax a little.
His accent was clear over the telephone; that faint glimmer of European mixed in with an other fairly neutral American accent.
Holding the phone in between her ear and her shoulder, Trish started to take notes. She scribbled down her observations on the pad in front of her, tapping the pen on the notepad in what had originally been a nervous habit and had developed into an unthinking motion that she was known for.
Lars Anderson (sp?) - Kennedy Associates.
Possibly European.
"Mr Anderssen, my name is Trish Tilby, I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about an incident that happened today." She kept her voice professional and calm. It was entirely possible that he wasn't the guy on the footage, but was just a bystander who could point her in the right direction, and she tried to keep her tone even so that he wouldn't think she was accusing him of anything.
“N’incident?”
Possibly European, possibly drunk.
“Dunno what you’re on about,” he said, curtly. “This is Kenasoc Associdy. Kennedy Associates. Architects, designers, builders. Goin’ out of business, like, REAL fast. Like…gone. Poof. Bye-bye.”
Remove the word ‘possibly’.
Raising her eyebrows, it was only through years of having worked with all kinds of people that Trish managed to keep her voice steady.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Anderssen. Perhaps I can help you."
She made a note next to 'Kennedy Associates' - Architects, designers, builders. Out of business.
"I've had a tape sent to me. Apparently there's a bit of a local hero in your town and we're trying to track him down."
Would he bite? Would he even know what she was talking about? It seemed entirely possible that he wouldn't remember right now, even if he was involved.
“S’lots of local heroes,” he said, seriously. “Firemen, p’licemen, amb’lance drivers…”
He slithered off the bar stool and giggled a bit. The pressure in his immediate vicinity went up a little and a few people smiled good-naturedly at his antics. They felt good. “Why d’you ask?” He got up off the floor and moved to a booth where he was less likely to fall on the floor again.
Definately drunk. Did he just fall over? Her thoughts didn't make it onto paper this time.
"We're trying to track down this local hero to do an interest piece on him. Apparently, he stopped a thief. Quite amazing, and we think he'd be a wonderful candidate for our program. We have a segment about ordinary people doing extraordinary things."
It was true, though she doubted that this one would turn out to be an 'ordinary person'. Eyewitnesses had described an unsual occurance in the area, and according to the notes from the intern, lots of them had claimed that he was a mutant. She squinted at the boy's messy scrawl. 'Not all bad.' What did that mean? Definately going to have to talk to that boy.
There was a long, awkward pause, during which Lars’ personal oxygen levels wavered up and down in confusion. It had the effect of sobering him up slightly.
“That was me,” he said, and he was surprised to discover he was actually rather proud. “But it was nothing special.”
He'd been silent for so long that Trish thought he might have passed out.
Just as she was opening her mouth to say his name again, though, Lars spoke.
"Oh, there's no need to be modest. WNBC is very interested in you, they'd like to send me down to interview you." She paused. Paul had only asked her for an interest piece, but she was sure she could get him to agree to an interview if she could manage to get Lars to.
"You would of course be reimbursed for your time." She was staring down at her notepad, focused on the part that said 'out of business'.
“Reimbursed?”
Lars had never been that interested in making money. It was a good thing to have, sure, and had allowed him to get decent clothes, to buy designer sunglasses, own a nice car and a decent apartment. And if it was a decent reimbursement, it might be something he could add to his savings while he looked for other work.
If anybody else would employ a mutant.
“I dunno it’s such a good idea,” he said, a little uncertainly.
There were several ways of going about this. The fact that Trish had no visual contact with Lars made it difficult to determine which was the best to use with him, but she decided to give him the power. And possibly gain her the time to get clearance from Paul.
"Listen, I completely understand where you're coming from. So what I'm going to do is give you my number, and give you a little time to think about it. We'd love to have you on the show, but it's totally up to you." Besides, if he didn't call her back, it was no big deal. She had his name, his details, and footage to go with his admission that it was actually him. They'd still get a story.
"Do you have a pen?"
“’Course I gotta pen. Man like me, always gotta pen.” He fumbled in his pocket and extracted said writing implement. “G’won.”
He wrote down the number she gave him on the closest thing to hand, which was the sleeve of his expensive, designer shirt, and grinned into the phone. “I think ‘bout it, Trish. Get your people to call my people. We’ll do lunch. Mean it. No, bye. Bye!”
Then he hiccupped, hung up and planted himself face first in the table.