Dumont
Inactive Member
Funky City Streets: 1:52 AM
In the small hours of the morning there's rarely a call anyone would want to answer. Those awake for business or pleasure, those in sleep either restful or fleeting: None of them were likely in position to welcome a ringtone hammering upon their personal time. But when you work in this line of business you are expected to be available when called upon, you march out into the rain drenched streets of Funky City or you lose your payday.
What would soften the blow of a rude awakening is the method of pickup and rendezvous for the team assembled: An elongated town car, so black that the blaring neon glow of Downtown seems to slide off it like the downpour outside. The fine interior lit low from streetlights and billboards outside, with enough seating for a modestly proportioned board of directors; ready for them to swill liquor from the mini-bar on their way to something too important to be sober for.
For the majority of those called out - new hires for whom their prospective employer was intangible - this would be the first sign of two things: That their employer was real, and that the compensation attached to the messages with nothing more than the pick up points was real.
This would also be the first time a handful of those being picked up on rainy and be-puddled street corners would put a face to the name "J.J. Newhouse". A slim nepleslian woman, with a shock of bright red hair pinned into a tight bun at the base of her skull. Everything about her; from the tailored black suit, and the white silk blouse, to the nearly imperceptible rimless spectacles reflecting the screens of three juggled communicators looked out of place anywhere except a sterile office thirty floors over street level.
It certainly looked out of place considering the other passenger: A grown man dressed only in a sweat-stained undershirt, and black cargo trousers with pockets turned inside-out, tied up on the floor of the stretched sedan. The two-inch heel of Newhouse's shoe resting approximately and roughly where a face would be under a sack tied over the poor sap's head.
So far the only words from her mouth had been exchanges of names; directions for the neon-blue haired driver to stow their equipment in the trunk; a handful of 'get in's; and a few polite 'help yourself's with indications towards the large travel-cup coffees sitting on the seat by the rearmost doors... The ones sitting rather close to the crystal tumblers atop the chilled drinks cabinet.
But slowly the car was filling with the team itself, and possibly the question of 'what is going on?'. The call for work was sparse on details; but perhaps showing up without question was some test proving that no one present was so stupid, or so blindly curious as to question the methods behind the money.
In the small hours of the morning there's rarely a call anyone would want to answer. Those awake for business or pleasure, those in sleep either restful or fleeting: None of them were likely in position to welcome a ringtone hammering upon their personal time. But when you work in this line of business you are expected to be available when called upon, you march out into the rain drenched streets of Funky City or you lose your payday.
What would soften the blow of a rude awakening is the method of pickup and rendezvous for the team assembled: An elongated town car, so black that the blaring neon glow of Downtown seems to slide off it like the downpour outside. The fine interior lit low from streetlights and billboards outside, with enough seating for a modestly proportioned board of directors; ready for them to swill liquor from the mini-bar on their way to something too important to be sober for.
For the majority of those called out - new hires for whom their prospective employer was intangible - this would be the first sign of two things: That their employer was real, and that the compensation attached to the messages with nothing more than the pick up points was real.
This would also be the first time a handful of those being picked up on rainy and be-puddled street corners would put a face to the name "J.J. Newhouse". A slim nepleslian woman, with a shock of bright red hair pinned into a tight bun at the base of her skull. Everything about her; from the tailored black suit, and the white silk blouse, to the nearly imperceptible rimless spectacles reflecting the screens of three juggled communicators looked out of place anywhere except a sterile office thirty floors over street level.
It certainly looked out of place considering the other passenger: A grown man dressed only in a sweat-stained undershirt, and black cargo trousers with pockets turned inside-out, tied up on the floor of the stretched sedan. The two-inch heel of Newhouse's shoe resting approximately and roughly where a face would be under a sack tied over the poor sap's head.
So far the only words from her mouth had been exchanges of names; directions for the neon-blue haired driver to stow their equipment in the trunk; a handful of 'get in's; and a few polite 'help yourself's with indications towards the large travel-cup coffees sitting on the seat by the rearmost doors... The ones sitting rather close to the crystal tumblers atop the chilled drinks cabinet.
But slowly the car was filling with the team itself, and possibly the question of 'what is going on?'. The call for work was sparse on details; but perhaps showing up without question was some test proving that no one present was so stupid, or so blindly curious as to question the methods behind the money.
