Work Text:
Nasha's office is a green oasis, prosperous like her portfolio. A tea tower mirrors the tiers of a swivel bookshelf. In warm earthen tones, sunlight paints the hanging egg chairs, weaving wicker patterns from rattan.
Pale flaxseed curtains flutter as they walk past. Irregular as it is, Roxanne represents District 10 Public Security Bureau, though it should've been an admin. Rumor has it that a careful man's careless daughter was scammed by a two-headed snake, scheduling an appointment with a civic architectural firm, instead of a fan meeting with Serpent. Until noon, nobody was notified of a date said to be decided several weeks ago. The state was in a sorry state.
Scrambling for a semblance of control, they sought out some shmuck who could string a few lines of not-code together, and the award for Most Socially Adept Technology Officer goes to—Roxanne! R-O-X-A-N-N-E, I don't care since it's not me! Her colleagues should try out for a cheerleading squad.
Because District 10 police didn't leave cliques behind in high school, the admin department was annoyed that techies were taking over their territory. Temporarily. Their department wasn't thrilled either. Firewalls were untouched, but the chairman's terminal could've been unlocked by family members, which was a hypothetical oversight that didn't happen. Did he hire trash or sire talent? The former was forgotten for the latter.
Besides miserably owing favors to MBCC, Mr. Keep Away's identity centers around his cautiousness. He had felt contrite about Miss Finders Keepers chatting with stranger danger. Especially on his device.
Tracking down the hacker was taken upstairs. Folded into the classified files PSB don't have clearance for. It must be tough to be a spy in 9th Agency. Not only do they have to be tenuous as a feather, tensible as a spidersilk thread—the literature requirements alone could kill a lesser mortal.
Settled in a hanging egg chair, Roxanne sips a hangover drink.
"When we received the commission, we were somewhat surprised by the contents." Cordially, Nasha smiles as if the architectural firm wasn't attacked by a 48-page proclamation. "Such passionate language. We hope the Public Security Bureau will feel our energy for this project matches yours."
The nightmarish screen doesn't have a single paragraph break:
To adhere to Public Security Bureau's core values, a crisp, clean solution to the separation between leadership and technical staff is absolutely necessary. Closing physical distance will encourage random acts of collaboration! Cut down silos caused by rapid growth! Change perception of disconnect! First, we wish for a community meeting room in a stimulated orchard, where employees can participate in cherry-picking, the most popular team activity. A comfortable environment will aid casual absorption of knowledge. Steps should be taken to accommodate disabilities, such as a raised deck, specially pruned trees, and adjustable sensory input. Calming, unobtrusive sound samples can be found on page 31, below the color palettes...
Is this the modus operandi of the chairman, staying away from anyone who has met the Chiefs of Minos once, as if chance is contagious? Hello, plagiarism?
A higher-up hadn't vetoed the cover-up, probably on the Paradeisos version of heroin.
"It even considered a collaborative effort to demolish and renovate the building, to deepen feelings of community spirit. I enjoyed reading that. As expected of Dahlia Cradle, the district of new beginnings, diversity blooming from ennui."
"Huh, haven't heard that nickname in a while." Hiding doubt with nostalgia, Roxanne nods to herself. None of the neighboring offices had doors, so naturally the interior designers would be unhinged. "The dahlias were dug up for department stores before we were born." Products like Pearlie Village's purple dye were popular during that period, local flowers no longer as profitable.
Speaking of colors, it always struck to her as sort of sad, how Eastside's parasocial poster child—born from an arranged marriage—had been associated with blue dahlias. Selective breeding and genetic modification. Roxanne recalls a secondary analysis of an art critic's commentary, where the author confessed the inability to completely decode its savagery, too obscure for outsiders. TL;DR was Enfer sculpted a white dahlia before she painted in blue.
"Before you were born, I believe." Nasha's head tilts rightwards, a hand resting on her cheek.
No need to openly praise appearances. Professional women spend time and effort to be pretty, because clothes are seen as purposeful, not clothes. Acknowledging that work without accidentally being an asshole is also work, unavoidable work.
At least, according to the police secretary's study sheet shoved through a gap, since PSB cubicles actually have doors.
"Ah, sorry." With a just right amount of awkwardness, Roxanne poises a pen at her notepad, signaling the end of pleasantries. "Today's agenda is the civic plaza, community meeting room, and interview rooms, in that order. The author of the commission has a poor sense of direction, so I appreciate you and your team organizing the designs..."
I don't pay my own salary, so please forgive me for future flattery.
The meeting's main takeaway was Harlequinn chess cookies—strawberry, blueberry, vanilla—are delicious.
It's the first time Roxanne has clocked out at 5:00 PM, not a minute more, not a minute less. Is this a 9th Avenue thing? She would be moved, if the historical moment hadn't been here. Overtime will be there at 5th Avenue tomorrow and overmorrow.
Capitalizing on the visitor pass to view the garden, Roxanne listens to the cheerful burbling of fountains.
There are voices nearby. Nasha, from their previous appointment. And a man in a paisley tie, blocking a tree hollow with his body, hurriedly burying a bouquet behind broad yet timid shoulders.
Would've been romantic, if it weren't for the beat-up shoe in his pocket. Who, what, where, why? Why is that a thing?!
"Trees offer shade to the passerby, yet you shade the tree."
So it turns out Nasha's a poet disguised as an interior designer. She's into that. She's into that.
Politely, to not intrude on a match made in heaven, Roxanne maps a masterful escape route that would make her employer envious.
R-O-X-A-N-N-E, rep-re-sent-ing P-S-B!