Time to Make the Donuts

[sockhopsolly]

THE ON-DUTY MEME



We're all used to playing our characters in special circumstances--sharing a bath, AUed into a robot, in the rain, lost in the ball pit (well that's one way to get your extra hour)...but how often do we get to actually play our characters doing their day jobs?

This meme is for just that.

INSTRUCTIONS
1. Write a starter about your character going about their day at work, wherever that may be.

If your character is a doctor, write them checking in on a patient, or having a meal in the hospital cafeteria. If they're a lawyer, write them at court. If they're a professional ghost-hunter? Yeah, that'd be a pretty neat starter too!

Be sure to include some sort of hook that allows other characters to join in the action, even if your character works alone. Maybe they brought their pile of research out to a cafe? Maybe they need help with something?

2. Respond to other characters' starters. Please tag out if you put a starter up. I know I can't enforce this, but no meme goes anywhere if people don't engage.

3. Thread. Have a good day at work, or perhaps an awful day at work.

Comments

[hierophany]

[ He shouldn't be concerned that the boy he hands the money to looks as young as he does, not when he recalls what he was up to at around the same age, but the older that one gets the more worrying these kinds of things are. It doesn't sit well with him.

Very few things about this sit well with him, from Polnareff's disappearance to the spirit photograph of a stand that can use an arrow to create other stands to the fact that the Speedwagon Foundation itself seems to have been infiltrated by someone, trying to deter anyone from investigating either of those things.

The good news is that he can wear a suit well. ]

Am I right in thinking it would be a terrible insult to the chef to leave food on the plate? I probably shouldn't, if so. I never can manage to eat more than a few bites.

[ Which is true. And it's a shame, because the food does smell wonderful. He pulls his chair in and tucks his hair behind his ear before reaching for the glass of water rather than the wine. ]

I'm looking for a family friend - a frenchman. He was travelling through this area the last time I heard from him, and I havn't seen him since. I have photographs of him. Some of his jewellery. I'm not expecting miracles from you. But if you could look at them I'd be grateful. At the risk of being impolite to them, even that much would be far more than the police have been willing to do.

[ His Italian is near-perfect, give or take some awkward over-formality. Accented, but always correct. ]

[giusto]

The chefs here are not arrogant in their pride, but they take much care in their work. It would be a shame to waste it. Still, there is a plate of bruschetta and calamari on the way, if it pleases you.

( Bucciarati nods his head in demure agreement, before eyeing the waiter, giving him a signal that he is relieved.

Bucciarati looks the man over in the pause that pulses between this and his eventual explanation, and his first impressions are not the most suspect, but certainly curious. Noriaki Kakyoin speaks in carefully-assembled Italian, and Bruno doesn't initially settle on any suspicion about the man's familiarity with Italy as a whole. but he does think, if Signore Kakyoin is not a resident here...that this request, actively being laid out piece by piece before him like a meal of its own, is even more strange as a complete composition than the individual factors that comprise it.

this Frenchman was in this area, and there's an anchor point there. the cogs in Bucciarati's mind begin to churn, face flat and his features set in deeper with serious attention, but as his thoughts begin to queue, it's as is Signore Kakyoin can sense them — perceptive, either on whatever vaguest shifts occur in Bucciarati's face, or in himself and the story he is displaying.

he appreciates it, no matter the direction it's coming from. )

For being the authority to bound injustice, the police, in reality, often find their own hands shackled by policy. ( the words could advocate for the devil, but Bucciarati's tone is neutral to the point of sounding unimpressed with what he speaks on. ) You might have felt as though you had wasted your time attempting them, but you've saved me from having to ask that you do so.

( Bucciarati's eyes don't leave Signore Kakyoin's face yet, eyeing him as if weighing everything he's been given, like some dusty road merchant seeking trade. is that really not the case, though, inherently?

he seems to settle with a decision; his eyes relax and slip into a brief and musing closure as he looks away, taking his glass of wine and indulging briefly. what has been brought to him, what he has weighed, has at least begun to convince him of its validity. ) And I don't intend to waste more of your time. Tell me about your friend. Show me what you have.

[hierophany]

His given name is Jean-Pierre, though he tends to go exclusively by his family name - Polnareff.

[ He lays out a series of photographs on the table, all featuring a pale-silver-haired man, broad-shouldered and red and freckled where he's sun-touched and laughing more often than not. Kakyoin himself is in a few of the pictures, occasionally wrestled into the frame of them by the frenchman. ]

He's an itinerant sort. Likes to wander around Europe, chasing after whatever's caught his interest lately. He travels cheaply. I checked the hostels first, but his name wasn't in any of their guestbooks. He has a knack for exchanging favours, befriending people, doing errands in exchange for being permitted to stay in their homes as a guest, that sort of thing.

[ Which makes him difficult to track. He sighs, only a little overdramatically, and places a pair of earrings on the table next to the photographs. They're shaped like broken hearts, made from green glass. ]

He wears earrings in this style. Not these exact ones, of course, this is a pair he left behind when we last met. But the same shape.