Sanya
Master-procrastinator
Hello, everyone! The name’s Sanya. Here’s my idea. (Scroll down for writing samples)
YC is a first class detective. He’s just been assigned a new partner, and he’s very much not happy about it. It’s not that he expects to bust a drug-dealing syndicate or catch a serial killer all on his own, but… Well, at least they could find him someone competent, for Christ’s sake!
MC is the new partner. He’s been recently transferred from Europe and finds it difficult to adjust to life in the US. His English is decent but can’t handle slang and complex pronunciation, his naïve personality makes him a magnet for mishaps and troubles, and he’s completely oblivious to YC’s sarcasm and initial harshness. So the two begin to work together, and Hilarity Ensues™.
Of course, none of them is actually as simple as they seem at first, with YC having emotions other than irritation, MC being a very reliable professional, and both of them sharing a dorky-ish side to their complex and contrast personalities. In the meantime, action happens. Nothing terribly complex: a car chase here, a shootout there, things break, stuff explodes, that sort of thing. A healthy dose of drama and a fair share of comedy. And of course the boys eventually get along, because that’s the genre, and that’s what I’m here for.
Genres/tropes I absolutely adore: action, platonic (borderline ho-yay), hurt/comfort, drama, angst, comedy, noir, slice of life, thriller, LGBTQ+ friendly, detective story (whodunit dude), mystery, slasher, survival, fluff (not over the top, but we all need that sometimes, don’t we?).
Some things you should know before you message me:
⇒ I’m over 18 years of age and prefer my partners to be in the same age group.
⇒ I tend to write long posts, rarely below five paragraphs. I can go shorter if we exchange replies more often, but I love detail-focused narrative, which is impossible to achieve with one-liners.
⇒ I can reply once a day or more often, but I won’t bug you if you need more time.
⇒ OOC chat is very welcome, let’s exchange dumb memes.
⇒ Plot with me! Twists and turns, side-characters and plot ideas, honestly any kind of implication is welcome! Just don’t let me carry this whole thing on my own, it gets really frustrating.
⇒ Include the word “yellow” in your message if you’ve read this far.
⇒ This one is kind of a stretch, but it would be cool if you’re from the US, cause, y’know, your character is the America Born & Raised type. In fact, I myself am from Europe, so I figured I could turn the cultural differences I’m familiar with into a sub-motive in an RP.
⇒ Also, in case that’s important to someone, English isn’t my native language. It’s my third, actually. But I think it’s fairly decent (or at least I hope so).
That's it, folks. PM me if interested. Thank you for your attention.
YC is a first class detective. He’s just been assigned a new partner, and he’s very much not happy about it. It’s not that he expects to bust a drug-dealing syndicate or catch a serial killer all on his own, but… Well, at least they could find him someone competent, for Christ’s sake!
MC is the new partner. He’s been recently transferred from Europe and finds it difficult to adjust to life in the US. His English is decent but can’t handle slang and complex pronunciation, his naïve personality makes him a magnet for mishaps and troubles, and he’s completely oblivious to YC’s sarcasm and initial harshness. So the two begin to work together, and Hilarity Ensues™.
Of course, none of them is actually as simple as they seem at first, with YC having emotions other than irritation, MC being a very reliable professional, and both of them sharing a dorky-ish side to their complex and contrast personalities. In the meantime, action happens. Nothing terribly complex: a car chase here, a shootout there, things break, stuff explodes, that sort of thing. A healthy dose of drama and a fair share of comedy. And of course the boys eventually get along, because that’s the genre, and that’s what I’m here for.
Genres/tropes I absolutely adore: action, platonic (borderline ho-yay), hurt/comfort, drama, angst, comedy, noir, slice of life, thriller, LGBTQ+ friendly, detective story (whodunit dude), mystery, slasher, survival, fluff (not over the top, but we all need that sometimes, don’t we?).
Some things you should know before you message me:
⇒ I’m over 18 years of age and prefer my partners to be in the same age group.
⇒ I tend to write long posts, rarely below five paragraphs. I can go shorter if we exchange replies more often, but I love detail-focused narrative, which is impossible to achieve with one-liners.
⇒ I can reply once a day or more often, but I won’t bug you if you need more time.
⇒ OOC chat is very welcome, let’s exchange dumb memes.
⇒ Plot with me! Twists and turns, side-characters and plot ideas, honestly any kind of implication is welcome! Just don’t let me carry this whole thing on my own, it gets really frustrating.
⇒ Include the word “yellow” in your message if you’ve read this far.
⇒ This one is kind of a stretch, but it would be cool if you’re from the US, cause, y’know, your character is the America Born & Raised type. In fact, I myself am from Europe, so I figured I could turn the cultural differences I’m familiar with into a sub-motive in an RP.
⇒ Also, in case that’s important to someone, English isn’t my native language. It’s my third, actually. But I think it’s fairly decent (or at least I hope so).
[Access denied.]
Ever since the S.S. Ingenuity picked him up from the Thalorian Cluster VII it’s been one upsetting misfortune after another for the newly assigned Chief of Mechanical Operations and Maintenance. Since the two hours long senior staff meeting – two hours too long, and in full dress uniforms to top the cake – up until today, nothing went right. The artificially generated coffee tasted wrong, the temperature controllers in the living quarters were calibrated by an incompetent buffoon, and the communication relays had trouble with so many accents among the crew that he had to order them to use the access codes instead. Overall, the assembling team left the ship a mess in need of cleaning up on the fly, and the man would be happily doing just that. Except his own access codes weren’t yet in function, and now the computer wouldn’t let him in the engineering decks.
“It’s Rafferty,” he repeated for what felt like a thousandth time already, “Raf-fer-ty, baby, come on!” The baby blinked red and beeped in protest, the change of color on the door control pad indicating it was about to announce an intruder alert. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the man muttered. It was easier when the databases weren’t updated, and he could pass through emergency access using the retinal scan option. “Do a full search again, will you? One more time, sweetheart, it’s R-A-F-F-E-R-T-Y. We’ve met, remember? The Chief of Mechanical Operations, y’know? The new guy?”
[There are no crew members registered under this name aboard the Ingenuity.]
The door received a hard kick – the Chief’s boot against hard cold metal. He reached for his pocket to fish out the communicator and call the bridge, where someone could let him in using the main control panel. Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Try Jones, baby” he asked, not really expecting it to work, but deep inside hoping that at least the alarm won’t go off. Would be a shame of a report.
The computer flashed green, and the door slowly slid to the left, welcoming the man to the engineering decks. It was probably the largest part of the ship, larger than even the science labs, with thirteen floors constructed in the form of rings around the two main reactors. He stepped in at the upper floor, muttering curses for whoever filled the database forms and got his first and last name mixed up. Someone shouted “Mornin’, Chief!”, a dozen voices joined the greeting, and it was the only good thing about the way this messed up day started – the computer might have not recognized him, but the crew sure did, and so far they liked the new boss alright.
Jones was hard to not recognize though. His large figure practically towered above the other crew members, and the long baggy jean jacket with a few dozen pockets he was wearing over the uniform made him look not only tall, but also wide and heavily built. The Second In Command also commented on the way the Chief was rolling up his sleeves, but the man gave no indication of stopping to do so, even though it covered the ship’s insignia on his shoulder and drew unwanted attention to his scars – from the tips of his fingers to the elbows, those were two hard-working calloused hands with plenty of all sorts of burn spots, stitch marks, pale-white cuts and other reminders of the many accidents that were a part of his job, both before and after he became an engineer. And if that wasn’t enough to make the man easily recognizable, there was also his face: stern at first glance, with short dark-brown hair, bright blue eyes and a constantly frowning tired expression, which only made his rare but heart-felt smiles all the more precious. There weren’t many ladies in the engineering, but just enough for Jones to catch a few charmed glances, and if it wasn’t for yet another long thin scar running diagonally across his nose bridge, someone could even label him attractive. Maybe. Not that he cared.
What he did care about at that very moment were two induction coils in the reserve power room. They’ve been showing signs of slight overheating, all within normal parameters, but higher than the Chief expected, thus worth checking. If there was a leak in the cooling system, he’d like to know that before it gets out of hand.
The room was empty, which made perfect sense since an engineering team performed a full check of all systems here just yesterday. The coils were right under one of the many control panels, behind a bulky metal piece which Jones quickly unscrewed. “Computer, sweetie, play something nice, will you?” he asked while crouching to reach the necessary piece of machinery.
[Request undefined.]
Jones shook his head. “Music, baby. Ever heard of that?”
[Positive identification for: music.]
“Atta girl,” the man grinned proudly. He’s been at war with this AI for several days now, trying to teach it all sorts of unofficial commands, like making coffee or calling him by name from time to time. Or playing his old recordings when he was alone – barely anyone else in engineering would tolerate his outdated tastes. “Be a sweetheart, play something country, 20th century Earth.”
[Generating a random playlist.]
If Jones didn’t know any better, he’d say the computer had a taste, as it played John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. As he was tinkering with the coils and the cooler, some other fine songs lifted his mood, and, after some consideration, he asked his baby to save the playlist as “Rafferty One”.
There was no leak in the cooler. He checked and rechecked the entire cooling system and found no malfunction, which meant that the problem was either in the coils themselves, or deeper in the engine’s construction. Replacing the coils was the first logical thing to do. Huffing and puffing like a boiling teapot, Jones unscrewed another piece of metal from under the control panels and, with the screwdriver and a mouthful of screws held between his teeth and his both hands now free, reached for a thick red wire. “’ompu’er, ‘urn off ‘ese’ve power ‘e’ay i’ ‘is ‘oom,” he ordered.
[Unable to comply.]
The AI must’ve had problems recognizing his speech patterns with his mouth full, he figured. Muttering curses grumpily, he made use if his many pockets, and repeated more clearly: “Turn off reserve power relay in this room.”
[Unable to comply.]
Jones’ eyebrows jumped up. The wire he was reaching for was hot, and so were some other components of the relay. No, not just hot. Heating up. Instinctively, the man leaned back, trying to get from under the panel as quickly as he could. Before he managed to step far enough to not get caught in the localized explosion that was about to erupt, a loud noise and a wave of heat and pressure knocked him off his feet. The back of his head met the corner of a control panel, and the heavy hit against hard metal sent everything falling into deep thick darkness.
He woke up to the sounds of Sunshine On My Shoulders playing in the background of a system failure siren. It wouldn’t be half as unpleasant as it felt, if there was no throbbing pain in his left shoulder. But there was quite a lot of it, and the arm didn’t move the way it ought to – he probably twisted it or something; not broke it, hopefully, but there was no way for him to tell. Made it difficult to sit upright, but he managed. The head hurt awfully, and the ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop. Something wasn’t right. The panel that blew up and was still puffing black clouds of smoke didn’t have anything to do with vitally important systems of the ship, and the only “failure” the siren could be signaling was… “Com- Communications?” Jones asked, with an unusual strain on his voice.
[Internal communication system in this room is inoperable.]
Cutting him off, huh? It’s a good thing that he still carried his personal communicator around. It worked on an external radio-link. “Rafferty to bridge…” he called, turning the thing on, “there’s been… an accident in the engineering deck, reserve power room… on ring four... Internal communication’s off. Can I get… someone down here?” He meant to say something else, but it hurt more and more with every word. He turned off the communicator, rubbed his eyes and scratched the back of his head. There was some blood – not much, but enough to get it on his fingers. Overall, an awful, terrible, no good day.
Ever since the S.S. Ingenuity picked him up from the Thalorian Cluster VII it’s been one upsetting misfortune after another for the newly assigned Chief of Mechanical Operations and Maintenance. Since the two hours long senior staff meeting – two hours too long, and in full dress uniforms to top the cake – up until today, nothing went right. The artificially generated coffee tasted wrong, the temperature controllers in the living quarters were calibrated by an incompetent buffoon, and the communication relays had trouble with so many accents among the crew that he had to order them to use the access codes instead. Overall, the assembling team left the ship a mess in need of cleaning up on the fly, and the man would be happily doing just that. Except his own access codes weren’t yet in function, and now the computer wouldn’t let him in the engineering decks.
“It’s Rafferty,” he repeated for what felt like a thousandth time already, “Raf-fer-ty, baby, come on!” The baby blinked red and beeped in protest, the change of color on the door control pad indicating it was about to announce an intruder alert. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the man muttered. It was easier when the databases weren’t updated, and he could pass through emergency access using the retinal scan option. “Do a full search again, will you? One more time, sweetheart, it’s R-A-F-F-E-R-T-Y. We’ve met, remember? The Chief of Mechanical Operations, y’know? The new guy?”
[There are no crew members registered under this name aboard the Ingenuity.]
The door received a hard kick – the Chief’s boot against hard cold metal. He reached for his pocket to fish out the communicator and call the bridge, where someone could let him in using the main control panel. Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Try Jones, baby” he asked, not really expecting it to work, but deep inside hoping that at least the alarm won’t go off. Would be a shame of a report.
The computer flashed green, and the door slowly slid to the left, welcoming the man to the engineering decks. It was probably the largest part of the ship, larger than even the science labs, with thirteen floors constructed in the form of rings around the two main reactors. He stepped in at the upper floor, muttering curses for whoever filled the database forms and got his first and last name mixed up. Someone shouted “Mornin’, Chief!”, a dozen voices joined the greeting, and it was the only good thing about the way this messed up day started – the computer might have not recognized him, but the crew sure did, and so far they liked the new boss alright.
Jones was hard to not recognize though. His large figure practically towered above the other crew members, and the long baggy jean jacket with a few dozen pockets he was wearing over the uniform made him look not only tall, but also wide and heavily built. The Second In Command also commented on the way the Chief was rolling up his sleeves, but the man gave no indication of stopping to do so, even though it covered the ship’s insignia on his shoulder and drew unwanted attention to his scars – from the tips of his fingers to the elbows, those were two hard-working calloused hands with plenty of all sorts of burn spots, stitch marks, pale-white cuts and other reminders of the many accidents that were a part of his job, both before and after he became an engineer. And if that wasn’t enough to make the man easily recognizable, there was also his face: stern at first glance, with short dark-brown hair, bright blue eyes and a constantly frowning tired expression, which only made his rare but heart-felt smiles all the more precious. There weren’t many ladies in the engineering, but just enough for Jones to catch a few charmed glances, and if it wasn’t for yet another long thin scar running diagonally across his nose bridge, someone could even label him attractive. Maybe. Not that he cared.
What he did care about at that very moment were two induction coils in the reserve power room. They’ve been showing signs of slight overheating, all within normal parameters, but higher than the Chief expected, thus worth checking. If there was a leak in the cooling system, he’d like to know that before it gets out of hand.
The room was empty, which made perfect sense since an engineering team performed a full check of all systems here just yesterday. The coils were right under one of the many control panels, behind a bulky metal piece which Jones quickly unscrewed. “Computer, sweetie, play something nice, will you?” he asked while crouching to reach the necessary piece of machinery.
[Request undefined.]
Jones shook his head. “Music, baby. Ever heard of that?”
[Positive identification for: music.]
“Atta girl,” the man grinned proudly. He’s been at war with this AI for several days now, trying to teach it all sorts of unofficial commands, like making coffee or calling him by name from time to time. Or playing his old recordings when he was alone – barely anyone else in engineering would tolerate his outdated tastes. “Be a sweetheart, play something country, 20th century Earth.”
[Generating a random playlist.]
If Jones didn’t know any better, he’d say the computer had a taste, as it played John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. As he was tinkering with the coils and the cooler, some other fine songs lifted his mood, and, after some consideration, he asked his baby to save the playlist as “Rafferty One”.
There was no leak in the cooler. He checked and rechecked the entire cooling system and found no malfunction, which meant that the problem was either in the coils themselves, or deeper in the engine’s construction. Replacing the coils was the first logical thing to do. Huffing and puffing like a boiling teapot, Jones unscrewed another piece of metal from under the control panels and, with the screwdriver and a mouthful of screws held between his teeth and his both hands now free, reached for a thick red wire. “’ompu’er, ‘urn off ‘ese’ve power ‘e’ay i’ ‘is ‘oom,” he ordered.
[Unable to comply.]
The AI must’ve had problems recognizing his speech patterns with his mouth full, he figured. Muttering curses grumpily, he made use if his many pockets, and repeated more clearly: “Turn off reserve power relay in this room.”
[Unable to comply.]
Jones’ eyebrows jumped up. The wire he was reaching for was hot, and so were some other components of the relay. No, not just hot. Heating up. Instinctively, the man leaned back, trying to get from under the panel as quickly as he could. Before he managed to step far enough to not get caught in the localized explosion that was about to erupt, a loud noise and a wave of heat and pressure knocked him off his feet. The back of his head met the corner of a control panel, and the heavy hit against hard metal sent everything falling into deep thick darkness.
He woke up to the sounds of Sunshine On My Shoulders playing in the background of a system failure siren. It wouldn’t be half as unpleasant as it felt, if there was no throbbing pain in his left shoulder. But there was quite a lot of it, and the arm didn’t move the way it ought to – he probably twisted it or something; not broke it, hopefully, but there was no way for him to tell. Made it difficult to sit upright, but he managed. The head hurt awfully, and the ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop. Something wasn’t right. The panel that blew up and was still puffing black clouds of smoke didn’t have anything to do with vitally important systems of the ship, and the only “failure” the siren could be signaling was… “Com- Communications?” Jones asked, with an unusual strain on his voice.
[Internal communication system in this room is inoperable.]
Cutting him off, huh? It’s a good thing that he still carried his personal communicator around. It worked on an external radio-link. “Rafferty to bridge…” he called, turning the thing on, “there’s been… an accident in the engineering deck, reserve power room… on ring four... Internal communication’s off. Can I get… someone down here?” He meant to say something else, but it hurt more and more with every word. He turned off the communicator, rubbed his eyes and scratched the back of his head. There was some blood – not much, but enough to get it on his fingers. Overall, an awful, terrible, no good day.
An ugly screech of the alarm clock marked the dawn of yet another foggy Saturday morning. The townsfolk crawled out of their beds with lazy groans and sleepy eyes, doubting their plans to visit the church or the grocery store, or finally start jogging and get their proud lower middle class tummies in a more decent shape. Eventually, the main street and the second main street – the only two actual streets in the whole town, the rest as narrow as your general shady alley or passage - came to life, with those unlucky who worked on weekends making their way among the puddles from yesterday’s rain. It wasn’t the town’s finest season. The only person with whom it settled well was the coffee shop owner, whose clients doubled thanks to the chilly weather.
Most of the shopkeepers decided not to open today. The very few exceptions were, as it figures, the coffee shop, the grocery store that made most of its profits on weekends and couldn’t risk skipping a day, some small spice shop down the second main street, which had a fresh supply scheduled to arrive at ten o’clock, and, of course, “Mr. Jenkins and Pixie’s General Goods”. The rest were a clear case, looking to make some profit, but Jenkins was rumored to be a creature of habit, so his humble place – “the Jenkins’” or “Jenkins’ junk”, as the locals called it – was open every day simply because such was the shopkeeper’s policy. Some people liked it, the others didn’t seem to care, and as long as nobody complained, the man intended to keep up the hard work.
“Jenkins’ junk” was a two floors and an attic kind of house, with the shop occupying the entirety of the first floor, and all the rest somehow fitting above it, including the few common necessities Jenkins and his little companion needed to manage a living right where they worked, which made perfect sense in terms of managing finances. By the look of it, the shop was doing fine, and there was a reason for it: they sold all kinds of stuff, from antique oddities and stylish extravagant décor to your regular cigarette lighters, pumps, shovels, combs, clocks, mirrors, jewelry and so much more! The clients loved the atmosphere, feeling somewhat like those risky mighty gold hunters digging through Jenkins’ collection. Besides, if a certain client required something the man didn’t have, he was sure to get it sometime soon. Just a week ago a gentleman inquired about a certain type of flashlights, and now there was one – on the table next to a lamp, a pack of matchboxes, a funny bracelet and a wooden pipe. There were three other tables – two of them filled with even more random stuff, and one designed as a counter, with a chair behind it, facing the doors. This, too, was Jenkins’ policy – he personally knew most of his clients and liked it when the public and him could keep an eye on each other.
He was an out-of-date man that fit too well in his out-of-date place. He was up and ready for the day earlier than the rest of this sleepy town, picked an apple for breakfast and put on an old-fashioned coat to go out and check the weather – a regular morning routine which could be easily skipped, given how large were the windows on the first floor, and how well he could see that the weather was quite ugly. But, being as much a creature of habit as the locals imagined, if not more, he never skipped. The sight of him - six-something feet tall, wrapped up in his coat like a noir detective from one of those novels from the 90s, crunching his apple, breathing fresh air and muttering the tasks he planned for the day – could be amusing if there was anyone to observe it, but not a single soul passed by at that hour, and it’s the solitude of the moment which the man valued the most.
“You hungry?” Pixie asked, her young enthusiastic voice cutting through the silence of the street like knife through butter. Jenkins flinched somewhat theatrically – a gesture of appreciation to the way she snuck up on him and was now spying bluntly through slightly opened front doors – and nodded. Together they made quite a pair. Pixie was short, with a certain dose of chubbiness, not unusual for the child of her age; she had dark-brown eyes and black curly hair, pointy nose, thick lips and a charming, disarmingly funny way to smile, demonstrating a little gap between her teeth. She looked nothing like Jenkins, who was a tall thin man whose blond hair never curled, and his eyes were a bright shade of natural blue, just like the girl’s dress. “Just ate,” the man replied, throwing the inedible remains of the apple into the trash bin.
“I’ll have cornflakes,” Pixie announced, heading back to the house, upstairs, to the kitchen. Of course she will. She adored them, especially the ones with fancy flours. Besides, they’re easy to make, and she was always too lazy to cook for herself in the mornings.
There were a lot of things to do. The garbage in the attic was too messy to even begin cleaning, the boxes they temporarily stored in the living room were taking up too much place, the old books they recently acquired needed to be glued and taped in some places before they could be offered to potential buyers – but, first of all, there was a big cardboard sign to hang. There already was a big sign right above the doors, stating the name of the store. This one was much smaller, but just as colorful, with flower drawings and everything – Pixie drew and colored them herself (with help). “Now hiring!” the sign screamed. Jenkins wrote some additional information below, like a fair hourly price, the line “need help managing storage space” and the offer to personally contact him for details, which shouldn’t be too hard, given he literally spends most of his time in the shop right under the sign that has his name on it.
“Hey, Pixie!” the man called, as he finished nailing the sign and hurried inside, freezing with only a thin shirt under his coat. With the weather that chilly, should’ve put on a sweater. It was still half an hour too early to open the shop, so maybe he could deal with those boxes in the living room.
“Yeah?” the girl answered from upstairs.
“Wanna watch the counter for me?”
There was a short pause. Pixie liked the cashier job most of the time, but not when the place got too crowded. “Can I be drawing?”
“Get comfy. There won’t be many customers today.”
Jenkins headed upstairs, planning on where to start with the attic. He had a general idea for a way to sort the items, but many of them were either too unique to be classified, too dusty to be easily cleaned, or too wrecked to be transported before some kind of repair work. The whole ordeal will sure take a long while. Distracted by the train of thoughts, the man almost bumped into Pixie, who was rushing down with a large roll of paper and a set of crayons. “What’s it gonna be?” he asked, cracking a soft smile. The girl was very passionate about her drawings.
“The angry face,” she replied simply, examining the counter to pick the best way of fitting the paper on it without making a mess.
Jenkins frowned slightly. “Is it bothering you again?”
“It made noises tonight,” the girl explained casually, “but I slept alright.”
He smiled again, and she returned the smile – twice as big and ten times more bright. Then, with a very professional nod, the two got to their “posts” – the girl sat behind the counter, and the man disappeared behind the living room door. It was still around twenty five minutes before official opening time, but the doors were open and there was no sign saying the shop is closed, so Pixie expected clients any minute. And also hoped they’d be after something small – something she can sell herself, without the help of Mr. Jenkins.
Most of the shopkeepers decided not to open today. The very few exceptions were, as it figures, the coffee shop, the grocery store that made most of its profits on weekends and couldn’t risk skipping a day, some small spice shop down the second main street, which had a fresh supply scheduled to arrive at ten o’clock, and, of course, “Mr. Jenkins and Pixie’s General Goods”. The rest were a clear case, looking to make some profit, but Jenkins was rumored to be a creature of habit, so his humble place – “the Jenkins’” or “Jenkins’ junk”, as the locals called it – was open every day simply because such was the shopkeeper’s policy. Some people liked it, the others didn’t seem to care, and as long as nobody complained, the man intended to keep up the hard work.
“Jenkins’ junk” was a two floors and an attic kind of house, with the shop occupying the entirety of the first floor, and all the rest somehow fitting above it, including the few common necessities Jenkins and his little companion needed to manage a living right where they worked, which made perfect sense in terms of managing finances. By the look of it, the shop was doing fine, and there was a reason for it: they sold all kinds of stuff, from antique oddities and stylish extravagant décor to your regular cigarette lighters, pumps, shovels, combs, clocks, mirrors, jewelry and so much more! The clients loved the atmosphere, feeling somewhat like those risky mighty gold hunters digging through Jenkins’ collection. Besides, if a certain client required something the man didn’t have, he was sure to get it sometime soon. Just a week ago a gentleman inquired about a certain type of flashlights, and now there was one – on the table next to a lamp, a pack of matchboxes, a funny bracelet and a wooden pipe. There were three other tables – two of them filled with even more random stuff, and one designed as a counter, with a chair behind it, facing the doors. This, too, was Jenkins’ policy – he personally knew most of his clients and liked it when the public and him could keep an eye on each other.
He was an out-of-date man that fit too well in his out-of-date place. He was up and ready for the day earlier than the rest of this sleepy town, picked an apple for breakfast and put on an old-fashioned coat to go out and check the weather – a regular morning routine which could be easily skipped, given how large were the windows on the first floor, and how well he could see that the weather was quite ugly. But, being as much a creature of habit as the locals imagined, if not more, he never skipped. The sight of him - six-something feet tall, wrapped up in his coat like a noir detective from one of those novels from the 90s, crunching his apple, breathing fresh air and muttering the tasks he planned for the day – could be amusing if there was anyone to observe it, but not a single soul passed by at that hour, and it’s the solitude of the moment which the man valued the most.
“You hungry?” Pixie asked, her young enthusiastic voice cutting through the silence of the street like knife through butter. Jenkins flinched somewhat theatrically – a gesture of appreciation to the way she snuck up on him and was now spying bluntly through slightly opened front doors – and nodded. Together they made quite a pair. Pixie was short, with a certain dose of chubbiness, not unusual for the child of her age; she had dark-brown eyes and black curly hair, pointy nose, thick lips and a charming, disarmingly funny way to smile, demonstrating a little gap between her teeth. She looked nothing like Jenkins, who was a tall thin man whose blond hair never curled, and his eyes were a bright shade of natural blue, just like the girl’s dress. “Just ate,” the man replied, throwing the inedible remains of the apple into the trash bin.
“I’ll have cornflakes,” Pixie announced, heading back to the house, upstairs, to the kitchen. Of course she will. She adored them, especially the ones with fancy flours. Besides, they’re easy to make, and she was always too lazy to cook for herself in the mornings.
There were a lot of things to do. The garbage in the attic was too messy to even begin cleaning, the boxes they temporarily stored in the living room were taking up too much place, the old books they recently acquired needed to be glued and taped in some places before they could be offered to potential buyers – but, first of all, there was a big cardboard sign to hang. There already was a big sign right above the doors, stating the name of the store. This one was much smaller, but just as colorful, with flower drawings and everything – Pixie drew and colored them herself (with help). “Now hiring!” the sign screamed. Jenkins wrote some additional information below, like a fair hourly price, the line “need help managing storage space” and the offer to personally contact him for details, which shouldn’t be too hard, given he literally spends most of his time in the shop right under the sign that has his name on it.
“Hey, Pixie!” the man called, as he finished nailing the sign and hurried inside, freezing with only a thin shirt under his coat. With the weather that chilly, should’ve put on a sweater. It was still half an hour too early to open the shop, so maybe he could deal with those boxes in the living room.
“Yeah?” the girl answered from upstairs.
“Wanna watch the counter for me?”
There was a short pause. Pixie liked the cashier job most of the time, but not when the place got too crowded. “Can I be drawing?”
“Get comfy. There won’t be many customers today.”
Jenkins headed upstairs, planning on where to start with the attic. He had a general idea for a way to sort the items, but many of them were either too unique to be classified, too dusty to be easily cleaned, or too wrecked to be transported before some kind of repair work. The whole ordeal will sure take a long while. Distracted by the train of thoughts, the man almost bumped into Pixie, who was rushing down with a large roll of paper and a set of crayons. “What’s it gonna be?” he asked, cracking a soft smile. The girl was very passionate about her drawings.
“The angry face,” she replied simply, examining the counter to pick the best way of fitting the paper on it without making a mess.
Jenkins frowned slightly. “Is it bothering you again?”
“It made noises tonight,” the girl explained casually, “but I slept alright.”
He smiled again, and she returned the smile – twice as big and ten times more bright. Then, with a very professional nod, the two got to their “posts” – the girl sat behind the counter, and the man disappeared behind the living room door. It was still around twenty five minutes before official opening time, but the doors were open and there was no sign saying the shop is closed, so Pixie expected clients any minute. And also hoped they’d be after something small – something she can sell herself, without the help of Mr. Jenkins.
That's it, folks. PM me if interested. Thank you for your attention.
