Ooo~ Count me intrigued. Is Sweeper a name, a nickname, a title? I feel there’s an implication of extra-normal skills–my mind leaps immediately to the supernatural, but I could also see it being simply very high competencies. And it sounds like there’s an antagonism between “you” and the sister–is she your boss, or only that guy’s? I’m SO CURIOUS

Thanks! Uh…. actually this was meant to be more of a one-shot sort of thing, but since you expressed interest I suppose I could get into it a little more… I definitely did dream up the further world even though I only wrote this little snapshot so…



You stand and feel the weight of yourself, your exhaustion, in your joints. Knees stiff and near to creaking, echoing up your nerves. Your calf itches. Slowly, so as not to move more than necessary, you lift your opposite foot to scratch at it. Quietly, you put your foot back down.

The man standing guard outside the door glances at you, then away, dismissive. Your weight resettles along the soles of your feet. You are so tired. Your sister is cruel.

Would it hurt anyone to give you a chair? It’s been almost two hours since you were ambushed on the train. What a hypocrite. You cannot keep her waiting, but your time, apparently, is worthless.

You tamp down the anger, will your heartbeat to slow, you do not have the luxury of anger here, not in your sister’s stronghold. The man standing guard, as if sensing your disloyalty to his boss, glances your way once more. This time his gaze lingers, his mouth twitches, but he stays silent and looks away again.

He wears a suit, well tailored, or so you think, you are not an expert in mens formalwear. So like your sister to multitask, make her employees protection and eye candy both.

You are not self-conscious about your own appearance, rumpled and casual it may be. You were on a train that smelled of piss, heading home after a day of cleaning more and other bodily fluids. If your sister wanted you gussied up just to wait two hours in her chair-less waiting room, she should have let you go home and shower.

Your knees start to buckle. You have no idea who you’re trying to impress. The guard? Your sister? Clearly you’ve already failed on the former, and the latter has never been impressed with you. You allow your knees to bend, let gravity pull you down further. You might as well sit even if there are no chairs.

You feel much better. From this new angle, seated cross-legged on the floor, you notice the scuff marks on the guard’s shoes. Your exhaustion pulses. You let your eyes droop. You could nap, maybe, just a quick one to shore yourself up before seeing your sister.

A beep sounds from the guard’s wrist. He glances at his watch, at you, at the door, before reaching for the handle. “Sweeper,” says the guard, “Boss will see you now.”

For a moment you are filled with hate before you tamp that down, too. As it recedes, you imagine saying something witty, something cutting, but you let it ebb further into apathy. This is your sister’s stronghold.

You get to your feet.

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