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[color=Silver]	[i]Drip. Drip. Drip.[/i] He glared at the partitioned waterfall spit from the mouth of an iron tap just off to the room's corner. Each interval of droplets casted a shallow ambience to the main melody of paper shifting, document opening and the dissonance of busied bodies in adjacent corridors and rooms. Before him sat the paintbrush moustache-wearing, tie-too-tight looking, tobacco scented, blue-button shirt dressed concentration of his department handler: Paul Langley. He was everything that Sidney had imagined of the Delta Times back in 1985; there was an eerie stain of disdain wherever his eyes glanced, lest what he glared at was an opportunity to move from a crummy office to a less-than-stellar upgrade. Sure, Sidney had known him for a while. Paul was originally a department manager for schmucks like himself in the present day, so he'd say, but something between the firing and rehiring of the Scot had pushed him down a step or three on the Delta Times ladder. Sanctions of misconduct, misdemeanour or simply the in-and-out culture of some backdoor job roles within the company could have been any of the three explanations, but with people like Paul Langley, there was never a good reason to ask.

	In the handler's hands were the recent additions Sidney had made to his collection: three images, two of the same potential story. Neither were particularly wild or encapsulating, but he knew that from the moment he took them. Wherever he'd gone, for at least two months, there hadn't been anything other than a scrap on the neighbour's lawn. The types of things he'd once been present for had gone off in the wind to be caught in another photographer's net. But the thought was interrupted by the loud and gruff sigh of Paul Langley - note, it seemed fitting to always refer to him in full name - and when the white-still photos were slammed against the table it really unsettled the nerves of Sidney.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"Jesus, Sharpe, what is this crap? I mean, two drunks fighting over a wristwatch outside isn't news, it's the alley behind my daughter's daycare on a Tuesday afternoon. And this,"[/b][/color] [color=silver]he wafted his hand over the second story,[/color] [color=Orange][b]"I don't even know what this is. Like I see the image, I see it clear as day, Sharpe, but I can't give you a headline on the spot. Not that it's my job, but you know?"[/b][/color]

[color=18BED3][b]"I don't know, Sir, but it's been a bit of a hard time for being in the right place at the right time."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Wasn't the best of excuses, but the strain of bad luck had infected his ability to impress any sort of handler. Those like him, who were more or less on lease for their services instead of a secured and renowned photographer for the large-city paper, were in a position to be dropped on a dime. Walking the line for as long as he had wouldn't suffice. Of course, he knew that better than anyone else, for he'd been fired for that very reason the couple years back.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"Well, that ain't gonna cut it, Sharpe. You're good at what you do but you need to do better at finding things that matter. Venture into the political scene, or sports, or maybe go back and do all that big-crime snapshotting you did months back."[/b][/color]

[color=18BED3][b]"There hasn't been much [i]big-crime[/i] going around though."[/b][/color]

[color=orange][b]"Come on, you're letting me down, Sharpe. Anything - at this rate - to get the light from Clarendon for us."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]There was a long pause for a while whilst Paul dragged on the largest stress-puff of a cigarette he'd seen since. It wasn't just Sidney who'd put him in that position. His own turn of bad luck had brought in at least five other part-timers who'd done so little as to provide him with good material for the reporters. Due to the scheduled timetable complications, most of them were unable to tag along with a reporter in the field, but those like Sid had the chance to do so if they'd commit at full capacity. Sell the soul to the lad with the notepad and questions, he thought.[/color] [color=orange][b]"I like you, Sharpe, but not enough to kiss your ass. You're my - our - best shot of getting out of the basement of the Times and back onto real stories. Find yourself a reporter who'll take you on or grab the writers a story worthwhile, even if small in scale, and [i]then[/i] I can pay you."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	With that, he left the office in a sort of drudged state. There was little energy to be had after a dressing down from the same Paul Langley that had once invited him to his family's neighbourhood barbeque back in '85. The man had aged a thousand years from the stress of cramped corner spaces and unremarkable photos. He'd mastered the art of making the photographers feel bad for not giving him what he wanted, and by crumb and crust had one Sidney Sharpe felt all the guilt in the world. More so toward himself, though. He was a bit of a downer when it came to missing out on the needed paycheck. And what better way, he thought, to wallow and think about his next move than to go spend his dimes on a hot meal.

	He escaped the confinement of the Delta Times and took off on the long walk. He needed it, though the cramped streets and neatly organised buildings still made it hard to properly jump into his muse. The walk at least built up that appetite lost by the smell of Langley's office, but not so much that he'd spend thousands on the meal he'd been searching for: Sushi. Always that one place that everyone always talked about, but never the place he'd ever gone in and ordered anything from. [i]Fuck it[/i], he thought as he found the aimlessness of his trudge led to the arrival at [b]Shogun Sushi[/b]. And without so much as a care of what he was doing, just out of the sheer need to clear the bile and stress from his battered mind, he walked on inside expecting just a normal in-and-out meal.[/color]