And like all the days before, nothing changed.
Well, if you ignored the generalised apocalypse taking place on what could reasonably be considered her general doorstep, that was. And even that was beginning to become part of the system - certainly not mundane, but even it wasn't new any more. They had drills and routines, people in high-vis gear on the telly with painted smiles and plastic stares telling them exactly what they need be doing in the event of a Reaper materialisation. There was procedure to be followed, there were forms to be filled out and so the slow collapse of society as they knew it became just another part of the bureaucracy, something to tide the Londoners over and give them something else to chat about other than the weather. If you ignored the chaos and the death toll rising week by week, it was almost refreshing. Instead of talking about the endless weather, you too could share what it was you were doing the last time you saw a monster swoop down from where there had been only grey sky a moment before.
But refreshing or not, apocalypse or not, Sorcha still had work.
'Work' may have been a strong term. Hours, weeks, months before and 'work' meant nothing more than sitting behind her laptop, typing page after page of her dissertation, all the while dreaming of the doors it would open and the life she would lead. Because that was the promise, wasn't it? They went through their educations like good little boys and girls, the best of them prancing off to university and shelling out thousands of pounds for the privilege of huddling into a damp hall and sitting through hours and hours of self-righteous lecturers, and it was all with the unspoken promise that it would be worth it. That they sacrificed their time and their money and the effort for the promise that the world would be their oyster - no door their fancy degree wouldn't open, no ceiling made of glass for them to rail against.
Six months later and she could look back and laugh at her hopeful naivete. Because what those unwritten, unvoiced promises had failed to mention was that this promise was made to every student, that her competitors numbered in the hundreds of thousands and the little girl from Scotland with her precious piece of paper couldn't hope to compete here in London. Apocalypse or not, they had standards and did not require someone of her inexperience, thank you very much for your time (but no thanks). She had been turned down from newspapers, theatres, magazines, bookstores even after a cursory glance at her CV revealed far too little and tellingly much. It had taken her three months to even gain a job waitressing - something she probably ought to be pathetically grateful for, yet when she slept through her alarm for the fourth day in a row, she couldn't help but wish they would just fire her already.
A hurried drag of a brush through long red hair, what could pass as a uniform dug from under half-read books and unfolded piles of washing, ten minutes and Sorcha was locking the door in time for the now-familiar screech to make her jolt, swearing as her latte dripped all down the front of her outfit as she was ushered to a 'safe zone', far more preoccupied with that as the threat was summarily dealt with. Well, at least her skirt was black, even if the white shirt now claimed 'multicoloured' as a virtue.
A half-hour later and she was ducking through the loathed doors of her financial salvation, gritting her teeth at the reprimands hurled her way. "Sorry, I'll have a word with those things about not attacking when I'm on my way to work next time, shall I?" The question was rhetorical; all too quickly she was ushered out, notepad in hand as she surveyed the room with the grim air of someone walking into a battlefield. The next three hours passed very slowly.
The bell chimed one more time, and Sorcha groaned under her breath. So much for her lunch (afternoon tea? Breakfast?) break. Fixing a bright smile to her face she sauntered over to the booth where the leather-jacketed man sat with no compunction (had he perhaps gotten lost on his way to the 80's?), flicking the back of his paper to gain his attention. Nobody ever said that customer service had been one of her strengths.
"Well aren't you a cheerful one, then?" She remarked, nodding playfully at the newspaper he seemed so absorbed in. "World's busy going to hell and you still find time to read the obituaries. Can I get you some comfort food with that?"