Intermediate Communication Studies 202

[pugsmuggler]

The Eldabaran Gracia campus was as industrial as its students, overwhelmingly modern, with sweeping hallways gilded in glossy white and textured aluminum, doorways shaped from frothy blue glass, and ceilings the arced up like a whale’s ribcage. Eldabaran Gracia was not a school of excessive grandiose, but it was a school of considerable wealth. It had to be. Being a reputable school of technology and science among a galaxy full of competitors required up-to-date resources and tools. Of course, Eldabaran’s far-reaching range of technological equipment were not for play, and enrolled students became increasingly aware of this their first year — several dropped out within the first semester. Everything was focused, clinical, and serious, and newcomers certainly couldn’t help but notice how remarkably clean everything was, from the pale-washed walls to the reflective, slick floors.

Calibri would have noticed on that particular day, that the halls weren’t, as they normally were, populated with students poring over notes last minute or having conversations about recent test results. The halls were instead quite empty. Class 318-C, Intermediate Biochemical Pharmacology and Toxicology, was similarly empty. A class that normally hosted around 50 students (give or take) now hosted lines of empty desks and unused lab equipment. Down the stadium steps of the classroom and sitting with his feet propped up on center desk in front of the projector screen was Garamond, reclining back in the professor’s chair with a small glass of brandy. He smiled when Calibri came through the doorway.

“Good to see you again,” Garamond said. “It’s been what? Two years? How old are you now?”

Comments

[pugsmuggler]

"You should," Garamond replied, and in one sweep, he stood and folded his chair back into compact square. He carried it with him as he headed over to the lab counter, propping up against a cabinet door.

"Terrible place," he said, flicking his cigar into the hollow of a sink. "But not unbearable in the right company."

[tactician]

"I don't care much for specific company," Calibri said, toeing around the hospital floor until he found his shoes. They were still dress shoes, considering they hadn't gone back to the school after all to retrieve his own garments, and as such they were ill-fitting and slightly too complicated to get on. He had to kick one foot up on the edge of the bed to even tie the laces. "As long as the work is rewarding."

[pugsmuggler]

Garamond raised a brow. "So what, exactly, do you want to be when you graduate?"

[tactician]

"More tolerant of ingested poisons," Calibri answered, which was, unsurprisingly, a practical and rather to-the-point desire, more unfortunately attainable than it should have been, much like the owner of the desire himself. He kicked up his other leg and did the shiny, waxy black laces of that shoe too before slipping off the hospital mattress and onto his feet. They made a small, synchronized 'clicking' sound as they hit tile and as they did, he looked up to face Garamond.

"I should be getting back to my studies soon."

[pugsmuggler]

"Applicable, I guess, if you're planning to make a habit of poisoning yourself," Garamond laughed. Calibri seemed to have little investment in anything beyond his interest in poisons.

"I'll call you a cab, need some cash?"

[tactician]

"Yes. My wallet is still on campus," he answered, voice drifting from behind the small curtain he had stepped behind to change back into his clothes. They, like his shoes, were still more applicable to a formal dress event than anything practical, and considering the state of both Calibri and Garamond after the smoke-slash-gun fight, they were in a bit of disrepair, which was a shame considering the no-doubt hefty price. The seams of the dress shirt pocket were coming undone, there was a rip in one of the jacket sleeves, and the hems of the pants legs were definitely fraying beyond any state of possible repair.

Also his tie was entirely absent.

Stepping out, Calibri examined himself with a skeptical, clinical eye. "I assume you will not be wanting these back."

[pugsmuggler]

"Don't need them. Can't return them at this point, anyway," Garamond dismissed, reaching into his inner pocket for his wallet. Clipping the cigar between his teeth, he pulled out two hundreds from the thick wedge of bills, likely around four times the amount that Calibri would need for a cab, and handed them over.

"Your ride should be here in a few minutes," he said afterward, inputting a few coordinates into his communicator.

[tactician]

"Thank you," Calibri said, reaching out to take the bills, neither impolite enough to forget the token gratitude, nor polite enough to notice that it was way too much and return the extra. He pocketed them in his suits jacket and then spent a few seconds awkwardly standing in front of Garamond, eyes lowered and narrowed as if trying to puzzle something out.

Finally, with a sort of 'devil may care' desperation, he reached out again and jerkily sought out Garamond's hand again, pulling it between them and giving it a good shake - once, twice - before letting go. Then, he nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with whatever perceived social custom he had perfunctorily carried out just now. "Very well," he said, straightening his back. "Until next time, Mr. Garamond."

[pugsmuggler]

Garamond smiled, and thinking it not particularly important that he corrected Calibri's handshake, he nodded his head in agreement. "Next time I'll try not to bring my friends."