Busy fingers clattered on a rugged mechanical keyboard, then paused as Rose read back the new paragraphs with a slight grimace. She reached over to the mouse to bump up the cursor for a few changes and corrections.
At first she had tried a chording keyboard, thinking to minimize the residual awkwardness of her artificial hand, before discovering it was a steeper learning curve than simply practicing with her bum wing on a standard lay-out. She couldn’t achieve the same words per minute she’d managed before her life changed, but she’d reached an acceptable speed for filling out forms and reports.
She reviewed the alterations and nodded to herself in satisfaction. Another moment with the mouse banished the electronic document to the central repository, after which she pushed back her chair and stood to stretch. Both arms rose ceilingward and her back arched, unhampered by a fine powder-blue business jacket, trim matching slacks, and simple white blouse—though shiny black closed-lace shoes made standing on tiptoe a bit harder.
The dozen or so suits in various pastel colors she’d purchased from Carousel Boutique had cost a fortune, but she didn’t begrudge a penny. Thanks to the meticulous tailoring, not only did they look sharp and professional, they flattered her tall, lean figure and didn’t restrict her movements. She came down from the stretch and turned to nudge the swivel chair again, toward the leg well of the sturdy laminate and steel desk.
The office in which she stood was tiny, a mix of old and new, but it was all hers. The hulking brutalist building around it had to date back at least half a century, and her desk might be even older. On the other hand, the rest of the furniture and the computer hardware, including a flat-panel monitor, had been drawn from the latest institutional order. A trio of newish metal and plastic stacking chairs faced the front of the desk in a slight arc. The computer table from which she had risen stood at right angles to the desk, backing up against one of the room’s two huge windows; the arrangement wasn’t ideal, but after all the architecture pre-dated the advent of desktop computers, so like many other occupants Rose simply left the blinds closed on that window to minimize glare. The corner of the L-shape formed by the two work surfaces was filled in by a low metal supply cabinet, crowned with a store-bought succulent in a clay pot. And she still could smell a whiff of fresh paint and cleaning solutions.
The room boasted only one other prominent item. On the wall behind the desk, at eye level for someone a little shorter than she, hung a sizable picture frame, its double mat cut with a pair of openings. One displayed a diploma, the other a certificate of qualification.
Nothing else competed for the eye—not even the “I love me” wall of memorabilia accumulated by any military officer. Rose simply couldn’t bring herself to unpack the sealed box on the closet floor in her flat. Even her class ring had returned to its velveted box. That chapter of her life had closed, and she was embarking on a new one.
She lowered herself back onto the chair and reached her prosthetic hand for the mug of coffee placed neatly on a saucer. Before she could bring it to her lips, a babel of voices rose somewhere in the hallway outside, riding over the usual low murmur of activity that wafted through the open doorway at the far corner of the wall opposite the windows. Curious, she put the mug back down and glanced up just as a pair of individuals popped through the door, followed by a uniformed policeman who looked to be about her age.
She leaned back to frown at the apparent chaperone, her narrowed eye reading off his nameplate. “What’s this about, Officer . . . Blue?”
The cop waved his hand at the duo standing between him and the stacking chairs. “The folks downstairs thought you’d be the best person to talk some sense into these kids.” He shrugged. “I figured bringing ’em here was better than running ’em in.”
Her brow rose. “Really.” She looked more closely at the boys—young men—in their late teens. Both looked the worse for wear in disheveled but otherwise nondescript clothing. They stared at her scars and eyepatch with trepidation.
One was medium height, if a little stooped, and skinny as a rail. His short soot-black hair streaked with purple stuck out untidily and, she suspected, uncharacteristically. Watery gray eyes were wary behind black-framed spectacles of a style her troops used to call “BC glasses”. His dark-red complexion didn’t show the agitated flush she’d bet was heating his face. One of his hands was clamped on his companion’s upper arm.
Said companion wasn’t much taller or heavier, but he did stand straighter. His equally messy hair was a drab reddish brown, his visible eye a slightly lighter brown. The other sported a magnificent shiner, but she assumed it normally matched. His free hand clutched the remains of another pair of glasses, likely broken by the same blow. The expression on his mist-gray face was defiant; for some reason she was put in mind of a cornered tiger roused to anger from a languid repose.
Rose rocked back and forth on her chair for a long moment, studying the pair, who returned the scrutiny with tight expressions. Then she sat up and swept her prosthetic arm in a crisp arc to point at the chairs. “Sit down, both of you. Officer Blue, thank you; I’ll take it from here.” As the uniform stepped out, closing the door behind him, she turned back. “My name is Rose Brass. Captain Rose Brass. But you can call me Ms. Brass.” She paused a moment as they perched on the edges of their seats, then added briskly, “All right, let’s get started. Who might you two be, and why did Officer Blue think he should bring you to Social Services instead of the city lock-up?”