"I've implemented some changes, effective immediately, that you need to know about Mr Bentwhistle," Garrett declared, very much out of character.
"Until further notice, every department head, yourself included, will report directly to Major Manson."
The man stood at the window turned round to face Peter, a charmless grin smothered across his face.
"Major Manson is from Darktech Technologies," continued Garrett, "a leading security consultancy. He will be carrying out a review of our security and operational procedures. I expect nothing but full co-operation from you and your staff. Do I make myself clear?"
"Absolutely Al," answered Peter, smiling.
"That's 'Mister Garrett' to you," announced a haughty voice from behind Garrett, dripping with condescension.
"He's right," added Garrett.
Looking straight into the unnaturally dark eyes of Major Manson, Peter needed all of his self control to keep his temper in check. Difficult to see in the lightless environment, he quickly applied his enhanced dragon senses to get a clearer picture of this uppity newcomer. Manson appeared stocky, but was about the same height as Peter. He had straight brown hair, or 'used to', Peter thought with a smirk. The left and the right side were now clearly having a race to see which could get to the back of his head first, that's how badly receding it was. Clean shaven with a square jaw, Peter hadn't been mistaken about his eyes. There was something just... wrong.
Garrett cleared his throat, jolting Peter from his train of thought.
"Sorry, MISTER Garrett, "Peter said with just a tinge of sarcasm.
"That will be all. You're dismissed," announced the Chief Executive, not even bothering to look up from the paperwork on his desk.
Frustrated, Peter wheeled round and headed out of the door without giving the other two a second glance. Barely managing not to slam the door on the way out, he returned to the lift, his head awash with thoughts, the first of which was, 'What the hell is going on?' Eccentric didn't even begin to cover it. The lighting, the bizarre smell, the whole, 'call me Al' one day, and then 'Mr Garrett' the next, and that's without even mentioning the elephant in the room. That made him smile, because of the very nearly direct comparison. Who was this security consultant, and why all of a sudden did the company need him? When Peter had used his senses to study the Major, he was half expecting to sense some sort of evil dragon. He hadn't of course, try as he might. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Nevertheless, something about the whole situation sat uneasily at the back of his mind. He vowed to keep a close eye on things, as he stepped out of the elevator.
Peter spent the next few hours skulking in his office, making sure everything was up together should the worst happen, like getting an inspection from his newly appointed, interim boss. On three occasions he spotted the man, once going into the security lodge, once on the way to the distribution depot, and then again getting a big black box out of a shiny new Mercedes in the car park. What stood out on each of these occasions was that Major Manson walked with a limp, and was aided by a stick, made from rich, dark wood with an ornate silver ornament on top. He couldn't tell exactly what it was from so far away, even using the security camera's zoom function.
After lunch, he paid another visit to the security lodge. Back in the familiar office, the unusual atmosphere stuck out like a sore thumb, with everyone there keeping their heads down and getting on with their work, in pretty much total silence. The atmosphere was most out of place for the normally jovial, well run, efficient department.
Having sorted out his paperwork and spoken to the members of his team, he walked down the corridor towards the exit. Weaving his way past the large photocopier, he felt like banging his head against the wall in frustration. Things had been working so well, everybody had seemed so happy... and now this. The atmosphere was terrible wherever he'd been today, and he was sure the staff... his friends, hated what had happened, but were too afraid to speak out. He couldn't really blame them. With a view to getting some perspective, he resolved to speak to Richie that night.
The end of the working day arrived, with Peter doing his normal trick of staying on just that bit later to avoid the worst of the traffic, in particular the queues out of the massive car parks from within Cropptech. Spending this last hour or so looking out of his office window and using the security cameras to try and gauge the mood of the workers all heading for their cars, he was puzzled to find only a few glum faces amongst the majority, who, on inspection, looked like their normal, happy selves. He wasn't sure if that bothered him more or not, after the kind of day he'd been through.
At precisely a quarter to six he grabbed his jacket and lunch box and, with his phone in his hand, raced across to his car which looked rather lonely in the depleted car park. Texting his friend on the way, he marvelled at how difficult it was for him to type and walk at the same time. Sending his message off into the ether, he jumped into his car and started it up. As he made a sharp turn, heading towards the exit, his headlights lit up the shiny black Mercedes that belonged to Major Manson. Shaking his head and uttering a very bad word under his breath, he made for home.
Richie's reply to his text startled him in the middle of cooking tea, and a small smile at her willingness to meet him later in the bar of the sports club peeked through his gruff demeanour, caused by his worst working day ever. Food eaten, household jobs done, he walked out of the front door with a spring in his step.
Pushing through the giant double glass doors, he skipped past the notice boards, deserted reception area/shop and turned the corner into the bar proper, only to be greeted by a riot of noise and colour. A raucous game of pool was taking place, in between some drinking. An even noisier battle was taking place between two stocky chaps on the arcade 'shoot-em-up' game off to one side. On top of all of that, drunken men enthusiastically playing a fruit machine and a dozen or so track suited males flipping a matchbox furiously, amid drinking their beer as fast as was humanly possible, all added to the atmosphere, if indeed that's how it could be described.
Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he had but one thought.
'PANTS... it's Wednesday!' A rugby coaching course had been going on all day, which went some way to explaining the ensuing chaos and high jinks. Weaving in and out the chairs and tables, narrowly missing the game of pool that looked as though it was about to turn into a contact sport, he reached the bar and ordered his usuaclass="underline" large diet Pepsi, lots of ice. Scanning the room for Richie, it didn't take long to spot her tucked away in the far corner, nursing her drink, on a table next to two young rugby players arm wrestling each other. Even from this distance she looked stunning. Long, dark brown, curly hair flowed down the back of her neck, framing her ever so cute face, completed by a freckly complexion and a petite body that perfectly mirrored her dragon form. For a few seconds he stood captivated by her beauty and thoughts of something he could never have, before realising that he probably looked a bit odd, which was enough in itself to get him scuttling on over in her direction. The closer he got to her table, the more apparent it was that the arm wrestling rugby players were trying to impress her with their macho deeds. Ignoring their scowls, he pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. As he did so, one of the tough guys piped up,
"Look, it's one of the juniors from the hockey club."
His friend joined in the fun,
"You'd have thought it would have been well past his bedtime."