SATe [✔]

[10] acatalepsy

When I consider my first impression of Franklin, even further, when I consider every impression I have had of Franklin in the short time frame I have known him; I would expect his office to be plain and cold. Whether that be because of his matter-of-fact statements, soldier-like stance or his ability to turn cold in an instant, I couldn't put my finger on it.

I had expected an office painted with that blue, the one that is selected out of the many different shades because it's 'clean and inoffensive' for a work environment. I had expected a pale wood desk with two drawers that held barely a stapler and a few pens at most. I had expected perhaps an armchair in the corner, with a shabbily built bookcase that had a few classics placed sporadically to hide the emptiness.

What I had received as I walked through the door of his office was a grander scale of deception, subverting all my expectations. It was clear that the room had originally been painted white; seamlessly matching with the bright oak flooring; that, however, seemed to be the end of the normality for office life. That combination of colour must have been too plain for either Franklin or someone who had come before him; all signs pointing to the fact it was barely scratching the surface of enough.

It seemed to me that he had purchased several buckets of paint and just slap-dashed an attempt at throwing them at each wall; proceeding to fill the rest of the wall with his own hands; and by the size of the strokes, with the help of the rest of the team. There were clashes of all colours; blues mixing with oranges, greens and purples, and every so often a long streak of red that cut through all of the pastel shades with fierce brightness – the work of a single person who wasn't as 'into' the goal as the rest of the participants.

This attempt at modern art had been accompanied by a wall-to-wall white desk that split the room; with a bar on the back wall and a whole selection of computer monitors. The corner of the room had been covered in beanbags and decorative cushions; an area that invited me to sleep and forget all about everything I'd learned. Rugs had been placed all over the floor in various sizes in an attempt to cover the majority of the wood flooring.

He'd physically jumped into the room, giving me the impression that he felt more comfortable in his office than anywhere else. This was clearer when I realised his walls were also covered in collages of photographs of who I can only assume were past colleagues and friends. There were so many lively, personable touches in this room that I couldn't exactly put into words how comfortable the effect it had on me was.

He had pressed himself firmly into the chair behind his desk, a hand behind his head and a scorned look on his face. The change in emotion was a little striking; it was as though he forgot the reason he was coming into his office until he looked at me standing in front of him, "This is more information you aren't necessarily meant to have, Bastian."

"I'm aware." I couldn't help but agree. I had completely shunned his offer to join the team, silence being the only accompaniment to my abandonment of this base. Re-entering it had already felt like a kick in the teeth, "I just wanted to make sure Cavendish would be all right, I hadn't expected to be brought back here and informed of so much in such little time."