Not everyone gets to the point where they can discuss with an actual person in the actual offices where the real (bureaucratic) magic takes place. It's not a 'yes' or a signed contract or anything, but it's far better than a letter sent in and an automatically generated 'Thank you for your application, you will receive notice shortly' sent back. It's enough to get excited about, and Roman is excited. In fact, he can't bring himself to walk in. He's got this feeling that something huge is about to take place, like a new chapter of his life will begin the second he walks through those doors. It's nerves, he realizes, stupidity, maybe, and he should just shimmy on over and cross the border, but he can't help but consider blowing off the whole operation and crawling back to his dingy little apartment. No glory, but no risk, either, and Roman quite likes his pretty little neck. On the other hand, how could he live with himself if he did leave, knowing he could've and knowing he didn't? Would he be seventy and bitter, every minute of his life plagued by the knowledge of what might have happened, had he had the balls to walk in>
"Fuck it," mumbles Roman. He takes the plunge and throws the door open.
It's bustling inside, of course, with serious-looking people dressed in every shade of gray scurrying to and fro. For the fifteen seconds or so Roman spends standing in the entrance staring, only one brightly-colored, caped individual streaks across the room, like a parrot fish among spawning salmon. Not even a high-profile superhero, either, not as far as he can tell. He'd be disappointed if he had the time, but even in the brief amount of it he spends motionless Roman is shouldered unkindly from the doorway and into the thick of things. He freezes, which is not a particularly clever reaction, as he is simply battered out of the way as easily as a twig in a rushing stream. He quickly learns that the best way to cross is by matching the pace of the businessman. This is far easier than it seems. Once among them and walking, he naturally matches their pace, if the direction is a bit further out of his control. There's a woman at a circular, official-looking desk he has to have a conversation with. She, like everyone around her, is stylish and professional-looking and makes Roman feel even frumpier and awkward than he usually does in comparison.
"Fuck it," mumbles Roman. He takes the plunge and throws the door open.
It's bustling inside, of course, with serious-looking people dressed in every shade of gray scurrying to and fro. For the fifteen seconds or so Roman spends standing in the entrance staring, only one brightly-colored, caped individual streaks across the room, like a parrot fish among spawning salmon. Not even a high-profile superhero, either, not as far as he can tell. He'd be disappointed if he had the time, but even in the brief amount of it he spends motionless Roman is shouldered unkindly from the doorway and into the thick of things. He freezes, which is not a particularly clever reaction, as he is simply battered out of the way as easily as a twig in a rushing stream. He quickly learns that the best way to cross is by matching the pace of the businessman. This is far easier than it seems. Once among them and walking, he naturally matches their pace, if the direction is a bit further out of his control. There's a woman at a circular, official-looking desk he has to have a conversation with. She, like everyone around her, is stylish and professional-looking and makes Roman feel even frumpier and awkward than he usually does in comparison.
