Somewhere in the small, stuffy room, a single plastic fan whirred and clicked desperately in it's battle against the sweltering heat. Everything in there was a musty warm colour, from the pale satsuma walls, flecked with spots of missing paint (most suspiciously sticky tape shaped), to the off beige covers on the single bed shunted into the corner, even the plants seemed to have lost their will to live and had given in to the sickly yellow colour of tired paper.<br/><br/>â€œIt's not fair,â€ Nancy scuffed the floor in a leather coloured arc that probably smelled like new shoes and indignantly rested her weight against the wall, arms folded, lips pinched to one side, lone eyebrow cocked and all the trimmings, â€œall your animals must have about fourty a day through second hand smoke and you won't give me<span style="font-style: italic">one</span>!â€ she threw a hand sulkily in the direction of the museum of cages collecting dust and lizards at the back of her brothers room.<br/><br/>Nobody looked impressed. Not even the critters.<br/><br/>Marlowe rolled his eyes and carried on rolling a cigarette, sat cross legged on the bed, â€œHow'da suit go?â€ he prompted casually blanking the existence of all previous conversation.<br/>Only on the grounds it would irritate her.<br/>Greatly.<br/>So sue him, he was a brother.<br/>God given right and all that jazz...<br/>---<span style="font-style: italic">besides,</span>he really was genuinely interested to see what she'd done with the old thing, hell, Nancy had never been one for 'smart-casual' (she seemed to believe the two were entirely different species and should be kept in separate enclosures at least a ten mile radius from one another at all times..) she even struggled making casual look... well,<span style="font-style: italic">casual</span>, so instead of opting for leopard print mini skirts and the usual semi-chic-dyke get up, Marlowe had graciously donated one of his old suits. A black suave thing, once used. Wedding. Chocolate stain in left lapel-- not that it reeeaaallly mattered! If she could take it down from fitting a six-foot-something-or-other, lanky-ass figure to her neat and tidy 5'2 then she could probably take out the stain and turn water into wine whilst she was at it!<br/><br/>Nancy's eyes narrowed into coal coloured slits and ran her tongue across the edge of her teeth, spotting-- ahhh-- a bargaining ground if she ever saw one... â€œGiz' a smoke, I'll tell you,â€<br/><br/>There was a bark of a laugh, even under the parasol of lashes that looking downwards provides, his eyes lit up, â€œYou know, a<span style="font-style: italic">'coerced transaction'</span>like that wont stand up in a court of law...â€ using thumb and forefinger he spread the small paper across his thigh, fished out a sticky wad of tobacco from the pouch in his pocket and started to separate it, like finger brushing a very small witches hair.<br/><br/>She squinted down her nose, â€œNeither will you when I break both yer legs,â€<br/><br/>Her brother snorted, looked up to retaliate, spotted her then cracked clean up, hitting the bed with a thwump and pawing blindly for the pillow to mask the giggles.<br/><br/>Horror rose like damp. Nancy felt her cheeks start to burn and her shoulders raise, tense, â€œSHUT UP!â€ she'd meant to snap, but the noise that came out sounded much more like a whine, maybe even a plead.<br/><br/>â€œI'm... hygh-- so... heh sorry!â€ he replied from under the pillow, â€œIt's just hehe-- you look-- you look like the worlds smallest undertaker! What. Did. You. DO!?â€ he resurfaced to get another look, grinning like a cat. It was all too much.<br/>Unconsciously she'd already turned to an angle to hide as much of the revamped suit as she could manage. An all nighter on the sewing machine, umpteen needle jabs across her fingers and a possible case of tetanus and for what! So some great lumping blonde pillock could get his jollies for the day!<br/><br/>She opened her mouth, but it was like watching a goldfish at the glass of the tank, no sound, she wasn't even certain she was breathing any more!<br/><br/>â€œNo! No wait!â€ Marlowe threw a sleeve across his eyes and held a hand aloof like a beggar in a Dickens story, which he Nancy swore to Christ<span style="font-style: italic">he would be</span>if he didn't wipe that stupid grin-- â€œI'msorryI'msorry,â€ he cooled, swinging back upright and lurching to his feet, â€œYou spent ages on it, I shouldn't laugh... here! Let me get you a little top hat and carnation to finish it o--â€<br/><br/>â€œFUCK. YOU. ASS. TACO!â€ she  howled and Marlowe fell back in fits of noisy laughter again.<br/><br/>She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the bones of the house.<br/><br/>God dammit!<br/>After a second of struggle, she yanked the scrunchie out from her hair and balled it up in her pocket, angrily enough that the inner stitching rode up in the space between finger and nails. Dark hair flew vengefully free and flitted about her shoulders.<br/>Why did he always have to do this!?<br/><br/>She stalked down the corridor, jaw jut out and eyes prickling with the promise of hot, pissed off tears. Some soggy, self conscious lump of her brain was going through a nervous breakdown, pinwheeling through a mental account of her wardrobe, desperately trying to piece together a new, BETTER outfit, like a convict about to leave town for the last time, whilst another more stubborn portion of her personality smacked its fists against the door and demanded they stay and face the music. The suit will do.<br/>Marlowe's an ass and the suit will do.<br/><br/>No doubt he was sat in there slapping himself on the back, singing his own praises and convincing the lizards that 'it's okay, she'll get over it'! That was HIS get out of jail free card from a guilty conscience.<span style="font-style: italic">She'll get over it!</span>Yeah, he was... irritatingly right, but how cheap did he wanna get!?<br/>Marlowe wasn't even a real brother!<br/>Seriously speaking there was no blood between them, maybe spit all wrapped up in a warm handshake, but no blood. Between the two you couldn't<span style="font-style: italic">pretend</span>they were related! The Saltfisher family were of an English/ Germanic descent, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, Hitlers super race. After Marlowe, and this was their mothers wording exactly, came out like a cannon ball and took half her innards out with him, further family was out of the question, but fear not, it was nineties and saving poor little Asian babies was all the rage!<br/><br/>Nancy was brought into the family a mocha skinned, black haired, black eyed fashion faux pas and, boy, did the neighbours talk!<br/><br/><br/>Nancy flew down the stairs and froze up in the hallway like someone had called her name. Slowly, she glanced back over her shoulder, chewing her bottom lip. The mirror on the wall. A full length artifact their mother had picked up from a boot sale, that OCD Marlowe had scrubbed raw in a state of terrible and deadly disgust one year.<br/>Stay and face the music.<br/>Marlowe's an ass.<br/>After a moment of umming and ahhing she came to the conclusion that there was no harm in it and shuffled into to it's reflective stare, locking her fingers behind her head and kicking her heels anxiously.<br/>It wasn't<span style="font-style: italic">too</span>bad...<br/>Not owning the most feminine build on earth was an understatement, she was miserably flat chested and sparrow legged, so the suit did have a bizarre teenage boy at the prom effect on her figure, but it was nothing a dash of make-up and keeping her hair loose couldn't soften... perhaps...<br/>She turned on her heel sticking out her back end a little and pretending she had a derriere to speak of.<br/>â€¦ Perhaps she should try for the other team. Draw on her eyebrows a little thickly, gel her hair into an Elvis quiff, start collecting Victorian poets shirts, frequenting 'alternative' haunts and going by the name 'Vincent Noir' or 'Jean-Claude'...<br/>Goth Guy Nancy did come with an odd kind of appeal...<br/><br/>â€œHere!â€<br/><br/>Nancy bolted back upright and turned in time to see Marlowe gallivanting down the staircase. Her eyes narrowed, â€œWhat do<span style="font-style: italic">you</span>want?!â€<br/><br/>â€œShut your mouth and 'ave this,â€ he rolled his eyes dramatically back in his skull and slinked over, popping a cigarette between her lips when they reached at arms length. HIS, not hers, they were two very different measurements...<br/><br/>Continuing watching, with the most tolerant glare in her arsenal, she sparked up. Goth guy Nancy wouldn't reply, no, he'd stare them down with all the harrowing blackness in his soul....<br/><br/>...and then they descended into the trademark, unimpressed banter required to be a sibling.<br/><br/>â€œIt ain't all tha' bad...â€ he folded his arms, stepped back and cocked his head in contemplation, â€œyou're trying out for the funeral parlour aren't you? Has anybody ever told you, you're too short to be a pall-bearer?â€<br/><br/>â€œHa. Ha. ha.â€<br/><br/>â€œYeah, I know, I should know better... joke got old ages ago, I killed it,â€<br/><br/>â€œI wish you'd kill yourself with it.â€<br/><br/>â€œOooh, that's not nice Nancy! You're a girl, you're supposed to be sweet and gentle!â€<br/><br/>â€œI'll shove my foot sweet and gentle up your ass in a minute!â€<br/><br/>â€œWhere are you actually trying out for anyway?â€<br/><br/>â€œUm... Market...â€<br/><br/>Marlowe cracked up again, â€œBabe, you could have escaped with jeans and a T-shirt!â€<br/><br/>â€œAnd you can still escape with your life if you crawl back to your man pit now!â€ Her cheeks started to heat up again. Pretty soon ships would be using them as homing beacons.... she felt like saying 'look, I need this job, you have no idea,' but that meant explaining her reasons to him and she didn't owe Marlowe NOTHING. The write off dent in her ego was damage enough.<br/>She breathed smoke out of her nose, chin pointed sharply away from him, arms folded both sulky and a little fragile all at once, â€œGimme an ashtray,â€ she spat, changing the subject.<br/><br/>â€œIn a sec,â€ Marlowe sighed and bunched his shoulders in the middle. For a moment the two shared the space awkwardly in the hallway like two strangers in a bus shelter, â€œYou... err..â€ small talk, small talk, make with the small talk, â€œremember your lines?â€<br/><br/>â€œEh?â€<br/><br/>â€œYour replies!â€<br/><br/>â€œWatchyoo on about, you nutcase?!â€<br/><br/>â€œThey ask you; So why did you come here today, you reply?â€<br/><br/>â€œI was told there'd be free refreshments,â€<br/><br/>â€œWhen they say; what makes you think you'd be suited to working here?â€<br/><br/>â€œBecause I fit just right in the basket you keep the big bags of crisps in. Every halloween I could bury myself in ready salted and jump out at passersby,â€<br/><br/>â€œHeh heh... and when they say; can you function well as a team?â€<br/><br/>â€œWell last Christmas me and the gang went window shopping and it took a whole four of us to winch that old ladies television out her living room one. Teamwork,â€<br/><br/>A grin split across Marlowe's face whilst Nancy remained looking stony and serious.<br/><br/>â€œAdda girl! Now be off with you!â€ he messed her hair up proudly whilst Nancy swatted him away shortly.<br/><br/>â€œGood riddance!â€<br/><br/><br/><br/>------------             --------------------------               -----------------------<br/><br/><br/>Nancy swung through the side entrance gone noon, letting in a slow crawl of heat with her and was greeted by the half-arsed gazes of a handful of other people. The nice lady (they always are) snappily snatched her letter, sick and tired of dealing with young potential usurpers keen on sweeping work hours out from under her feet and gestured nonchalantly towards the waiting area.<br/><br/>It was precisely what day time television promised a reception room would be, it looked akin to walking into a set for a dentist show.<br/>Little rows of plastic green chairs, the occasional padded model conspicuously passing itself off as part of the collection, like the one garden chair dragged to the table at Christmas. There was a rubber cheese plant in the corner with holes in the leaves which, upon closer inspection, looked less like they came from snails and more from a teething toddler. There were piles of uneven dog eared magazines on the glass topped coffee table and peeling coasters from several varying designers in every colour under the rainbow, and then, lord help us all, there were the people.<br/><br/>You know the type.<br/><br/>The avoidant teen, the one you secretly envy, plugged in and blissfully unaware of the surrounding assault on the senses.<br/>Then thereâ€™s the one mother-second child combo, locked in a tearful Mexican stand-off; no I will not pick you up vs. yes you will. Enough bags under her eyes to comfortably house a chain store for the next decade. Never before have you considered parenting, but all of a sudden you know exactly how it should be done and you have a right mind to march over and tell her. You have to take a moment to wonder whether she's going for the interview or just going to complain to the manager.<br/>Last, but certainly not least is the competition. The folk most likely to take the job, well groomed, sat legs pursed neatly together (which suddenly reminded Nancy to avoid her usual boyish slouch) hands on their laps, eyes closed and lips moving softly as they rehearsed their lines. Or had been taken over by daemonic possession without anyone's noticing. It was anyone's guess.<br/><br/>Nancy sighed stiffly and found one of the seats in the far corner of the space, letting myself sink into the deep, womb of her mind, turning over small, meaningless thoughts in her head like pebbles in her hand, skipping them over the shallow surface of her consciousness.<br/>Distraction tactics.<br/><br/>An artificial breeze buzzed in through a grubby white box at the far end of the room. You could hear a whistle in a pitch that ears werenâ€™t designed to pick up as the rattling fan sliced through the thick air and sent it to dully ruffle the hair on heads and flick through the contract clutched tightly between Nancy's fingers.<br/><br/>Only that afternoon those digits had developed a tragic, little tremble all of their own, that she was to be no part of.<br/><br/>She swore under her breath desperately willing herself to cool it....