: : New York City
Her neck was killing her and so was her ass.
But that's what Jennifer Holloway came to expect when she took a red eye from Florida back up to New York. She had been visiting friends in Miami for the weekend. It was a fruitful endeavor and while the heat was welcomed from the New York mist and rain, the humidity was not. Jennifer spent most of her free time down south drinking and catching up with her friends. She was eager to also check out the historic landmarks and iconic buildings. She had carved away enough time to do pretty much everything she had planned to do. It was in her nature to plan things and make precise movements according to logic and necessity. With a one track mind such as hers, one may wonder if she did anything for fun which didn't require pre-planning. Well, she enjoyed a glass of wine and a night out every now and then.
While she wasn't one for spontaneity, Jen did try to make time for outings to Central Park. It was a massive venue and while she lived in the city for years upon years, she had yet to put a footprint on every inch of said expansive park. Her weekly trips to the park were somewhat habitual but due to the nearing winter season, she had to scale back and spend more time at The Plaza Hotel, where it was warm and had monetary value. All the same, the woman had no qualms with buckling down to earn a paycheck. She loved her work. She got to help people around the city find places to go and she also got to help her job with marketing and networking. The Plaza Hotel was so iconic that it didn't need too much help in the marketing department but Jen was making some headway when it came to reinventing certain charms for a new era.
Speaking of reinventing, she had some work she had to do while on her mini holiday and she was ready to get back to work to present her idea and see if her hard work had paid off. Jennifer rubbed her shoulders, trying to chase the soreness away but to no avail. Jen stepped through the back door of the hotel and adjusted her pin that was placed on her chest to let anyone address her as Jennifer. It was a dull Monday morning and a light rain was drizzling outside. She walked over to her concierge desk and found a hot cup of coffee waiting for her. She picked it up and gave it a sniff, it smelled excellent, just the way she liked it, cream and sugar included. "Pete, this from you?" She called out as she doorman, Pete walked into the lobby, closing an umbrella for an old lady who he had escorted inside. He caught her eye and she mouthed a polite thank you to him.
The next hour rolled on without her needing to assist anyone, which meant she could put the finishing touches on her presentation which would take place after work in about ten hours time. Jennifer stuck to her coffee and was on her second cup when someone approached her. "Good morning, sir. How may I be of assistance?" She asked but then she noticed a pale look on his face and he then started to ramble about a woman being shot next door on the street. "Excuse me?" She then picked up the phone to call the police but the man took one look at her face and ended up fainting. "Pete!" Jen called out and the doorman rushed over to help pick the man up. "Hello? 911? I'd like to report a shooting. Yes. Apparently someone's been shot." Then she gave the address and hung up, feeling quite bewildered. You read about shootings but never thought they'd happen on your doorstep. "We need to keep everyone safe inside." She said and headed for the reception desk.
: : London
Another deadline had come and gone.
Another article written with vigor and passion? Not quite. Douglas Ashbury was sort of a bland writer but in his mind, he really wasn't. And when his editor would sigh, press her fingers to her temples and tell him to rewrite, he was honestly blind-sided. Every time. Douglas was a soft spoken fellow who did enjoy writing but it seemed that the numerous facts and figures which he stored in his head, often betrayed his own opinion of excellent writing. Getting past the hardened shell of formal writing was tough but there were one or two creative exciting pieces he created, which perhaps were why he still had a job writing. Douglas was a good person and his editor likely knew this and knew that he could improve. There was nowhere else to go but up right?
It was a wet Monday morning and the man in question had been up all night pouring over some new articles for the paper which would be releasing a new print in a few hours. He knew he had to hurry to work and make sure things were finalized. Sure, he could have just emailed the finished products last night but he felt pretty good about what he had done so he wanted to see Marleen's reaction in person, as she gave him a rightful thumbs up. Bringing his hand out to check the time, he saw the train was running two minutes late, which he couldn't afford at the moment. Douglas looked down the line and saw another man with short brown hair pacing back and forth on the platform. Douglas hung back, not one to just approach strangers, especially those on the train. The other man seemed to be well dressed but very anxious about something.
If Douglas were an outspoken man, he would have inquired about the stranger's well being. But instead, he just watched a safe distance away. The stranger set down a leather briefcase and looked to where the train would be rapidly approaching. He calmly walked to the edge and a faint horn was heard and before Douglas could put one and one together, the stranger jumped in front of the train which had just pulled up and subsequently ran over the bloke. Douglas froze and saw two officers in neon vests run over to stop the train. Being a reporter for a news paper, he found himself now running on autopilot. Douglas ran for the leather brief case and then dashed off to the platform to just grab a cab to head home. He was in such a shock that he simply clutched the case to his chest until he was back in front of his flat.
He paid and went back inside and called into work, saying he'd email his articles but wouldn't come in, saying a suicide jumper had put him off. Once the call ended, he found the numbness fading away. Doug cracked open the suitcase and found the dead man's ID and wallet and some other odd documents. "We look exactly the same..." He muttered and studied the ID and then touched the side of his own face. He suddenly felt sick and began to question his sanity. Had he been overworking himself? He pocketed the ID and rummaged through the papers but nothing made sense so he decided to just go grab a drink. His curiosity was pulling at his motor skills as he found himself pulling out the ID of the dead man. "Devon Peter Evans..." He muttered and then saw an old screenplay in the bottom of the briefcase. Was he an actor, a writer? What? Douglas bit his lip and contemplated his next move.