[Eventually something can be heard in the hall, the sort of footsteps outside that are quick-paced and brisk but not urgent, the sort of thing indicating someone with a naturally fast gait that's been given something to do with themselves. There's a voice accompanying it as well, soft and equally quick-paced, but not conversational - or at least, not the sort of conversational that implies that any directional flow is anything but one-sided. Mutterings done to oneself, keeping the mind occupied and on-task, keeping whatever fucked up ducks need to be in a row here in a solid row, and it's all a bit too scattered to be all that foreboding, all things considered.
It doesn't seem like one of your superiors, though; it's not anything recognizable, it's not anything too familiar outside of the setup, and in the end, the man who walks through the door likely isn't familiar either.
He's put-together, perhaps a bit moreso than one would assume from his audible demeanor in the hallway; he seems fairly young, mid-thirties at oldest, with dirty blond hair and a look about him that's a bit tired in nature. He doesn't lack energy for being here, per se, but he seems a bit overworked; the sort of guy that wouldn't take a sick day if his life literally depended on it because he's needed here, for as long as they require him. Otherwise, though, he's just a guy, almost weirdly nondescript - the sort of person that probably lives in the suburbs with his wife and his dog and his 2.5 kids, maybe he has a membership with a tennis club that he never uses. You know the sort.
That said, he's got a clipboard with notes tacked to them on him, and he's glancing those over when he enters, well before he spares a look at James; he seems easy, though, actually setting the clipboard down before he'll address him, because for once someone is not Officially Less Important Than His Notes.]
Well. Good to see you're still in one piece, and so is my table.
[It's conversational, if a bit awkwardly so. Not malicious from the sound of it.]
no subject
It doesn't seem like one of your superiors, though; it's not anything recognizable, it's not anything too familiar outside of the setup, and in the end, the man who walks through the door likely isn't familiar either.
He's put-together, perhaps a bit moreso than one would assume from his audible demeanor in the hallway; he seems fairly young, mid-thirties at oldest, with dirty blond hair and a look about him that's a bit tired in nature. He doesn't lack energy for being here, per se, but he seems a bit overworked; the sort of guy that wouldn't take a sick day if his life literally depended on it because he's needed here, for as long as they require him. Otherwise, though, he's just a guy, almost weirdly nondescript - the sort of person that probably lives in the suburbs with his wife and his dog and his 2.5 kids, maybe he has a membership with a tennis club that he never uses. You know the sort.
That said, he's got a clipboard with notes tacked to them on him, and he's glancing those over when he enters, well before he spares a look at James; he seems easy, though, actually setting the clipboard down before he'll address him, because for once someone is not Officially Less Important Than His Notes.]
Well. Good to see you're still in one piece, and so is my table.
[It's conversational, if a bit awkwardly so. Not malicious from the sound of it.]