𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻 (Vox x reader)

19

"Good morning, I'm Katie Killjoy!"

"And I'm To-"

"Breaking news-"

Today's 666 news broadcast fills my office at VoxTech, but every word goes in one ear and out the other. Occasionally, my eyes will flicker to the TV screen but grant nothing more than a glance. My brows knit together as I sketch a layout for a new set Vox asked for; it's been some time since I've last designed one. The fan on my desk provides a cool breeze to my face, threatening to blow away any sweat that tempts me to prick my hairline and providing me with a peaceful state of mind. Despite my intense effort to concentrate, saying I'm not exhausted would be a straight-up lie. After all, I'm running on no more than five hours of sleep. While I may be sleep deprived, not only have I pushed through it many times before, but falling asleep on the job is not exactly something I want to have happen two days in a row.

"-extermination in just a few days. Say your prayers, but God sure as hell won't be answering those!"

The short broadcast ends abruptly, switching to some game show. I grab my remote and switch off the TV— the black screen capturing my shaken expression. In just a few more days, the sky will be raining blood. An unnerving feeling arises in my gut, even though I have been carefully anticipating the day. From what I've heard, this upcoming extermination may be the worst and most dangerous yet because of heaven's plan to wipe out nearly the entirety of hell's population. I shake my head back into reality, refocusing my brain on my unfinished design. Holding up the sketch, I harshly judge what I have done so far. My tongue clicks in disapproval, and I resist the urge to crumple the piece of paper into a tight, compacted ball. Instead, I place it into the slot of a paper shredder by my desk. Just as my finger reaches for the button, I notice that the shredder is full already. Maybe I should've emptied it 11 or 12 scrapped ideas ago. 

I pop out the bin of shredded paper, noticing how it's filled to the brim, and push my chair back toward the trash can. Upon flipping the bin, the fan's somehow strong gusts of air blow the shreds directly into my face. I let out a dry huff of disbelief before setting the empty bin on the floor to brush off the tiny pieces of paper that ended up on my clothes, hair, and, surprisingly, in my mouth. Already, my day is off to a shitty start. As if holding a grudge against the shredder, I decide to toss my unwanted sketch into the trash can. If only I had done that, to begin with. 

To add to my problems, I realize there are no more sheets of paper on my desk. I open every drawer and shuffle around the random contents, convincing myself there must be paper somewhere. Alas, not a single piece remains.

Begrudgingly, I push myself out of my chair and leave my office in search of more paper. The copy room must have some. I walk through the busy halls, doing my best to avoid bumping into any of my seemingly frustrated coworkers. I've noticed how different the environment is here as opposed to Velvette's. Everyone appears to be stressed out of their minds and in a constant rush to get things done.

I eventually reach the copy room, turning the doorknob and pushing the door open. A faint scent of ink laces my nostrils, which I surprisingly find myself enjoying. I scan the small room, and it doesn't take long for me to spot a few stacks of paper sitting along the tall shelves. After walking over, I reach for a stack, yet my fingertips fall just short of reaching the inconveniently-placed paper. My heels lift off the floor, allowing me to grasp it with both hands. I lower myself down again and hold the semi-heavy stack of paper securely. I highly doubt I will need more than this to produce one decent set design. It's unusual for such a small task to take so long, especially since creativity has always been my strong suit, and quick brainstorming normally comes easy for me. I haven't been able to fully lock in since I came into work this morning. Other unrelated thoughts prevent me from doing so.