Daria: Hunter - The Love Triangle

"Misery no longer loves company.  Nowadays it insists on it."

-Russell Baker

Monday, August 24

2172 AD

"Yes, Daria," Quinn said into her commlink, "I swear I read it!  I know you still think of me as an illiterate bubblehead, but come on.  I write for a living now . . .  There's no need to get all snippy, Daria.  I'll have you know that some of the articles I write are very long."

She sighed.  "Well, I'm sorry, but I just don't get a lot of it.  I mean, does she really have to fight the cyborgs topless?  I've got some cute little sports bra designs on file that you could- . . . yes, I know the reader can't see them, but you could still describe them instead of going into all that detail about her areolas.  People could get the wrong idea from that, anyway.

"Well, that's the thing, you're just going to make the whole thing worse," she said, getting exasperated.  "I know and you know that you and Jane aren't like that, but-"

"Quiiiiiiiiiiiiinn?"

"Hold up, Daria, I've gotta go.  Tell mom and dad hi for me when you call to bug them about it!"  Quinn shook her head.  "Well how was I supposed to know you already called them?  Good-bye, Daria!"  She signed out of the call, unclipped the comm from her ear, and put it in her purse.  "Sorry about that, Tiffany."

The blank-eyed stare from behind the secretary's desk didn't seem to register the apology, or that there was even anything to apologize for.  "Ms. Griffin is ready to see you now," Tiffany droned in her monotone voice.

"Thanks!" Quinn said brightly.  She took a second to straighten out imaginary wrinkles in her business dress, then stepped into the opulent office behind Tiffany.

Sandi Griffin, the youngest and - by her own account, at least - prettiest editor-in-chief to ever work at Steel Fashions magazine was seated in a massive room and at an almost equally massive desk, behind which Quinn could just make out the very top of a dress that was the very epitome of high fashion and almost certainly haute couture.  Stacy Rowe stood just shy of a meter behind and to the right of Sandi, wearing a highly practical yet still fashionable women's business suit.  Both women's hair was impeccably styled, Sandi's with high volume and a great deal of pizazz and Stacy's in a series of complex braids running down to just below shoulder level.

Fashion assessment finished, Quinn walked up to the desk and waited to be directed to a seat . . . direction that she did not receive.

"Hello, Quinn," said Sandi.  "I'm glad you could finally join us."

Each word was fired off almost like a physical attack, but Quinn was unfazed.  Over the many years they had known each other, she had come to the conclusion Sandi always talked like that.  And that most of the time, it actually was meant to be like an attack.  Quinn had long ago simply decided not to take it personally.

"Hi, Sandi," Quinn returned with a smile.  "Yeah, sorry about not showing up at the meeting earlier, but I had a total fashion emergency, like Defcon 27!  See, my nails hadn't quite-"

"Yes, well, your personal problems aside, Quinn, I have a job for you."

Stacy placed a digipad on the desk and slid it neatly across to Quinn, who picked it up and started scanning the text on the screen.

"Despite your absence at the general meeting, it was decided that you should be the one to cover the Cashman Fashion Expo tomorrow afternoon at the Lawndale Central Plaza."  Sandi leaned forward delicately so as not to rumple her dress and frowned delicately so as not to risk damage to her immaculate makeup job.  "I don't have to remind you that this expo is going to be our featured story in Steel's next issue, and so a great deal of responsibility will be riding squarely on your narrow little shoulders, Quinn.  Make sure that you don't screw it up."