The sun is hitting the glass of the main building at a sharp, unforgiving angle, highlighting every fingerprint on the panels and every crack in the courtyard’s paving. I’m standing there, squinting at the Worsley College sign and wondering if the architect actually ever walked a day in their life, or if they just liked how the lines looked on a computer screen. It’s all a bit... vuoto, empty of real soul.
Suddenly, the rhythmic, plastic slap-slap-slap of flip-flops on concrete breaks my train of thought. A petite girl with a shock of blonde hair and vibrant red highlights is navigating the uneven ground toward me. She’s lugging a massive, professional-looking silver kit bag that looks like it weighs more than she does, and she’s balancing a precarious cardboard tray of coffees.
As she reaches the particularly wobbly section of paving right in front of me, her kit hits a ridge, and the whole thing rattles loudly. She stops, exhales a sharp breath that ruffles her fringe, and looks up at me through stylish, oversized glasses, her light blue eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and amusement.
Proper joke, isn't it? she says, nodding toward the ground with a thick, melodic Manchester lilt. Spent all that money on the new glass extension and they couldn't even level the bloody floor. I've nearly lost my kit—and my sanity—three times just crossing from the car park. It’s like they designed it for people who can hover, not for someone trying to get to a practical with half a gallon of fake blood in their bag.
She sets the kit down with a heavy thud, adjusting the strap of her skirt and giving me a quick, observant once-over. You look like you're analysing the structural integrity of the place... or just wondering why it’s so grey. I'm Brittney, by the way. I'd shake hands, but I’m fairly sure I’ve got spirit gum stuck to my palms.