Fast forward (after training)

“You look tired, Vic.” says Mr. Andersen, your boss. Broad-shouldered and strong, nature had obviously intended Darrel Andersen to be a hulking juggernaut of a man, but his body had never gotten the hint, stopping its vertical ascent at four-foot-six. Except for a forelock at the front and some stubborn growth at the back, the man was bald, though he had once had a full head of ebony hair. Character lines from his fifty years as a reporter and, later, an executive, had built themselves around the taut scar-line he’d received in a knife fight in his youth, just barely missing his right eye. The scar bespoke a hard childhood for the man. He was so unlike the many employees around him who knew not the meaning of hard work. He had earned his place in command, had made himself irreplaceable, and thus, had secured himself in his position as managing chief, known as the Archangel of ****, because he was the lowest-ranking executive, and often was the one to oversee the enactment of decrees “from above.” “How long’s it been since you had a vacation?”