MISC 2: The Office Party

An eldritch corporate employee, speaking to her boss about recent troubles and potential acquisitions in the cutthroat world of dark urban fantasy.

The wine in her hand, she reflects, really does taste better with a view. Standing on the ledge, hand on the rail, a city draped over the landscape in full splendor, the security of success, and the taste of a beverage older than she is by close to a century; altogether it makes up one of the sweeter flavors she’s had. Maybe the sweetest, though she’s not much for ultimatums like that. Nearly a year, working on this deal, getting the ducks in a proper row (chaining them to their posts on occasion), herding all the right cats, working her way through every metaphor for ridiculously overcomplicated bullshit one can find, all for what she just achieved, all for this moment, and while it may not feel like the biggest moment she’s ever had, the fact that it just might be, in the long run, rings true and sweet, casting dulcet tones over the city.

She takes another sip from the glass, tasting the vintage. The flavor is secondary to the history of the beverage, and the taste reflects that, or at least what they get out of the taste. Hidden in the mixture is the scent of the land it came from, the vines in bloom, the apple trees in the field a few acres over, the taste of the dirt, rich and healthy and vibrant. Beyond that there’s the man who first held it, a proud man, with a large family that loved him, and a vineyard that was blossoming. The regard of his peers, the joy of his success, the taste of the glass and the glassblower who made the bottle, the flames in which it was forged, the work it took until the wine was bubbled into it, and they just keep spiraling, fainter and fainter, the hands who’ve carried it, the collections it has graced with its presence, the sheer desire and respect that encompasses the very presence of the drink as a whole. She can taste it all, though she tries to keep the focus, letting it relax her and flow over her rather than follow every trail. She could, of course; each and every person that has touched the bottle this drink came from left a trail, one that can be followed back to them, to their families, to their homes, to the builders of those homes and to the families of those builders, or their ancestors, or the stone their ancestors touched, or the plants that grew from that stone once it became dirt…

It’s all connected.

She closes those connections, lets them go silent, and turns her focus back inwards. She keeps it there, letting the pleasant emotions hold sway. The sounds of birds in the vineyard, centuries ago, the blossoming of flowers on the apple trees, the pride of a man who was loved, the burning passion and respect held for the bottle; she lets it wash over her, like bubbles on the inside. It’s been a long time since she felt anything like it, and it is… delicious.

The interruption, then, is rather abrupt. For the context of the moment, there’s even a sense of violence, an abrupt violation of peace, that rides along with it. She pushes the feelings aside and turn to their origin, the point that created the sensation, to see a portly man of indeterminate age standing in the doorway to the balcony. There’s an ethereal agelessness to them, like they could be anywhere from their late 30s to late 50s, without ever really seeming like either of them. They wear a striped suit of a hideous purple and beige combination, like the worlds blandest peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, complemented by a tie of an even uglier green, a color somewhat reminiscent of dry moss. Everything about the man, physically, screams “toad-like”, a sort of bloated and rounded body, and a neckless head sitting on slim shoulders, all of it covered in a thin veneer of sweat and stress. He dabs at his head with a handkerchief stained enough to be at home in a fast-food paper bag, rather than an executive’s breast pocket, and gives her a look of reproach. There’s the arrogance of power in that look, something that comes to those with authority and strength, and it rankles her, makes her angry, considering that the squishy little man has neither of those things.

“What do you want, Mokozuchi?” She asks, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. The toad-like Japanese man chuckles to itself, wiping and dabbing sweat and grease away almost constantly. It waddles onto the balcony. Despite the reinforced state of the concrete, she can distinctly feel the 20ft long platform of steel and stone bend under the weight, more and more as it approaches the edge, and when it does there’s a nearly visible dip in the structure of the platform. She keeps her face expressionless, cold and surgical and ever so slightly inhuman, keeping an air of something void of empathy. She can feel the connections when Mokozuchi walks; the way the ground trembles so slightly, the press of the movement, the disgusting human ooze swilling in its shoe and eternally staining its suit, all leading back to moments spaced throughout a long, long time. Too many of those moments end with too many bodily fluids for her taste, and too many of those bodily fluids are attained in bursts of brutality for her to ever relax around it, even without its position. As always, each time she sees it, the thought that she could kill it floats through her mind, especially here, out on the edge, even easier than it would be normally. Just give it a strong pat on the back, or hit the ground beneath it at just the right time, with just the right amount of force…

She sees it smiling at her. It knows what she’s thinking, and again, like every time they’ve done this little introductory bout in their détente (if the toad can really classify for anything so precise), and for some reason it brings it tremendous mirth. “You know me, Doll,” it says, its voice deep yet nasal, calm yet braying and cracking; “I just bring the messages, is all. One of the Big boYs wants you Inside.” It gives a lecherous grin at the last word, like a child jumping between innuendos without ever actually touching anything that constitutes an actual innuendo. Like what it wears and where it walks, Mokozuchi likes to make things dirty just by touching them, and it enjoys doing so as frequently as it can. She has long since learned to ignore them, allowing it to keep its smile to itself and with it the pretense that its smiling out of nervousness. Without looking back, she calmly walks back into the building behind her, leaving her glass on the railing. She pretends not to hear the pause in Mokozuchi’s steps, or the faint crashing of delicate glass against a lower balcony, as she heads in.

The building itself is massive, standing at a towering 90 floors. It is one the buildings one attributes a sense of futurism to; its entirely bound in steel and glass, eschewing even marble or limestone in favor of looking as unique and stylish as it can. Despite that, even with that sense of flow, the lack of rigid angles, there’s still a sense of brutality about the structure; perhaps it’s the top, a structure of white stone reminiscent or a horn or tooth; perhaps it’s the way the inner gardens and pretentious lobbies seem darker than the cubicles, leaving the building with a writhing chain of slight shadow that twists and winds inside of it; perhaps its just the way it presents itself so arrogantly, this new thing of chrome challenging the older buildings of stone and iron that surround it, towering above all but its strongest competitors and reforming the entire skyline along its length. Its often this very same sense of challenge and aggression that draws in most of those working within; unlike some of its aforementioned competitors, there is no internship, no menial task, no minor performance or recommendation one can use to get into the offices of Ziban, Incorporated. The company takes only from those already proven or who have shown their ability to grow exponentially. The lowest level task an employee can undertake might still require tremendous legal or financial work and could decide the fate of more than one harbor town or business. It takes more than just talent to arrive at Ziban Inc; it takes a certain… viciousness. A willingness to abandon whatever place got you your talent or position to work for something hungrier, and far less willing to share.

This “Doll” has eaten her fair share of superiors in her way here, and according to their own words, her boss would have it no other way.

Entering the spire, even when its well-lit at night like this, is always a jarring thing, the sudden rush of misshapen and broken connections and trails that fly past her as she enters it that she’s perpetually unable to pursue. Mingling into the crowd, she passes a dozen individuals who congratulate her on recent successes, most of which are human and a few notable examples of which are very much not. Passing beneath the scales of something large and serpentine and which has a rumbling like a jet engine in exchange for laughter, she turns to the back of the room, where a hallway leads away from the oval ballroom, its stage and low music and muted lights. The hallway is dark, but she doesn’t mind, practice and her own abilities allowing her to walk easily towards the office around the corner, at the end of the wall facing the opposite side of the building and the view it contains. She enters without knocking, knowing she is expected, and breathes deeply through her nose to get used to the scent as quickly as she can.

Standing in a cloud of something red and thick is her boss, their hands covered in the entrails of something best left unstated, its limp forming squirming back through the summoning portal in the floor. Their chest, unveiled and covered in scars both drawn and clawed onto their quasi-flesh, does not rise with exertion, or really do anything much at all; for all their age, hailing from way before robots were a thing, they move almost like an automaton, stiff and cold, like someone ahs told them how but It doesn’t come naturally. They turn back from the summoning circle in the back left corner of their office, accepting a towel from Mokozuchi, a clean one (the toad knows to keep its filth to itself around this one). The brief interlude between one appointment and the next allows her to once again absorb the contents of the office in all its splendor.

Covered in a carpet of velvet so thick it feels like grass, the room is close to twenty feet long horizontally, and at least three times that in a line from door to opposite wall. Every ten feet the office has thick, rowan-wood pillars, each carved with intricate tableaus and figurines detailing, and between all of them are trophy stands, though the left wall, facing directly west, is made entirely of glass, each pane of glass showing a different vista, from shifting desert to roiling dark to bustling metropolis. The rest of the walls are covered in a deeply intricate gold and red wallpaper, framing the bookcases and trophy stands adorning them, each holding massive tomes or skulls of animals that have never graced the lands of mortals and now, never will. Two thirds of the way to the end of the wall the floor is raised, six steps raising up a platform on which a desk made of wood so dark it looks obsidian, on which there is very little miscellanea; a single skull, facing towards the towering chair behind the desk, and a dagger opposite it, with a simple nameplate balanced between them and perched right on the edge. The name on it is illegible to most, but she knows its name quite well. There are other, older names it occasionally still goes by, but on its desk is a relatively simple one: Mikel.

Turning back up the steps and walking up to their desk, the genderless being sits at its throne, turning to notice her at last. It regards her much as one would a particularly interesting insect; halfway between looking enraptured with whatever it’s already doing and pulling legs off for fun. Mokozuchi, despite looking somewhat pleased with itself, forces some degree of restraint, keeping its head bowed and arms carefully folding and clutching the towel their master removed grime from themselves with.

“So, Diane,” Mikel asks, their tone measured and precise, “I hear congratulations are in order. I apologize for not greeting you when you came in. We were finishing some rather successful negotiations, though the damned circle in question tends to get somewhat messier than we prefer. Your own accomplishments in a similar vein are a surprising and… interesting addition to our contracts.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says with a smile. “It took some doing, but ultimately, once you get deep down into it, even the oldest of the Neighbors all follow precise rules. Once you know them, it’s easy to hook-“

“I have dealt with the Neighbors from before they had even that Old name,” Mikel interrupts, their tone never wavering from emotionless and clinical. “It is not their nature that surprises me about what you did. They were not a priority asset, and their acquisition is a welcome addition, but not one vital to our purposes. The fact that you survived is expected, and only expected. It is the nature of the contract you garnered with one of their creatures so against the very concept that surprises.” They stand from their desk, picking up the dagger from the table and bringing it with them as they walk around to descend to lower footing. “You took something who’s very nature is to be wild and untamed, and you rewrote it. You made it bound and untamed, planned and chaotic, wild and domesticated. You wove that into it and through it, and it agreed, because in the end, it didn’t change. You have proven you have a knack for negotiation with things that tend to frown on such terms.”

They stand in front of Diane, dagger in their hand casually pointed in her direction. “The challenge you surpassed was admirable,” it continues, turning the blade to allow it to reflect the light, all black stone and sharp edges; “but, as stated, not vital. You’ve risen up above the common talent of the middle tier; now it’s time to prove you have what it takes to truly be a part of this company’s elite. Not just a cog, but one of its biggest gears. Not just fuel in its engine, but one of the pistons that drives us forward.” They flick the dagger so it spins in their hand, the handle now facing Diane. “I’d choose carefully whether or not you accept this trial. It could change quite a few things for you around here.”

As soon as she’s sure it’s done talking, she takes the blade, willingly, rolling up one sleeve and running it over the skin of her inner forearm. Letting a trickle of blood cover the edge of the blade, she makes sure to coat it thoroughly before handing it back, shutting the cut with a brief act of will. Aware of both Mikel and Mokozuchi’s eyes on her, she keeps her composure, refusing to flinch or show any sign of pain. While the latter is far dirtier than the first, both show a flash of hunger, of appetites that tend towards the… aggressive. Mikel holds the blade close, touching its edge and the blood on it with a finger in a delicate manner.

“Mm. Good.” It turns about, the tension in the room vanishing suddenly as it walks back to its desk. As it sits itself on its chair, a small pile of documents manifests in front of it, no more than three pages of paper rising up out of the black wood like out of a deep and still pool. With a touch, what was once a blade becomes a pen, so seamlessly one might be forgiven for thinking it was never the primitive stone dagger that Diane cut herself with a moment ago, and with a flourish Mikel signs the papers, simple and tight cursive both utilitarian and aesthetically pleasing. Diane feels the contract take hold, her own series of connections narrowing and limiting her metaphorical field of view. The world around her remains the same intricate web of cause and effect it always is, but her own paths, with a flourish of a pen, begin dwindling down to less than a dozen out of millions. As its finished, the papers vanish, sinking once more back down into the wood, and the alabaster figure of Mikel carefully and precisely places the pen back in its proper location, perfectly perpendicular to the desk’s edge.

“You’ll be heading out immediately,” Mikel says in a voice gone from mechanical to authoritative, some slight aspect of personality leaking into it. “Your flight leaves in four hours, and you’ll need to hurry to make it to the airplane. Once you arrive, further details will be provided. You’ll find everything you need and any personal items you would be taking packed and ready for you behind that door, and a vehicle has been provided at your destination. The target has been immobile as of yet, but this is no guarantee, and it is currently unclear what exactly their capacities are.”

Diane cocks her head at that, a note of confusion finally leaking through the professional mask. For Mikel not to know something’s capacities… Mikel is very, very old, and considering what it owns and where they work, a lack of information is either a sign of weakness on their part or a sign of strength on the part of the target. Considering Mikel… it places her assignment in a very different light. Either something so strong it’s never had to use its full strength, or, hopefully more likely, something very new, something unique.

Mikel, for the first time since she’s walked in, gives her a faint smile. “Good. Seems your understanding, at least, fits a minimum criterion. Now, from here to the airport is approximately three hours, so you really should be on your way. And Diane?”

“Yes, sir?”

“It would be best if you took care of this in a quiet manner. I’d hate to have anyone poaching a new contract, and this one… this one smells very interesting indeed.”

She nods, filing that particular phrase for consideration. Later. For now, she bows quickly, gives a hurried “if you’ll excuse me”, and turns on her heel, walking straight back out the way she came. The door opens and closes with no input on her part, swinging open in perfect silence and, despite its speed, closing with nothing but a very faint “click”. True to Mikel’s words (and to her knowledge they’ve never spoken anything but the truth) there’s two suitcases on the wall opposite her, before the hallway begins curving around in the semi-circle that led her here. She’s not overly surprised to find that they’re both her own suitcases, left in the back of a closet in her very well warded, very well-hidden home, and she’s not overly surprised to find her passport on top of them either, despite the fact that it’s not located anywhere near her apartment. Instead of dwelling, she follows her instincts, taking what’s given and moving on. The walk past the party is a series of excuses, brief thank-you’s, and some clumsy juggling as she tries to hurry past a over a hundred people, many of whom have variable numbers of limbs. Luckily, most of them move aside and let her through when they see the luggage, many coworkers and rivals giving her looks of pity or understanding, and many outsiders she knows and have never heard of give her similar treatments. The fact that this isn’t something new, that others have gone through similar trials impromptu, steadies her, quite a bit in fact. It’s one thing to overcome something wholly new; she’s done it before and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t do it again, as many times as she must, but this? Something that’s common enough for it to be common knowledge? A trial that has had people try it before, who have achieved and failed?

Well that’s just a matter of doing better than the others. And Diane “Doll” Sinclair has never been anything but the best.

And yet, the dregs keep trying to climb their way back to the top. She sees him watching her go by, leaving behind his conversation with a younger… creature that’s bound to his every word up until and beyond the point that he leaves her behind, in a cloud of social niceties that preclude anything more. He moves through the crowd like a shark through water, always moving, always ready to take a bite out of something, almost the opposite of her in her rush to get where she needs to go. Despite seeing him despite doing her best to cut through the crowd away from him, it doesn’t take more than a moment for him to catch up.

“I see you’ve got some work ahead of you, huh, sweetheart?” he asks, smiling that shitty smile of his. Wearing a crisp suit, blue and grey and a tie black enough to be startling, all highlighting the lean, healthy frame underneath everything. With hair slicked back and teeth shining bright and white (all three rows of them, pale against dark skin), he exudes confidence in that sneaky, sleazy way that says he wants something out of you even when he ‘s offering you something first. “Ah, those were the days. It might be a first for you, but I promise, after the first time it gets easier,” he says, winking as he does so.

“I’m sure it’s no big challenge, Darren,” she replies. “I mean if you made it through, how hard can it be?”

“Oh, so true! If mine own talents allowed me to glide through, I’m sure you’ll be soaring high!” he continues as he doggedly follows her to the elevators, his height letting him walk much slower and yet arrive much faster. “And you have been soaring, honey. I mean look at you go! One of the fastest rides up we’ve seen in a while.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, you’ve been here only a few months more than me and look at you! Doing great yourself.”

“Oh, I am,” he replies, casually pressing the button for her. “I mean, I’m not the big guy’s favorite or anything, but goodness me it’s fun up here at the top, isn’t it?”

“I just want you to know, though,” he says, voice growing quiet; “that the view from up here? It’s only nice from far away, you know? You look close, you let the ground close in too fast, and whoo! Gets hard to look at. I kind of like it, though. Reminds you just how far I’ve come… and how far someone could fall. I’m sure you relate, right?”

She keeps her gaze steady, a few inches below him in height but doing everything in her power to look down her nose at him. “I feel the same way sometimes!” she says, letting her smile out of its sheath. “Don’t worry though. I’m sure we’re going to be here doing just fine for a good long while. But hey, careful not to slip!” she says, with a little laugh that doesn’t reach anywhere near her eyes.

The elevator dings, its doors opening. He moves out of the way, leaning back against the wall next to it. As she steps into it, right before the doors close, she hears a laugh behind her. She looks, turning over her shoulder, and sees him, just as the last fragment of space between the doors disappears, and she sees him. He’s not hiding himself. His skin is different, gone. His real self is there.

And its smiling.