Employment

I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. It was settled. I would go to the antique store above the coffee shop, and probably get myself violently butchered in the process. The last weekend had been physically and emotionally taxing in ways I hadn't experienced in years. I reached under my shirt and rubbed the spiral on my chest, remembering that there had been worse times in the past, and that the greatest terrors were already behind me.

It was 6:30 AM now, and I started to get dressed for work. As important as murder was to me, it didn't pay the bills, and I still had a day job to attend to. I didn't mind though, I liked what I did, and I had never dreaded going to work. Unlike Garfield, I could tolerate Mondays. At work, we generally all wore a company polo, and a pair of jeans or khakis.

I had a few pairs of pants and about a dozen company polos, and this combination made up the vast majority of my outfits. As I pulled on my shirt, I noticed it felt a little tight around my chest and shoulders. I probably wasn't supposed to just throw the shirts into the dryer on the fastest, and hottest setting, but I was a simple man and hated apparel labels.

I made a half-hearted attempt at combing the messy shock of black hair on top of my head, but I didn't try too hard. Like the Book, my hair didn't like listening to me. My commute was short, maybe a mile and a half, so I usually just walked. I didn't own a car, and I was extremely awkward on a bike, so I just trusted my legs to get me where I needed to go.

The building was beautiful; a state of the art pharmaceutical plant forged from glass and stainless steel. All of the equipment was new, clean, and incredibly well kept. Even so, it was still an industrial facility, and if I was going to go to the plant floor I would need my goggles, helmet, and lab coat. Today was a design day though, so I went in through the office entrance in the back instead.

The office was small, but up to the same standards as the rest of the facility. The room was divided into a series of long cubicles, with tall walls made of smooth white plastic. The desks were thick and metallic with an enamel layer for comfort, and were topped with relatively modern desktop computers.

Mine was near the front of the room, so getting it was only a small walk to reach it. I sat down logged into my computer, and began to organize my papers for the day. We were working on producing a drug for some outside organization. This was odd, as our facility was owned by a large company, and we usually just made our own company's products.

I was one on of the many design teams for the project, and we spent most of our time trying to find or design equipment that could carry certain processes. The security around the project was immense; we were not allowed to know what the finished end product was, or any of the intermediates that went into it.

We didn't even know who we were working for. We would be told something along the lines of, "We need a vessel that can heat one hundred kilograms of this mass an hour." They wouldn't tell us what the mass was, but would give us some of its material properties so that we could do our job properly.

It was unnerving for everyone involved. Not knowing what it is you're working with can leave you open to some very nasty surprises. Our supervisors looked over the designs and plans we made, and assured us that they would inform us of any potential safety hazards. Still, most of us, myself included, would have rather taken that into their own hands, rather than trust someone else.

Professionally however, the new project had been a boon for me. My newfound charisma and quick wit had gotten me noticed by management, and many of the ideas currently being implemented were my own. For once, I was in the limelight, and I was slowly learning to like it. My train of thought was abruptly derailed by the feeling of a strong hand on my back.

"Hey Bryce! We all thought you died Saturday. You didn't get back to me for two whole days." Riley stood behind me, looking halfway between concerned and annoyed. I realized that I had forgotten to text him back this morning as I had planned, and that I had basically ignored him for almost two days.

"Hey Riley, I'm really sorry about all that. I was just so hungover Sunday, and then I had some personal issues come up. I'm really sorry if you were worrying about me." He let out an exhausted laugh and waved away my apology. "That's alright buddy. It happens. I heard you were at a certain someone's apartment that night though, how did that happen?"

"I went home, but I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk to tire myself out a little." He nodded. "Sounds like your little detour was pretty lucky then, wasn't it?" I didn't do anything with Monica, and I didn't want to claim otherwise. But the truth was just too weird to explain, even if you omit all the attempted murder.

I gave what I hoped was a shrug of neutrality. "Life is full of surprises, isn't it?" "You can say that again buddy. Anyway, I had some questions about the drawing you sent via email yesterday." The conversation quickly turned to business, and we discussed some work I had sent him on Friday, and he gave me some much needed feedback.

I wasn't lying to Monica when I claimed that he was a man of action. He provided a kind of positive pressure that encouraged me to get things done, and I would have been far less productive without him. Some of my professional success was due to the Book, and the intellectual boost I believed it gave me. But ending up on the same team as Riley was a big part of it too; he brought out the best in me as an engineer.

The working hours of the day blew by without much incident. Other than my conversation and collaboration with Riley, the majority of my time was spent in my cubicle, doing computer calculations and using digital design software. As much as I dreaded going to Monica's club, I was ready to break free from my sphere of isolation.

I threw my satchel over my shoulder and began another walk through the city. I had never been much of an urban explorer, but New Carthage was a small city and well segmented into distinct districts. The place in question was located on the edge of the commercial area, near some of the apartments and residences. It was very close to where I lived, which meant my escape, if such a thing was necessary,l would not be too difficult.

I did not immediately go upstairs. Instead, I went into the cafe and ordered myself a coffee. I pulled out my laptop and sat down in the corner of the room, my front facing the shop window. From here I would be able to see the people going up the stairs to the second floor, and get a bit of a feel for who I was dealing with.

I sat for about a half hour, but I didn't see a single person go in. I checked my watch; there was only five minutes until the social, and I hadn't seen a single person go up to the antique shop. The Book gave a slow thump of anticipation, mirroring my emotion and my anxiety. I saw Monica walking towards the shop from the street, but instead of going upstairs, she made a bee line to the cafe.

I tried to shrink back behind my computer, but she had noticed me long before I had noticed her. She walked up to my table and looked down at me disappointed. "You know it's on the second floor, right?" "I wanted to make sure this was the right place, so I was watching to see if anyone went upstairs."

"Likely story. You were trying to snoop on the people going in, and your spying skills are absolute dogshit. Besides, members don't use the front entrance." I grit my teeth, annoyed. "Alright, I guess, it's time then. Show me the way." She gave me a predatory and unsettling grin. "With pleasure."