WildBoots
Don’t underestimate seeds.
Summary: They say that if you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life. Well, that’s absolute stunky spray.
Rating: PG (minor cursing)
Word count: 3,194
If you're feeling generous, throw me a review on FFN or AO3!
You can find the details for the contest here and the other entries here. Thank you to all the judges for your hard work, and congrats to all the entrants for getting the thing done! And thank you for taking the time to read. :)
Work Ethics
Monday morning begins, as it so often does, with technical difficulties: the cable car is stuck at the top of the hill again. I swear it breaks down every other day, but of course the city can't be bothered to fix it.
A grinning hiker stands at the bottom of the cliff with a painted cardboard sign. Onix rides only $5! Tips welcome. Sometimes I have to wonder. For a trainer down on his luck, I imagine a little light sabotage is an easier way to earn a buck than an honest battle.
But there are only two other options. One, slog up the stairs on foot and risk dirtying my uniform. Or two, wait for the cable car, which could take anywhere between ten minutes and the rest of the day, and risk clocking in late. Neither one is an option at all.
So the onix jostles me to the top, spilling most of my coffee along the way. Since the ride costs almost as much as a second coffee would, I skip the tip, even though the onix stares after me with reproachful eyes. There's nothing on this hill but an office park; there are plenty of other white collar workers stranded below and ready to shell out.
The office kitchen has a coffee bar, technically, but corporate's too cheap for anything but instant, and I know for a fact there's no creamer left because Alexa stole it for her glameow like no one would notice. And, free or not, I'd rather drink mud from the Great Marsh than the weird, promotional energy drinks that fill an entire shelf in the fridge. So I slide into my desk chair under-caffeinated but on-time.
"Cable car again?"
In the neighboring cubicle, Jake's easy smile contradicts his windblown hair. Except for rainy days, he rides his golbat in, holding its ankles like the cords of a parachute. I should really find the time to evolve Flick; these days, he mostly hangs from the underside of my desk and naps.
"Like broken clockwork," I answer, which earns a chuckle.
I could complain more—there's always something—but as I begin the ritual of booting up Salesforce and my usual tabs, I start to feel better. I draft a to-do list, each bullet point like a pokeball on the belt, containing both possibility and certainty. I can't make the mayor of Veilstone listen to my voicemails about the cable car, but I can turn each email in my inbox into a set of simple tasks to be finished in order.
After all, it's for the children.
Now let me be clear: I'm happy to leave the face-to-face feel-good stuff to the direct service team. I do my best work in double-spaced Arial size twelve.
But of course I care. Of course it warms my heart to imagine little Jimmy cupping his hands to receive a shiny new pokeball. Those small things aren't guaranteed in this life, even if they should be. Not everyone is lucky enough to be endorsed by Rowan himself.
My therapist and I have talked about it more than once: who might I have become had Flick entered my life in grade school instead of my late twenties? Impossible to know. But now I do what I can for the kids like me. I might not be the one planting a kiss on each sticky little head, but I make sure there's money for pokeballs and potions.
Or something like that. The direct service team isn't known for writing their reports on time, or well. But that's why they have me to fill in the blanks with all the juicy details donors adore. After all, not everyone is blessed with an organized mind.
Though they do have to give me something to work with.
Just a friendly reminder, I begin to type, though this is actually the fourth or fifth reminder, the grant application is due this Friday! To secure continued funding for our valued programs, please send me your completed report by Wednesday! Trim a few exclamation points here, boldface a keyword there, and then it's perfect.
Of course, it's only a formality—the direct service folks almost never check their emails like they're supposed to. But I have other ways.
I click send with one hand while the other reaches for the middle left desk drawer, where I keep packets of department store cookies and chocolates. The commander is partial to the ones with kebia filling.
As I print off a copy of the email, I knock on the side of the desk. "Wake up, Flick. Time for work." While he crawls blinking into the fluorescent light and stretches his wings, I tuck the printout into an envelope and secure it to the sweets box with rubber bands. "This goes to the Eterna office. Don't leave until this is in the commander's hands, alright?"
He yawns, unfurling a gray tongue, but dutifully clambers onto the box and sinks in his claws. With that, he's flapping toward the open window.
"Treats when you get back!" I call after him.
Not for the first time, I have to wonder where I'd be if the company had issued me a different pokemon. I suppose a croagunk could at least seal envelopes, but what help would a stunky be? Which just goes to show: even the best of us are only as good as the rest of the team.
That's the moment that Alexa's laugh kicks through the cubicle partition. "No! What? No, he did not!"
With a glance at my watch, I decide it's not too early to set my out-of-office message and stand up from my desk. After all, there's still the cable car to contend with, and it would be rude to keep a donor waiting.
—
Kimberly, manager of the Backlot estate, nods as I talk but writes nothing. Last time she laughed at all my jokes, and this time she can hardly meet my eyes. Something's gone off track.
The most important thing is not to panic.
I sit back in my chair and dial up the brightness of my smile. "I could say more about our programming goals for the year, but I imagine you have questions."
"Well, yes." Her expression wavers between polite and pained. "There have been troubling rumors …."
And suddenly I know what this is about, the realization dropping into my stomach like a bucket of ice.
"The Unveiled article."
"For one, yes," she agrees.
The entire article is bad, but the photo is the worst of it. Some guy—a kid, really—holds up a magikarp by the tail. It hangs straight down, lifeless. Despite the additional magikarp bodies piled behind him, dozens left sucking mud instead of water, there's a huge, stupid grin on his face.
I can't understand any part of it. What could have brought him to the Lake Valor disaster site in the first place? What made him think that was the moment to take a photo? And above all, why, why, would he do something like that in full Galactic uniform without pausing to think how it would reflect on our work?
And now it falls to me to fix it.
"I can assure you that those involved no longer work for the Galactic Corporation. We do not tolerate that kind of behavior."
"I hope not," Kimberly says crisply. "But I'm sure you're aware there have also been complaints from Professor Rowan's office."
Closing my eyes, I take in one slow breath. Do not panic.
I repeat the official line: "That's a simple misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding," she echoes, eyebrows raised.
In the clip that's been circulating, Rowan did call our researchers unscientific and unashamed, his mustache bristling like the back end of a stunky, but there's nothing to be gained from stooping to name calling just because he did it first. Instead, I chuckle, "Well, no one can say he isn't passionate, if … old-fashioned."
At that, Kimberly's stare softens. It's not hard to see how experienced can slide into eccentric, an old man muttering into his soup. He needs no help from us to bluster his way into early retirement.
Smile turning wistful, I continue, "We may have some differences of opinion, but of course we respect the professor's work. We remain open to partnering with his lab again in the future."
For a few moments, she falls quiet save for the clicking of her pen. I let her sit with what I've said, giving her space to see how we've behaved with dignity and rationality in the face of such obstacles. Just when I'm about steer her back toward Galactic's noble work, she pipes up, "Would you agree there's a cult of personality around Cyrus Schopenhaur?"
I almost choke in surprise.
Off the clock, when I drop into my therapist's chair and then later a booth across from a friend and a pitcher of bottomless margaritas, I have plenty to say about Cyrus. He's not a tyrant, not like my first manager at the poffin shop where I toiled through undergrad, but I couldn't tell you what he actually does all day. Certainly, he's not doing anything to stop junior associates from mouthing off to Rowan's aides or stumbling into a fish graveyard for a photo op.
I wish I could tell Kimberly that I stay at Galactic not because I'm so charmed by the leadership but despite it.
"I'm certainly fortunate for the opportunity to work alongside some smart, dedicated people," I begin, letting her make what she will of the half-truth. "But you can find simple ambition in the rosters of any marketing firm or bank or wherever. What makes us different at Galactic is what we apply ourselves towards."
Think of little Jimmy, I want to tell her. Who else will provide for someone like him? Who else could give him a ghost of a chance in the pay-to-play world of the Pokemon League?
I lean across the table, hands clasped as if in prayer, gaze locked on hers. "They say aim for the stars, but they simply aren't within reach for everyone. At Galactic, we bring them closer so that everyone, no matter where they come from, has a chance to shine. And that's what we're asking you to do with us, Kimberly. The rest doesn't matter."
She twitches her mouth into a smile that doesn't meet her eyes, and I know this is what the spilled coffee has cost me. What it will cost little Jimmy and every kid like him.
Backlot is backing out.
—
As the elevator rises, I tick through my mental dossier. Who could be nudged to dig deeper into their pockets? Who might have a philanthropic friend tucked away? Would the Stone family be too much of a reach?
Moments before I arrive at my floor, my thoughts are cut short by thumping and shouting. The doors ding open to reveal several overturned desks and chairs, papers scattered. It looks like a snowstorm swept through the office. A break-in, comes my first thought, but a familiar voice draws me into the center of the room, past coworkers peeking around partitions for a better look.
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
I spot the golbat first. With a clap of its wings, it sends someone's stunky tumbling head over heels across the carpet tiles, another gust of papers trailing after. Behind the bat, Jake stands red-faced and ranting. I can only make out half of what he's saying over the rustling of papers and the shouts of coworkers.
His opponent, the lanky guy from accounting, answers, "Why can't you just let it go? Stunky, get back in there!"
With a growl, the stunky kicks itself free from a phone cord and launches itself at the golbat again.
I scream at the top of my lungs, "What's going on in here?!" But no one can hear me over all of the noise, or no one cares. Snarling curses, I reach for a pokeball instead.
The golbat swoops, and the stunky leaps from the top of a desk to meet it—
Until both stop midair, spinning in my bronzor's grasp, and the room finally quiets.
"Everyone, back to your desks. Right now."
The two pokemon thud to the floor, looking embarrassed as they each climb to their feet.
As the onlookers scatter, whispering and giggling like children, I whirl on what's-his-name from accounting. "Go take a walk or something. And you—" I jab a finger at Jake. "You're coming with me." As he fumbles to recall his golbat, I march him into the kitchen, Bronzor bobbing along behind us.
When I've got him backed against the fridge, I snarl, "What the hell was that?"
"It wasn't my fault—"
"I'm sorry—it wasn't your fault that you, a full-ass adult, decided to go for your belt and throw down in the middle of the office?"
Jake folds his arms and mutters something to the floor.
"What was that?"
"I said he doesn't care about human progress!"
I can only blink. "I … what?"
Jake continues in a rush, "I said we should explore new technologies to improve quality of life. Like, just look at Snowpoint. People are practically living in igloos when they don't need to. And he said there's no point because we already struggle to equitably distribute the technologies we have. So what are we supposed to do, wait until humans learn to get along before we try to make things better? Don't you think that's crazy?"
We have departed the rational realm.
"Jake," I plead, leaning against the counter for support, "you're supposed to do your job."
"I am, I just—"
Does he not understand that people are going to be laid off?
I get in his face and hiss, "This morning we lost our top donor, and they won't be the last. We're on track for a nosedive in the third quarter if you can't get it together and help. Buy some ads. Write a slogan. Literally anything!"
When Jake only flaps his mouth open and shut, I bark, "Think of the children!"
"It won't happen again," he mumbles at last.
With a sigh, I say, "You know I have to report this, right?"
He hangs his head.
"Just go home. Cool off. I'll see you tomorrow."
Without waiting to see if he'll do as I say, I turn on my heel—and nearly run smack into my bronzor. "Thanks for the help," I mumble, recalling it.
Past colleagues and their pokemon struggling to right their desks, I make my way to the elevator, then down the hall toward the manager's office.
Inside, I find Charon with his feet propped on a stack of books; most of the desk is covered with them, like a fortress against anyone who would intrude. He peers over the volume of Nietzsche in his hands and grates out, "Yes?"
"Good afternoon, sir. I'm here to discuss an incident in the development department. There was an altercation between—"
"Is there an incident report?" he growls.
I cough. "Pardon?"
"Have you typed up an incident report?"
This can only end one way. Nevertheless, after a frozen moment, I try, "Not yet, sir, but—"
"Well," Charon scoffs, "I don't know what you expect me to do without an incident report." He flicks one dismissive hand and hunches over his book again. "Go write it then."
I manage a stiff, "Yes, sir."
Before I manage to shut the door behind me, I hear a grumbled, "Kids these days. No respect for procedure."
As I stalk back to my floor, the phrase Kimberly used rattles around my brain: cult of personality. More like cult of incapacity.
By the time I return to my desk, which is more or less back where it's supposed to be, I decide not to care. I bang out the incident report and wipe it from my mind. If Charon wants to let everyone in his hierarchy run wild, that's his problem. They don't pay me enough to straighten every crooked corner in this place.
But I can follow my own advice: I slip on my noise-canceling headphones and do my damn job.
I rewrite our pledge-seeking email templates. I cold call philanthropists from Sunyshore to Floaroma. I take out a pack of wafer cookies layered with aguav berry cream, demolishing a full sleeve by myself and splitting another with Flick when he returns from his delivery. And when the sounds of another pokemon battle start up, rumbling through the floor, I crank my music louder. As long as my desk remains intact, I've got work to do.
At quarter to five when I finally cast off my headphones and stretch, silence rings in the room. Not even the hum of the printer or the squeak of a zubat. With a sigh, I get up for a quick look.
Beyond the partition of my cubicle, the office has been obliterated. Someone flung a swivel chair straight through the ceiling. Plasterboard crumbles from the hole. The water cooler lies on its side, the surrounding carpet dark with damp. Scorch marks bloom across the carpet and arc up the wall. It's impressive, actually.
There isn't a soul in sight, human or pokemon. Did everyone seriously cut out early without even bothering to clean up?
Sometimes I think I'm the only one around here who does any real work.
I must make a sound of displeasure, because something stirs from behind the twisted wreckage of a desk. "Is s-someone there?" It's Dave from graphic design.
"What are you doing down there?" I call.
He whispers, "Did you see the kid?"
"Kid? What kid?"
If there's a bring-your-child-to-work event today, it's news to me. What a terrible day for it.
As I draw closer, I realize Dave's eyes are out of focus, pupils too large. This has workers' comp written all over it.
Still whispering, he says, "Sh-she has my keycard." Sure enough, his lanyard dangles from his neck in two pieces, like a graduation stole, and his ID badge is nowhere in sight.
"Who has it?" When he doesn't answer, I groan, "Dave, don't tell me you let some little kid have your security badge."
"She has it," he repeats.
Something heavy thumps above our heads, and Dave tips his head back to watch more plaster rain down. He rocks in place, teeth chattering.
This is far, far above my pay grade.
"Oh Dave," I sigh. Careless handling of a security badge could still be grounds for his termination, but if he makes a medical claim it could help. "You'd better call the union first thing tomorrow."
That prompts me to check my watch. My shift ends in five.
I pat Dave on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll write it up this time. You should head home."
I'll admit, I rush through the incident report: the only thing worse than waiting on the cable car on the way to work is waiting for it on the way home. But I still remember to reboot my workstation and dim the lights on the way out, because no one can say I don't pay attention to the details.
Rating: PG (minor cursing)
Word count: 3,194
If you're feeling generous, throw me a review on FFN or AO3!
You can find the details for the contest here and the other entries here. Thank you to all the judges for your hard work, and congrats to all the entrants for getting the thing done! And thank you for taking the time to read. :)
Work Ethics
Monday morning begins, as it so often does, with technical difficulties: the cable car is stuck at the top of the hill again. I swear it breaks down every other day, but of course the city can't be bothered to fix it.
A grinning hiker stands at the bottom of the cliff with a painted cardboard sign. Onix rides only $5! Tips welcome. Sometimes I have to wonder. For a trainer down on his luck, I imagine a little light sabotage is an easier way to earn a buck than an honest battle.
But there are only two other options. One, slog up the stairs on foot and risk dirtying my uniform. Or two, wait for the cable car, which could take anywhere between ten minutes and the rest of the day, and risk clocking in late. Neither one is an option at all.
So the onix jostles me to the top, spilling most of my coffee along the way. Since the ride costs almost as much as a second coffee would, I skip the tip, even though the onix stares after me with reproachful eyes. There's nothing on this hill but an office park; there are plenty of other white collar workers stranded below and ready to shell out.
The office kitchen has a coffee bar, technically, but corporate's too cheap for anything but instant, and I know for a fact there's no creamer left because Alexa stole it for her glameow like no one would notice. And, free or not, I'd rather drink mud from the Great Marsh than the weird, promotional energy drinks that fill an entire shelf in the fridge. So I slide into my desk chair under-caffeinated but on-time.
"Cable car again?"
In the neighboring cubicle, Jake's easy smile contradicts his windblown hair. Except for rainy days, he rides his golbat in, holding its ankles like the cords of a parachute. I should really find the time to evolve Flick; these days, he mostly hangs from the underside of my desk and naps.
"Like broken clockwork," I answer, which earns a chuckle.
I could complain more—there's always something—but as I begin the ritual of booting up Salesforce and my usual tabs, I start to feel better. I draft a to-do list, each bullet point like a pokeball on the belt, containing both possibility and certainty. I can't make the mayor of Veilstone listen to my voicemails about the cable car, but I can turn each email in my inbox into a set of simple tasks to be finished in order.
After all, it's for the children.
Now let me be clear: I'm happy to leave the face-to-face feel-good stuff to the direct service team. I do my best work in double-spaced Arial size twelve.
But of course I care. Of course it warms my heart to imagine little Jimmy cupping his hands to receive a shiny new pokeball. Those small things aren't guaranteed in this life, even if they should be. Not everyone is lucky enough to be endorsed by Rowan himself.
My therapist and I have talked about it more than once: who might I have become had Flick entered my life in grade school instead of my late twenties? Impossible to know. But now I do what I can for the kids like me. I might not be the one planting a kiss on each sticky little head, but I make sure there's money for pokeballs and potions.
Or something like that. The direct service team isn't known for writing their reports on time, or well. But that's why they have me to fill in the blanks with all the juicy details donors adore. After all, not everyone is blessed with an organized mind.
Though they do have to give me something to work with.
Just a friendly reminder, I begin to type, though this is actually the fourth or fifth reminder, the grant application is due this Friday! To secure continued funding for our valued programs, please send me your completed report by Wednesday! Trim a few exclamation points here, boldface a keyword there, and then it's perfect.
Of course, it's only a formality—the direct service folks almost never check their emails like they're supposed to. But I have other ways.
I click send with one hand while the other reaches for the middle left desk drawer, where I keep packets of department store cookies and chocolates. The commander is partial to the ones with kebia filling.
As I print off a copy of the email, I knock on the side of the desk. "Wake up, Flick. Time for work." While he crawls blinking into the fluorescent light and stretches his wings, I tuck the printout into an envelope and secure it to the sweets box with rubber bands. "This goes to the Eterna office. Don't leave until this is in the commander's hands, alright?"
He yawns, unfurling a gray tongue, but dutifully clambers onto the box and sinks in his claws. With that, he's flapping toward the open window.
"Treats when you get back!" I call after him.
Not for the first time, I have to wonder where I'd be if the company had issued me a different pokemon. I suppose a croagunk could at least seal envelopes, but what help would a stunky be? Which just goes to show: even the best of us are only as good as the rest of the team.
That's the moment that Alexa's laugh kicks through the cubicle partition. "No! What? No, he did not!"
With a glance at my watch, I decide it's not too early to set my out-of-office message and stand up from my desk. After all, there's still the cable car to contend with, and it would be rude to keep a donor waiting.
—
Kimberly, manager of the Backlot estate, nods as I talk but writes nothing. Last time she laughed at all my jokes, and this time she can hardly meet my eyes. Something's gone off track.
The most important thing is not to panic.
I sit back in my chair and dial up the brightness of my smile. "I could say more about our programming goals for the year, but I imagine you have questions."
"Well, yes." Her expression wavers between polite and pained. "There have been troubling rumors …."
And suddenly I know what this is about, the realization dropping into my stomach like a bucket of ice.
"The Unveiled article."
"For one, yes," she agrees.
The entire article is bad, but the photo is the worst of it. Some guy—a kid, really—holds up a magikarp by the tail. It hangs straight down, lifeless. Despite the additional magikarp bodies piled behind him, dozens left sucking mud instead of water, there's a huge, stupid grin on his face.
I can't understand any part of it. What could have brought him to the Lake Valor disaster site in the first place? What made him think that was the moment to take a photo? And above all, why, why, would he do something like that in full Galactic uniform without pausing to think how it would reflect on our work?
And now it falls to me to fix it.
"I can assure you that those involved no longer work for the Galactic Corporation. We do not tolerate that kind of behavior."
"I hope not," Kimberly says crisply. "But I'm sure you're aware there have also been complaints from Professor Rowan's office."
Closing my eyes, I take in one slow breath. Do not panic.
I repeat the official line: "That's a simple misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding," she echoes, eyebrows raised.
In the clip that's been circulating, Rowan did call our researchers unscientific and unashamed, his mustache bristling like the back end of a stunky, but there's nothing to be gained from stooping to name calling just because he did it first. Instead, I chuckle, "Well, no one can say he isn't passionate, if … old-fashioned."
At that, Kimberly's stare softens. It's not hard to see how experienced can slide into eccentric, an old man muttering into his soup. He needs no help from us to bluster his way into early retirement.
Smile turning wistful, I continue, "We may have some differences of opinion, but of course we respect the professor's work. We remain open to partnering with his lab again in the future."
For a few moments, she falls quiet save for the clicking of her pen. I let her sit with what I've said, giving her space to see how we've behaved with dignity and rationality in the face of such obstacles. Just when I'm about steer her back toward Galactic's noble work, she pipes up, "Would you agree there's a cult of personality around Cyrus Schopenhaur?"
I almost choke in surprise.
Off the clock, when I drop into my therapist's chair and then later a booth across from a friend and a pitcher of bottomless margaritas, I have plenty to say about Cyrus. He's not a tyrant, not like my first manager at the poffin shop where I toiled through undergrad, but I couldn't tell you what he actually does all day. Certainly, he's not doing anything to stop junior associates from mouthing off to Rowan's aides or stumbling into a fish graveyard for a photo op.
I wish I could tell Kimberly that I stay at Galactic not because I'm so charmed by the leadership but despite it.
"I'm certainly fortunate for the opportunity to work alongside some smart, dedicated people," I begin, letting her make what she will of the half-truth. "But you can find simple ambition in the rosters of any marketing firm or bank or wherever. What makes us different at Galactic is what we apply ourselves towards."
Think of little Jimmy, I want to tell her. Who else will provide for someone like him? Who else could give him a ghost of a chance in the pay-to-play world of the Pokemon League?
I lean across the table, hands clasped as if in prayer, gaze locked on hers. "They say aim for the stars, but they simply aren't within reach for everyone. At Galactic, we bring them closer so that everyone, no matter where they come from, has a chance to shine. And that's what we're asking you to do with us, Kimberly. The rest doesn't matter."
She twitches her mouth into a smile that doesn't meet her eyes, and I know this is what the spilled coffee has cost me. What it will cost little Jimmy and every kid like him.
Backlot is backing out.
—
As the elevator rises, I tick through my mental dossier. Who could be nudged to dig deeper into their pockets? Who might have a philanthropic friend tucked away? Would the Stone family be too much of a reach?
Moments before I arrive at my floor, my thoughts are cut short by thumping and shouting. The doors ding open to reveal several overturned desks and chairs, papers scattered. It looks like a snowstorm swept through the office. A break-in, comes my first thought, but a familiar voice draws me into the center of the room, past coworkers peeking around partitions for a better look.
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
I spot the golbat first. With a clap of its wings, it sends someone's stunky tumbling head over heels across the carpet tiles, another gust of papers trailing after. Behind the bat, Jake stands red-faced and ranting. I can only make out half of what he's saying over the rustling of papers and the shouts of coworkers.
His opponent, the lanky guy from accounting, answers, "Why can't you just let it go? Stunky, get back in there!"
With a growl, the stunky kicks itself free from a phone cord and launches itself at the golbat again.
I scream at the top of my lungs, "What's going on in here?!" But no one can hear me over all of the noise, or no one cares. Snarling curses, I reach for a pokeball instead.
The golbat swoops, and the stunky leaps from the top of a desk to meet it—
Until both stop midair, spinning in my bronzor's grasp, and the room finally quiets.
"Everyone, back to your desks. Right now."
The two pokemon thud to the floor, looking embarrassed as they each climb to their feet.
As the onlookers scatter, whispering and giggling like children, I whirl on what's-his-name from accounting. "Go take a walk or something. And you—" I jab a finger at Jake. "You're coming with me." As he fumbles to recall his golbat, I march him into the kitchen, Bronzor bobbing along behind us.
When I've got him backed against the fridge, I snarl, "What the hell was that?"
"It wasn't my fault—"
"I'm sorry—it wasn't your fault that you, a full-ass adult, decided to go for your belt and throw down in the middle of the office?"
Jake folds his arms and mutters something to the floor.
"What was that?"
"I said he doesn't care about human progress!"
I can only blink. "I … what?"
Jake continues in a rush, "I said we should explore new technologies to improve quality of life. Like, just look at Snowpoint. People are practically living in igloos when they don't need to. And he said there's no point because we already struggle to equitably distribute the technologies we have. So what are we supposed to do, wait until humans learn to get along before we try to make things better? Don't you think that's crazy?"
We have departed the rational realm.
"Jake," I plead, leaning against the counter for support, "you're supposed to do your job."
"I am, I just—"
Does he not understand that people are going to be laid off?
I get in his face and hiss, "This morning we lost our top donor, and they won't be the last. We're on track for a nosedive in the third quarter if you can't get it together and help. Buy some ads. Write a slogan. Literally anything!"
When Jake only flaps his mouth open and shut, I bark, "Think of the children!"
"It won't happen again," he mumbles at last.
With a sigh, I say, "You know I have to report this, right?"
He hangs his head.
"Just go home. Cool off. I'll see you tomorrow."
Without waiting to see if he'll do as I say, I turn on my heel—and nearly run smack into my bronzor. "Thanks for the help," I mumble, recalling it.
Past colleagues and their pokemon struggling to right their desks, I make my way to the elevator, then down the hall toward the manager's office.
Inside, I find Charon with his feet propped on a stack of books; most of the desk is covered with them, like a fortress against anyone who would intrude. He peers over the volume of Nietzsche in his hands and grates out, "Yes?"
"Good afternoon, sir. I'm here to discuss an incident in the development department. There was an altercation between—"
"Is there an incident report?" he growls.
I cough. "Pardon?"
"Have you typed up an incident report?"
This can only end one way. Nevertheless, after a frozen moment, I try, "Not yet, sir, but—"
"Well," Charon scoffs, "I don't know what you expect me to do without an incident report." He flicks one dismissive hand and hunches over his book again. "Go write it then."
I manage a stiff, "Yes, sir."
Before I manage to shut the door behind me, I hear a grumbled, "Kids these days. No respect for procedure."
As I stalk back to my floor, the phrase Kimberly used rattles around my brain: cult of personality. More like cult of incapacity.
By the time I return to my desk, which is more or less back where it's supposed to be, I decide not to care. I bang out the incident report and wipe it from my mind. If Charon wants to let everyone in his hierarchy run wild, that's his problem. They don't pay me enough to straighten every crooked corner in this place.
But I can follow my own advice: I slip on my noise-canceling headphones and do my damn job.
I rewrite our pledge-seeking email templates. I cold call philanthropists from Sunyshore to Floaroma. I take out a pack of wafer cookies layered with aguav berry cream, demolishing a full sleeve by myself and splitting another with Flick when he returns from his delivery. And when the sounds of another pokemon battle start up, rumbling through the floor, I crank my music louder. As long as my desk remains intact, I've got work to do.
At quarter to five when I finally cast off my headphones and stretch, silence rings in the room. Not even the hum of the printer or the squeak of a zubat. With a sigh, I get up for a quick look.
Beyond the partition of my cubicle, the office has been obliterated. Someone flung a swivel chair straight through the ceiling. Plasterboard crumbles from the hole. The water cooler lies on its side, the surrounding carpet dark with damp. Scorch marks bloom across the carpet and arc up the wall. It's impressive, actually.
There isn't a soul in sight, human or pokemon. Did everyone seriously cut out early without even bothering to clean up?
Sometimes I think I'm the only one around here who does any real work.
I must make a sound of displeasure, because something stirs from behind the twisted wreckage of a desk. "Is s-someone there?" It's Dave from graphic design.
"What are you doing down there?" I call.
He whispers, "Did you see the kid?"
"Kid? What kid?"
If there's a bring-your-child-to-work event today, it's news to me. What a terrible day for it.
As I draw closer, I realize Dave's eyes are out of focus, pupils too large. This has workers' comp written all over it.
Still whispering, he says, "Sh-she has my keycard." Sure enough, his lanyard dangles from his neck in two pieces, like a graduation stole, and his ID badge is nowhere in sight.
"Who has it?" When he doesn't answer, I groan, "Dave, don't tell me you let some little kid have your security badge."
"She has it," he repeats.
Something heavy thumps above our heads, and Dave tips his head back to watch more plaster rain down. He rocks in place, teeth chattering.
This is far, far above my pay grade.
"Oh Dave," I sigh. Careless handling of a security badge could still be grounds for his termination, but if he makes a medical claim it could help. "You'd better call the union first thing tomorrow."
That prompts me to check my watch. My shift ends in five.
I pat Dave on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll write it up this time. You should head home."
I'll admit, I rush through the incident report: the only thing worse than waiting on the cable car on the way to work is waiting for it on the way home. But I still remember to reboot my workstation and dim the lights on the way out, because no one can say I don't pay attention to the details.