Chapter Text
Nervous.
It’s one of those mornings where the anxiety settles into your bones, less a mental condition than a physical one. Everyone gets nervous about their first day at a completely new job, right? This, at least, is what you tell yourself. The truth is that you’re probably more nervous than most, and you’re more nervous than most of the time. You need this job - well, you need any job, really, and anything on earth would be better than the last one. But this one seemed especially promising in the advertisements. It seems better paid than makes any sense for a position marked as an executive assistant, and if all the benefits you’ve been promised are real - everything from free food to health insurance - this is the best job you’ve come across in a long time.
Good enough, even, that you’re willing to at least try and overlook the handful of things that have been nagging at the corners of your mind. It’s those things, you struggle to admit even to yourself, that are making you nervous. The people who interviewed you - perfectly nice and polite though they were - asked a handful of incredibly strange questions, questions that probably had no place in a job interview, about your perspective on various technological advancements, your opinion on morally questionable actions as a means to an end, and, more worryingly, whether you “scare easily,” with no other context provided. It’s not the most reassuring question to be asked in a job interview, and normally you would have run for the hills - but oh man, the free food and the health insurance.
So here you are, driving up to a set of security gates off a back road a couple miles outside of town. You’ve never noticed this place before, somehow, even though you’re absolutely sure you’ve driven this way a couple of times. Now the short gravel driveway and somewhat imposing security checkpoint seem impossible to miss. There’s a bulky man in a deep blue security uniform hovering to the left of the security booth, and he waves you down as you approach. You prepare yourself for an interrogation, but shockingly, he’s all smiles as he motions for you to roll your window down.
“How can I help you?”
“I just - ” you begin, but he interrupts you almost immediately, motioning to the heavy black binder in your passenger seat with the words “Way Laboratories New Employee Handbook” printed in blue and orange on the cover.
“Oh, new hire?”
“It’s my first day.”
“Well, welcome to the company. What’s your position?”
“Executive Assistant, they called it.”
“Cushy! Whose assistant?”
“...I have to admit I don’t know yet,” you answer.
His expression shifts a little, to something knowing and almost mischievous. “I think they were looking for a new assistant for the boss after the last one left. That’s probably what they have you doing. You met the boss yet?”
You hesitate for a moment. “Boss” isn’t the most clear description, and he doesn’t seem keen on providing more details. He laughs, and claps you on the shoulder. “If you don’t know, you haven’t. You’d DEFINITELY know if you had. That’s gonna be a fun gig! Anyway, here” - he hands you a hangtag for your rearview mirror - “put that in your window and you won’t get stopped tomorrow. Welcome to the company!”
“Thanks,” you answer, a little dazed and bewildered, but he’s already returned to a casual position in his security booth, putting his feet on the small desk in front of him and opening a newspaper.
The driveway plunges, somewhat unsettlingly, into thick woods for a bit, before emerging into the light again, and you’re staring down a group of buildings the size of a small city, spiderwebbed together with narrow roads. You’d have thought it was a college campus if you didn’t know better. The arrangement of everything is vaguely circular, with smaller, mostly 2 and 3 story buildings around the outside and a few larger ones in the center. The building in the very middle of the circle towers above the others, and looks distinctively like the passion project of an overly ambitious and not particularly skilled architect, with clashing, unusual architectural details and swaths of concrete and glass. You’re questioning, again, whether this was a good idea, but anxiety is starting to be overtaken by curiosity. There’s an air of life around the place, and people of every imaginable description are walking around, mostly dressed in lab coats or a sort of laboratory casual. Everyone seems, for the most part, fairly cheerful, save the ones clearly in the middle of particularly complex conversations.
The box that had shown up on your doorstep the day before, the one the employee handbook had come in, had also contained a small stack of typed pamphlets and maps with hastily scribbled directions in pencil, and right now you’re holding one of the maps up in front of your eyes, orienting it to the sprawling campus around you. Whoever’s marked up the map has done a pretty decent job of it, wobbly but still legible arrows marking the road in front of you, part of the way around a circular ringroad that wraps around the architectural disaster in the middle, and finally pointing you into a large parking lot on the back side of the building. Thankfully the roads are well marked and nicely maintained, and it’s an easy and quick meander into the heart of the labyrinth. There’s another note on the map, drawn directly on top of the central building, in slightly different handwriting:
Eighth floor, room 814
Dr. Way’s office
Ask for Emma
Easy enough directions to follow, at least.
The central atrium of the admittedly somewhat ugly building is anything but. Whatever architect was responsible for the outside must have either come to his senses or handed off the task to someone with a bit more taste before tackling the inside. The atrium reaches all the way to the roof, 8 stories of hallways and offices wrapping around the perimeter of the space. The wall behind you is made entirely of windows, and between each floor’s perimeter hallway and the glass wall, stretched across the open expanse of the atrium, are heavy steel cables. They form a sort of steel grid in the sky, which serves to support three dozen octahedral installations made out of colored, reflective glass. It’s clearly some sort of art installation, and it’s incredibly effective, casting shifting, multicolored reflections on the dark tile floor.
It’s quieter in here than outside, the only immediately obvious life being a young man in a dark suit sitting at a desk on the far side of the room. There’s a dramatically oversized clock on the wall behind him, its second hand ticking silently, and elevators to his left and right. He looks an endearing amount of bored, and lifts his head in surprise when he sees you approaching his desk.
“You’ve got that ‘new hire’ look about you,” he says, as soon as you’re within earshot.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Nervous, slightly lost looking, with an employee handbook in one arm? It’s the classic energy of a new hire,” he says.
You can’t really argue with him. He’s not wrong.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
“I’m looking for someone named Emma. They told me Dr. Way’s office. Room…814?” you answer, quickly referencing the scribbled directions in your hand.
The young man at the desk, who you only now notice is wearing a small nametag that reads “David,” levels a look at you that’s almost identical to the one you got off the security guy when he asked you if you’d met the boss yet. “Oh, you’re looking for the boss. Oh, you must be the new assistant! Oh, that’s going to be fun,” he says. His tone, also, somehow matches the amused security guard - and somehow, despite his general air of amusement, his comment about fun seems heartfelt and sincere.
The similarity of these responses raises a number of questions at once, but it’s not the most comforting thing in the world. He points absentmindedly to the elevator to his left.
“8th floor, turn right off the elevator, all the way in the corner on your right.” He points up into the atrium ceiling, into the upper corner of the building on your left, with the pen in his hand, indicating where you’re meant to go. “There’s a room number by the door. The Emma you’re looking for is Emma Bree. Young blonde woman, should be sitting at the desk on the left when you walk in.”
You nod a thank you, and take a step in the direction of the elevator.
“Wait - quick question, I’m sorry. Have you been through that handbook you’re carrying?”
“I haven’t had the chance yet, actually.”
“Not even flipped through?”
“Honestly, no.” This is not a comforting interrogation.
“Oh, it’s okay,” he quickly reassures. “It’s not a requirement or anything. I just wondered…there’s pictures in there. I was curious if you’d seen them yet.”
You stand for a moment and stare at each other, things clearly hovering unsaid in the air.
“Look, I just - people usually aren’t - what I mean is - ” he stutters.
You shrug and make a hand motion in his general direction to indicate that you’re completely lost.
“Dr. Way is one of a kind,” he says finally. “We all adore them, but they tend to…take people by surprise if you’re not ready for them.”
“...in what way, exactly?”
“Let me just put it this way. In the position you have, you’re going to be working super closely with them a lot of the time. That’s something that a lot of people find sort of…overwhelming. If, after you meet them, you feel like you’ve discovered a completely new emotion, don’t be surprised, okay? It happens to absolutely everyone. I can look up and see someone pacing slowly around the floor out there and know from here if they’ve met Dr. Way for the first time and need a minute to come to terms with it.”
“You’re making me nervous now,” you say.
“No, no!” he says, hastily. “Don’t be. Don’t let their aura fool you. Dr. Way is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Just be ready before you actually meet them, okay? That’s all I’m saying. Oh, and don’t ask about the sunglasses.”
“The - what?”
“You’ll understand in about 5 minutes. You’re going to want to ask about the sunglasses. Just…leave it alone.”
“Do you get fired if you ask about the sunglasses?” you ask, laughing a little.
David shakes his head, his demeanor suddenly more heartfelt. “Oh no, nothing like that. You wouldn’t get in trouble or anything. It just makes them uncomfortable, and…well, they don’t deserve that. Trust me. You’ll understand so quickly. Now get up there!”
“Right, right! Thank you!”
“Good luck! Have fun!”
And then you’re on an elevator ride that feels absolutely eternal. David’s words were clearly meant to help, but all they’ve done is turn the latent anxiety up to 11. You’re clutching the binder in your arms to your chest, but you can feel your hands and arms shaking anyway. You’re questioning, again, if this was a good idea. The anxiety is rapidly threatening to give way to panic. The mild nausea that’s been sitting in your stomach all morning is intensifying and beginning to dance with a cold tingle in your hands and arms.
This is not the moment for this.
The hallway is long enough to let the fear build until it’s nearly unbearable but not long enough to give you a chance to recover again. You’re standing in the hallway, hovering just out of sight to the side of an open door with a small plaque on the wall next to it that reads:
814
Dr. Way
C-Suite &
Office Team
You pause, take a couple of deep breaths in a futile attempt to steady yourself, and take the step inside.
David’s directions are pitch perfect, and there’s a young, blonde woman in a pink blazer sitting behind a desk to your right. A small nameplate in front of her reads “Emma Bree.” She looks up from a typewriter and smiles at you.
“Good morning! What can I do for you?” she asks. Her eyes search you for a moment, then she spots the binder in your hands, which you suddenly realize you’re clutching so hard it’s cutting into your fingers.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I should have recognized you. You’re Dr. Way’s new assistant.”
You nod. The words feel far away, all of the sudden. She stands up from behind her desk and steps out, extending a hand to shake yours. She’s very smiley, wearing head to toe pink, including her shoes and nail polish, but her handshake is surprisingly confident and solid.
“Since you’re new to the company you probably don’t know this, but this was actually a pretty coveted position. We wanted some new blood, though, so here you are!”
You’re very grateful, in this moment, that she’s so talkative. It’s taking all the pressure off of you. She’s still holding your hand, actually - she seems very sweet. She looks around her for a moment, clearly trying to collect her thoughts.
“Right. We need to get you keys and a badge, first thing. That desk” - she points to an empty desk to her left - “is yours. If you want to put your things down while I call access control, I’ll introduce you to the boss in just a minute.”
“Right, thanks!” is all you’re able to get out. Now, finally, as you dump the binder from your hands onto the empty desk, you get a chance to take in the whole room - it’s fairly large, with a small handful of desks floating in the middle and a handful of doors along the outside walls, most of which are closed. There’s one open, in the corner, peering into a nicely decorated office. There’s a man with blond hair sitting behind a desk, having an in depth conversation with a woman in a lab coat sitting in a chair across from him. You can’t follow the conversation, but it seems technical and involved. There’s two other employees at the other two desks in the room, one of whom is busy taking notes on the phone, and the other pouring over a book with intensity.
The panic attack still feels like it’s hovering 5 feet over your head, ready to fall on you like a block of concrete if you let it. You’re fighting it, but it takes everything.
Emma’s reading details off a sheet of paper in front of her into a phone. She repeats your name, and position, the office number, and a bunch of other information that’s mostly meaningless to you, acronyms and other details you’re sure you’ll understand eventually. She hangs up the phone, and approaches you again, same smile on her face.
“Okay. Access is making you a badge and keys. You can go down and get them in an hour or so. In the meantime, come on!” she beckons with her hands as she leans towards the closed door that’s directly in front of your desk. “How you got this far without actually meeting the boss, I have no idea.”
She knocks softly on the door but doesn’t wait for an answer before opening it. You wonder, briefly, if this what it felt like to be 30 seconds before being executed in medieval England.
The events that occur in rapid succession after this make you feel too much like a lamp that someone’s unplugged to give you a chance to debate that question further. Emma’s standing by the open door, which looks into a beautifully, if somewhat dramatically, appointed office. The French-paneled walls are covered in art, softly lit by wall sconces and the morning light that’s coming in the open windows that make up the entirety of the far wall. There’s a leather sofa off to the left, and a couple of nice chairs pulled up to a dark wood desk that has something of an imposing vibe. The figure seated behind it is reading something from a typed document, but somehow looks like they’re holding court as much as actually working, and they’re…well, beautiful. There’s no other word to accurately describe it. They’re wearing a dark gray blazer over a white shirt, and yes, dark sunglasses, indoors. The curiosity that hits you immediately upon noticing the sunglasses reminds you of David’s instructions and you tuck that onto a shelf for now.
“G? Your new assistant is here. How they never met you I don’t know, so I figured that would be a good place to start them off.”
They lift their head as soon as she speaks, smiling softly at her and stepping out from behind the desk to approach you. “Thank you, Emma. Come in!”
Their voice and the rest of the outfit hit you in succession. The bottom half of the outfit consists of a black miniskirt and chunky heels, and, you notice now, gloves - black leather ones that are at least long enough to disappear into their jacket sleeves. Their hair is chin length and a soft sort of brown, and tucked behind their right ear, slightly overgrown bangs falling over the frame of their sunglasses. Their voice, which for some reason you’re expecting to be cool and masculine, is actually high and soft, with a gentle sweetness behind it.
They’re standing in front of you now, somehow much taller than you expected - must be the heels, you decide - and every word David said suddenly makes perfect sense. They’re the kind of attractive that makes it hard to form a sentence, with a general look and style that feels deeply intimidating, but they’re smiling at you, and it’s not a creepy smile, but a kind, genuine one. They extend a gloved hand to you, and you shake it, in a sort of dumbfounded silence. “It’s good to finally meet you! Technically I’m Dr. Way, but everyone just calls me G.”
Hearing them speak again brings it all into clarity. They’re so hard to process because no assumption you make about them holds for more than a few seconds before a new layer reveals itself. Sitting silently behind their desk they look slightly scary, but as soon as they’re in motion their energy feels friendly and welcoming. The pieces barely fit together, and it feels like your brain is failing to compute.
All these thoughts and emotions clarify in your brain in the space of a handshake, with just enough of a second leftover for you to actually process how their hand feels in yours, a strong handshake behind those soft, cool, leather gloves, and then it’s over, and you’re letting go of their hand with a reluctance you absolutely cannot account for.
This, you realize, is the New Emotion that David was talking about.
“Let me know if you need anything, alright?” Emma says, sort of to both of you at once, before she steps out and pulls the door shut behind her, and the reality of your situation settles. You’re vaguely aware of being motioned gently into one of the chairs that’s pulled up to the desk, and of your new boss settling themselves back on the other side of it, but it’s not before you’re actually sitting face to face with them that you feel like you truly come back to reality.
As your brain emerges from the fog, you realize two things. The first is that the panic attack is still pressing down on you, like an ever descending ceiling. Trying to process Dr. Way has been enough to distract you for the past couple of minutes, but as the shock starts to wear off, you can feel the panic again. The blood in your fingers feels icy. The second thing you realize is that they’re asking you a question, one which you’ve heard absolutely none of until this point.
“...working here. I don’t know if it’s the same for you?” they’re saying.
“…I just wanted something different, I think,” you answer, hoping it’s an answer that at least mostly makes sense to whatever the question was.
“Well this is most certainly different!” they say. Their voice flickers for a moment, you swear, into something sinister, but settles back too quickly to tell. “Did they explain to you exactly what you’re doing, or…?”
“Not really.”
“Your job is essentially to help me keep my life unfucked,” they say, laughing at themselves. “There’s way too much going on around here, all of the time. I try my best to keep it all straight but it’s too much to keep track of. You’re just going to be answering calls and writing things down, mostly. And reminding me of things I’m supposed to be doing when I forget them, which I will.” This sounds fairly easy, if possibly high stakes. “I try and keep track of it all myself anyway, I just need a little help. Basically we error check each other. Between the two of us we should be set.”
There’s something warm about the way they say the last sentence, the way they lean on the we and us , like they’ve already decided it’s the two of you against the world despite the fact they’ve known you for all of 5 minutes. Completely incongruous with their luxurious office and dominating aesthetic, Dr. Way seems friendly, softspoken, and kind , deeply so. For the first time this morning, you’re not so afraid anymore. If the personality you’re seeing is real - and it seems too at odds with their image to be anything BUT real, you’re sure no one curating such a theatrical appearance would be affecting the personality of a completely unthreatening sweetheart on purpose - you’re going to be okay. This is, in fact, going to be fun.
“How fast do you type?”
“45ish,” you answer.
“Oh, that’ll be fine. You’ll get faster working here anyway, it happens to everyone…”
They’re still talking, but it feels like they’re 1000 miles away. It’s as if, the moment you decided they weren’t a threat, instead of realizing there was nothing to panic about, your brain’s decided that it’s now safe to panic, that there’s no longer any reason to hold it together. Like having a pent up cry not in the middle of a bad day but when you get home, their kindness seems to have pulled the cork on the panic attack you’ve been pushing back since you walked in the building. Your fingers feel somehow even colder than before, and you can see them shaking when you glance down at your hands. You can feel your heart - pounding, pounding, pounding. Faster. You feel sort of generally ill and slightly nauseous, and there’s a ringing rising in your left ear. The mortifying notion of having a full-blown panic attack in front of your new boss within minutes of meeting them on the first day of a new job is crushing. This only intensifies the panic, and the two begin to play off each other. The shame and panic are now dancing, spinning each other as hard as they can, in a rapidly descending, ever quickening spiral. You force yourself to look up, to make eye contact (or as much as you can, through the sunglasses) again with Dr. Way, who’s still talking - you no longer have any idea about what - but who stops dead in the middle of a word when you meet their eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you manage to squeak out. Admitting to it feels unbearable, and surely, you convince yourself, you can ride this out before it becomes too obvious.
“You don’t look fine.”
They sound not judgmental, but concerned. You want to say something, to try and answer them, but unfortunately the panic is still intensifying. You close your eyes, almost against your will. It no longer seems like something you can control.
And then someone’s taking your hand, your right hand, cold and trembling as it is, and pressing it between their gloved hands. You open your eyes again and they’re there, kneeling in front of you, and yes, squeezing your hand between theirs.
You’re very quickly forced to come to terms with admitting it.
“I think I’m having a panic attack.”
“I know.” They say it so softly. “I have them too.”
If you had a bingo card of possible responses, that wasn’t even on it. The sensations of panic finally reach their pitch, making you feel momentarily lightheaded and sending the room spinning around you a bit.
“Breathe,” they say. “Slow, deep breaths. You’re safe, okay? Your body just needs a minute to catch up.”
Their voice, and the feeling of them squeezing your hand, cuts through everything. You’ve never actually had someone hold your hand like this before. Sure, plenty of people have held your hand, for many reasons, but this is unique. They’re not holding your hand like normal, but instead your hand is flat, fingers pressed together, and they’re squeezing it firmly between their own flattened hands. It warms your icy, tingling fingers, but more importantly, the firm, consistent pressure is deeply grounding. It gives you something to hold on to as the panic breaks and finally begins to subside. Your muscles begin to slowly untwist, and you finally open your eyes again. They’re still there, right in front of you.
“Breathe,” they repeat. “You’re okay. The worst part’s over.”
Your ears stop ringing, and in the silence that descends you can suddenly hear their breathing. It’s slow and calm, and you realize that they’re doing it on purpose, giving you something to match. You do your best to time your breathing with theirs, equally slow and even.
If they hadn’t just told you that they’d been where you are, you’d probably be wondering right now if they had. They’re handling this with the kind of experienced calm that only a person who’s been on the other side of this exact interaction more than a few times in their lives could muster. They’re not bombarding you with questions, or even well-intentioned reassurances that are still too much to process. They’re not even trying to “make you better” as quickly as they can in that double-edged way that’s so common to inexperienced people when trying to comfort a panic attack, that wears a disguise of kindness but often feels, when you’re the person being comforted, like they’re simply trying to get this over with as quickly as possible so you stop being a nuisance. In fact, it doesn’t really feel like
they’re
trying to pull you out of the attack at all - but instead that they’re trying to give you a calm, grounding presence to hold onto, while you pull
yourself
out. It’s the almost counterintuitive, understated move of a person who knows exactly what will and won’t help you right now, and is more concerned about adhering to that than simply doing what “looks” or “seems” right from the outside.
You glance down at your hands, the right one trapped still in theirs, your left tucked under your leg in an attempt to warm your fingers. You want them to take your other hand, press it between theirs in the same way, but it’s not something you’re even about to ask for. Instead, you pull your other hand out from under your leg and drop it absentmindedly in your lap, and hope they’re the most telepathic soul alive.
Somehow they are. They let go of your right hand and take the left one, flattening it between their gloved hands and pressing them gently together.
“I’ve tried lots of things but the only thing that ever really seems to ground me when I’m having a panic attack is this,” they explain, of the hand holding. “I’ve had lots of people tell me it helps.”
“It did. It does.”
It really does. Their hands are larger than yours, trapping your hand completely. Their gloves are clearly real leather, but very well worn and cared for. The material is deceptively soft, and has a kind of initial coolness to the touch over a deeper warmth that feels not only like it’s helping to warm your fingers but like it’s helping to regulate the temperature of your whole body.
It really just feels nice, the kind of uniquely pleasant sensory experience that’s very niche and very rare. You’re silently glad they haven’t stopped doing it yet. Your heartbeat is slowing, slowing - coming back to earth with each passing second.
“Do you want some water? Something cold?”
“That would be good.”
They give your hand a gentle pat before letting it go and standing up, disappearing for a moment in some direction or other - you’re not really paying attention. You hear the door opening, though, and the minor hubbub of the office outside feels overwhelming as it spills in. You tuck your legs and shoulders into the chair, hoping to be completely invisible from behind. You’re coming more and more into the land of the living, but you’re not ready to face the rest of the office just yet. They’re back a few moments later, handing you a small paper cup filled with cold water, presumably retrieved from some water cooler or other.
Right now, it’s the best tasting water in the history of the world, and you take a moment to savor it before giving Dr. Way your attention again. They’re standing in front of you now, leaning - almost sitting, really - on the front edge of their desk, hands resting on the edge of the desk, legs crossed at the knees. They really are beautiful. Kind of breathtaking, honestly. The windows behind them frame their dark hair with a soft, warm glow. A stray ray of light is filtering through their sunglasses, making the lenses suddenly much easier to see through and casting a hint of reflected light on their eye. There’s something about the way the light catches their eye that your brain immediately recognizes as subtly wrong. The sunglasses are still too dark, and you’re still too far away from them, to really tell or make out any details, but there’s something there, something your subconscious doesn’t know how to process.
“Feel like you’re starting to come down the other side?” they ask.
“A little.”
“I know. It’ll take a while.
“Do you wanna go home, rest, try again tomorrow?” they ask. It’s a very generous offer, and one you normally would have wanted and taken, but right now, somehow, it’s the absolute last thing you want to do.
“That’s very sweet of you but I think I’ll be okay. I just wanna start this day over, you know?”
“I understand. I just wanted to make sure I offered. Sometimes I want to go home and go to sleep and sometimes I want to carry on with my day and pretend it never happened. It depends on the day.”
You’re about to ask them what you should do next, try and strongarm some actual progress out of the morning, when Emma’s voice interrupts from the still open door.
“Sorry, G, but you have a 9:30.”
Dr. Way looks at their watch and nearly jumps off the edge of the desk. “Oh shit, I do! And this is exactly the reason I need you.”
They collect a black coat from the back of their chair and situate it over their shoulders before training their attention on you again. “I have to go talk to engineering, but you’re welcome to stay right there as long as you want. Let Emma know if you need anything. When you feel like you’re up to it, just take some time to get familiar with the office, go say hi to everyone. Especially my brother, he’ll want to meet you. I should be back in an hour or so. Did they make your badges yet?”
“I think Emma said she was getting them made.”
“Oh, perfect. You can go get them whenever, but if you wanna wait until I get back, I’ll come with you.”
Well, that was that decision made. You just nod, unable to formulate really any other response. “Have fun!” they add with a smile, and then they’re out the door with a hint of dramatic flourish - but not before patting you on the shoulder as they go by.
Sitting alone in the empty office feels like standing in the ruins of a tornado. You’re speechless, a little shell shocked, and still coming down off the spinning panic, and it feels like you’re only really able to process Dr. Way once they’re gone. You stay there in their office, in that admittedly very comfortable chair, until your heart and body feel ready to stand again, before returning to your own desk. Emma’s next to you in a second, a cheerful flourish of blonde and pink.
“Feeling better?” she asks.
“...since…?” You’re wondering now if she saw any of what happened, or knew about it somehow, but she shakes her head a little.
“Oh, you just looked kind of scared when you came in. I figured you’d be okay once you got to talk to G, though.”
“I’m…good now, thank you.”
“Right. Well…”
She launches into a long spiel about the rest of the offices, where the office supplies are stored, water coolers…there’s a lot of information there, but you can tell you’re only catching about half of it. Nevertheless you manage to fill your new desk with pens and pencils, notebooks and papers, and meet the others in the other offices, all of whom seem nice enough, though none of them are quite as striking as the CEO. The most interesting of them is a tall, thin, smiley man whose office plaque reads “Michael Way, COO” and who you guess must be Dr. Way’s aforementioned brother. His energy feels significantly less off the wall and enigmatic, but you can tell they’re siblings. There’s a similar kindness about him, and he makes you promise to let him know if you need anything. You promise.
You’re finally getting a chance to crack open the employee handbook binder and read its opening paragraphs when you sense a presence over your desk, and look up from your reading and directly into Dr. Way’s sunglasses. You can’t help but smile at them. You’ve known them for all of an hour and it already feels involuntary.
“Did you get a chance to pick up your badges yet?”
“‘No, I - I decided to wait for you.”
“Excellent plan.”
They’re like a well dressed whirlwind, throwing the coat off their shoulders onto one of the chairs in their office, and the next thing you know you’re walking with them down the hallway.
“I haven’t talked to the guys in access in ages so this’ll be nice,” they’re explaining. “Obviously you should try to introduce yourself to as many people as you can, but the badges can’t be counterfeited, so if you ever need to get into anywhere or prove you work for me, the badge will do it.” They pull a laminated card out of their pocket and hand it to you. It’s got a photo of them on it, sunglasses and all, along with “Dr. G. Way” and a handful of other text that’s not immediately meaningful to you. The background of the card is tightly patterned with complex designs in an assortment of colors. “We use some of the same tricks as they use on money, so if someone tried to make a fake one, it would get caught pretty quickly,” they explain.
The office you’re hunting for is on the first floor, deep in a maze of hallways and behind several large double doors. The offices and atrium of the building are stylish and beautiful, but once you get down into the laboratories and hallways it becomes sterile and scientific, all pale blue and grey walls, tiled ceilings and fluorescent lights. Dr. Way is explaining the labs in each of the doors you walk past. It’s cold down here, the air conditioning clearly turned down as far as it will go, and honestly, there’s something slightly scary about it. It feels a bit like a hospital, and the clinical sterility makes you feel anxious and slightly uncomfortable. You’re sure you’ll get used to it, that this will eventually feel like home, but for now you’re glad Dr. Way is with you. Most of what they’re saying is technical and scientific terminology you’re completely unfamiliar with, but you’re happy to nod along and just let them keep talking. Their clear, soft voice is incredibly comforting, and you feel safer just knowing they’re there. You let yourself walk a little closer to them, your shoulder almost touching theirs. They look over at you, apparently sensing your discomfort.
“You okay?” they ask.
“Fine,” you answer, with a weak smile. “It’s just kind of a maze down here. And cold.” That’s what your words say, at least. You’re peripherally aware that your face says I’m uncomfortable and I find this place scary , and there’s nothing you can do to hide it.
“Oh, it’s a labyrinth. Don’t worry though, I know my way around this place with my eyes closed.” But like you, their face says something different. On them, though, it’s something softer - I know you’re afraid, but you’re safe.
You’d hug them if it wouldn’t be weird. It’s strange, but something feels oddly natural about what you’re doing, walking along with them and talking. If this is what your job is going to be, you feel as if you can settle into it like a well worn sweater - soft and safe and a perfect fit.
You finally find the office you’re hunting, two heavy cream colored doors with windows and a little plaque to the left that reads “badging and access.” It looks and feels like a printing office inside, with two young-ish guys in short sleeved button downs manning key machines and printing equipment. One of them looks up and smiles broadly at Dr. Way.
“G!” he says enthusiastically. “Haven’t seen you all week!”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy! Engineering has a little disaster on their hands with Project Osiris. I actually need you guys today, though. Can you get them a badge and some keys?”
“Easy!” he says. “Gotta take your picture though, sorry,” he adds, directed at you. Normally you’d mind, but right now it’s alright. The other man takes your picture, and disappears, apparently to hasilty develop the photo.
“Which keys?” the first one asks.
“2 campus masters, the hangars, building 17 and my office,” Dr. Way answers, every bit the practiced expert on their own company. The man behind the desk pulls a handful of keys from a bank of small drawers and puts them onto a large key ring, which he hands over the counter to Dr. Way, who immediately hands them to you.
“Guard them with your life,” they say with a smile as you pocket the keys. The other man returns almost impossibly quickly - you wonder if it’s even possible to develop a photo that fast, but nevermind, everything seems a touch too high-tech around here anyway - and hands you a laminated badge on a lanyard. It’s functionally identical to Dr. Way’s, but with your own photo and name.
Dr. Way smiles at you, the biggest smile you’ve seen yet, small wrinkles around their eyes visible at the edge of their sunglasses. “You’re officially one of us now,” they say.
It feels good.
They lead you back out of the cold labyrinth, a gesture that feels like an unspoken promise not to leave you there, but explain once you’re safely back under the gentle colored lights of the atrium that they’re in meetings for the rest of the day. You’re more than welcome to join them, they explain, but you’re free to do whatever you like with the rest of your day, and they recommend going exploring, getting to know the building. You agree. They give you another gentle pat on the shoulder before walking away, a move which, despite being the 3rd time they’ve done so today, overwhelms you completely. You find yourself walking slowly across the atrium’s dark tiled floor, intently studying the colorful patterns of light the installation above you casts on the floor.
David’s still at his desk, and he looks up at you and laughs. “What did I say this morning about people shuffling quietly around the atrium?”
You’d forgotten that comment.
“Met the boss, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah, I…yeah.”
“Found that new emotion yet?”
“...several.”
“Good. Welcome to the company.”