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Title:
Cubed
Author:
Miss Murchison
Rating:
R, overall
Disclaimer:
All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,
etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.
Word Total: about
20,000.
Summary: To solve a
mysterious string of deaths, Buffy and Spike must go where they have
never gone before—undercover at a large company, where they must hunt
down a murderer amid the cubicles while coping with PowerPoint
Presentations and the Coffee Fund Rules.
Extra long, boring,
skipable note: This is a long-gestating fic. In fact, several
elephants could have gestated, been born, and grown to adolescence
since I started it. I started it just before Season 7 began airing and
worked on it a bit more during the depths of angst-ridden drama on the
screen, at my job, and in my fic. I kept adding to it whenever I was
desperately in need of cheering myself up. I finished it as an
antidote to my current fic, which chronicles Buffy's depression.
Therefore, I've set it in an alternative Season 6 where there is no
angst. Assume Buffy didn't die at the end of Season 5, or, if she did,
she was glad to get back. Don't go looking for any huge problems among
the canon characters. They're not there, although all is not sweetness
and light. Which is good, because we all know how bad light is for
Spike.
Thanks:
To
Keswindhover and
to the friend who has since disappeared from the fandom but who
encouraged this idea in the first place. (If you ever read this, you
know who you are, and you are missed by others as well as by me.)
Thanks as well to
It Must Be
Tuesday, for creating the
Seasonal Spuffy community on Live Journal that encouraged me to
finally finish this story.
Chapter Three
Buffy sat across from
Melandra Harbottle's desk and kept her mouth shut.
Stated that way, it seemed like a simple enough task. However, in
practice there were some definite issues.
The first problem was caused by the office's "guest chair."
Apparently, guests were not expected to sit in comfort, because the
chair lacked arms or any real stability. One of the wheels on the base
was crooked, so that anyone who sat in it had to constantly adjust his
or her weight to keep from tipping to one side. Buffy suspected that
the chair had been carefully selected to keep visitors off-balance
literally as well as figuratively.
This opinion fit her assessment of Melandra's personality, which was
at least as aggressive, abusive and egotistical as that of any boss
Buffy had had, including the one who had tried to kill her the night
before. She did get points for being more attractive and better
groomed, in a brittle sort of way. But she lost some for rudeness that
would have thrust both Cordelia and Anya out of first place had there
been a Tactlessness Award.
"This project is Very Important." Melandra glared out from under her
mascara. "And I'm not at all happy with your qualifications. But since
HR tells me you're the best I can expect, I need you to pay attention
and work hard." She shoved some files across the desk. "This should
give you the idea. I say 'should,' because I'm not sure you're bright
enough to catch on. I'll email you some data files. You need to
carefully gather the information together and repackage it as a
presentation."
Buffy reached over to pick up the files, miscalculated the effect this
would have on the chair, and had to catch herself to keep from landing
ass-upwards on the industrial grade carpet.
Melandra smirked slightly and turned away from Buffy as her phone
rang. She snapped out a few final words as she picked up the receiver.
"There's a meeting tomorrow to assign duties. I expect you to be there
and take notes, since it's your job to organize everyone else's work.
I also expect you to know what you're doing by then, so get busy."
Reminding herself that she had once defeated a hell god and should not
feel shattered by the events of the morning, Buffy left the office and
began to hunt for Harry among the cubicles. She found him one aisle
down, ensconced in a typical compartment. It was just too small for
comfort and separated from the adjacent cubes by flimsy, cloth-covered
walls just high enough to avoid any real sense of privacy. However, he
had personalized his bit of office space by papering the dividers
surrounding it with sheets of paper. On closer inspection, these
proved to be certificates for various Awards, for everything from
showing up to work on time to staying later than anyone else. Tiny
trophies littered the desk, with a few cheap plaques, each one
labeled, "Award." A picture of Harry dressed as a scarecrow was pinned
up next to a "Best Halloween Costume" certificate, and another of him
as a scrawny Santa complimented a "Ho Ho Ho Award." In yet another
picture, he was waving a flag and wearing a patriotic top hat. It
seemed that no item that had ever been used to celebrate the wonder
that was Harry had ever been discarded. There was even a paper
birthday crown sitting on top of his monitor next to a notice that he
was the winner of the monthly birthday cake drawing. Buffy wondered if
a piece of the cake was preserved in his freezer—or maybe under his
pillow so he could dream of future prizes.
Harry looked up and saw her staring. "Hi again! Want to see my
Awards?"
Without giving her a chance to object, he began pointing at the
various objects, chronicling how he had won them against fierce
competition, and describing his current training program and
competition schedule. He reached down to lift up his pants leg and
expose one scrawny, white-sock clad ankle. "I'm wearing a pedometer so
every step I take will count towards the Fitness Award. They give away
free movie tickets for that."
Buffy saw the people at the nearby cubicles were looking annoyed, and
she interrupted the litany to ask if Harry could show her where she
was supposed to be sitting. He jumped up, announced he would be happy
to be of help, and took her a little ways down the aisle to where a
cubicle sat, void of occupant or any touch of humanity. There were no
trophies, stuffed animals, gaudy calendars or pictures of family
members. "Here's your new home!"
Buffy stared at the dusty monitor as Harry yammered on. "It's so great
that we'll be working together. Did you know that Ashiana means
'working together' in some African language? They decided to change
the name a few years ago after that lawsuit was in the news and all
those advertisements from attorneys wanting to represent clients in
product liability cases. They had a contest for it. I wish I'd been
working here then. The prize was a trip to Disney World. I could have
come up with a better name." His voice was wistful.
He brightened up. "And here are your new coworkers!"
Buffy turned to find the woman in the adjoining cubicle giving her a
sidewise smile as she finished typing something. She spun her chair
around to face outward, arose sinuously, and put out her hand. "I'm
Rita."
"Uh, hi." Buffy tried to smile back at the perfectly groomed brunette,
but Rita had already turned, seated herself as gracefully as she had
risen, and resumed typing.
"And this is Eric!"
Buffy followed Harry's introductory wave. The resident of the next
cubicle down glanced up irritably, his expression changing to a
pleased smile as his gaze followed up from Buffy's legs to her face.
"Welcome!" he said.
Buffy noted that Eric was blond and reasonably good-looking and that
he hadn't been very welcoming until he noticed that she was blonde and
pretty. She took a half-step back as Eric stood up and leaned forward
to ask her what she would be working on.
"Melandra has a special project."
"Oh, you're lucky!" announced Harry, in defiance of all Buffy's
observations to that point. "She's going to use that presentation to
try to get a lot more money and influence for the workgroup. We might
even get our own department name! I bet there will be a contest to
pick what we're called. Wouldn't that be great!"
"Yeah," said Eric. "Because I stay up nights worrying that we're only
known around here as the Slaves of the Bitch Queen or the Desparate
Denizens of the Forbidding Cube."
An office door opened at the end of the aisle, and everyone jumped,
staring at the door marked with Melandra Harbottle's name. But that
door remained closed, a head popped out of the next office, and a
tall, bulky man said mildly, "Rita? Do you have a minute?"
Rita's fingers clattered over her keyboard, and with a few swift
strokes she locked the screen from prying eyes before slithering to
her feet and stepping through the office door.
As it closed behind her, Eric commented, "Of course, one of us is
known as Stan's Ho as well."
"Stan?" asked Buffy.
"He's an okay guy. Technically, we work for him and Melandra, but
Melandra has this way of scheduling all our time, and Stan is too nice
to fight her about it. Except when it comes to Rita. He schedules lots
and lots of her time." Eric snickered unattractively.
Harry seemed not to notice the implications of this. "Well, we should
all get back to work! Productivity Awards go out soon, remember!
Buffy, I'll show you how to log in and get your voice mail, and where
to find the department files."
Buffy was kept busy for the next hour or so trying to puzzle out the
instructions Melandra had emailed her and figuring out how to update
some files without deleting crucial information. She made some notes
about things to ask Willow, like, "Is there any real reason why
PowerPoint exists? I thought it was just some stupid joke the teachers
in high school was playing on us, but these people take it seriously,"
and "How can I find all the numbers Excel says it's hiding from me,
and why is it being so mean?" There was no way she was taking those
problems to Melandra, and the thought of asking Harry gave her a
headache.
She tried to keep alert for anything interesting happening nearby, but
other than some laughter from Stan's office, followed by Rita's
reemergence some time afterwards, there was nothing but a continual
parade of sad-looking people carrying stacks of papers and coffee
cups, moving to and fro in no discernable pattern.
At last, Buffy decided a bit of exploration was in order. She started
by trying to remember where Harry had pointed out the rest room, but
got turned around several times, and had to ask for directions. A
vague-looking man wearing a pocket protector sent her to what turned
out to be a men's room, and when she looked to see if the women's was
around the corner she wound up in the cafeteria.
It was nearly empty except for a frizzy-haired woman in a cardigan who
was peering into a large jar on top of the coffee pot. She jumped up
when Buffy came in and glared at the Slayer. "What do you want?"
"Uh, I'm looking for the rest room."
The woman paid no attention to this, announcing loudly. "I wasn't
stealing from the coffee fund!"
"No, of course not." Buffy started to back away slowly.
"I was trying to make change because the vending machine isn't taking
bills. And I needed to check in case someone stole my lunch again."
The woman came closer, staring at Buffy suspiciously. "You didn't
steal my lunch, did you?"
"No." Buffy shook her head vehemently.
The woman stalked over to a large refrigerator and stared inside for a
moment. Then she seized a plastic lunch box, opened it up, and let
loose a sigh of relief. "No one's stolen it, and that bitch hasn't
moved it again."
"Bitch?"
The woman dropped her voice. "She works in Packaging. I've seen her do
it. She comes in after me, and she moves my lunchbox to the back of
the fridge!"
"Uh, could she be trying to make room for her own lunch?" Buffy was
almost out the door now.
The frizzy-haired woman's eyes were wild with outrage. "You don't
understand! She moved my lunchbox!"
Buffy fled.
She located a rest room around the next corner, discovered it was full
of barely functional plumbing and signs instructing her in the proper
disposal of Personal Hygiene Products, went back to the main aisle,
then stopped, wondering how she was supposed to find her cubicle.
She set off in what she hoped was the right direction, stopping every
once in a while to ask for help. She was starting to wonder if she
should hire a Sherpa guide for the next few days when she walked round
a block of offices and found a familiar figure lounging against the
wall.
Spike smiled blandly at her, reached into his pocket, and produced a
cigarette and lighter. Buffy had seen him commit unspeakable crimes
before, but now she realized the full extent of his temerity. He was
smoking indoors in California!
She snatched the cigarette from his mouth. "You can’t do that in here!
Security will have a fit! You’ll set off smoke alarms! Asthmatics will
be running after you waving their inhalers and screaming for your
blood!"
"Well I suppose turnabout is fair play," he grinned.
She smashed the cigarette butt into a nearby drinking fountain. "What
are you doing here?" she demanded again.
"Helping," he said in an injured tone.
"Helping? By sneaking in here? You’ll probably get picked up by
Security and fry when they toss you out the door. I’ll have to save
your stupid unlife again."
"Tsk. Tsk." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge hanging
from a chain. "I’m all legal, pet. Of course, I’m supposed to wear
this around my neck, but I didn’t fancy the leash. Not my idea of a
fashion statement. If I’m to be pulled about on a chain, it’s not
going to be the wankers that run this establishment who I let hold the
other end of the lead."
Buffy tried to push a sudden, surprisingly enjoyable mental image out
of her mind. She stared at the badge. "You work here?" I was wrong.
Breathing isn’t a requirement for employment, after all.
"Clem got me the job.
Seems his friend Floyd is the Facilities manager. Hires a lot of
demons for third shift."
"Why?"
"We prefer the late hours, so he doesn’t have to pay a shift
differential."
Buffy looked up at a clock on the wall. "Then why are you here at 11
o’clock in the morning?"
"Overtime."
"That makes no sense at all. And why did you take the job in the first
place?"
"I told you, love. To help." His blue eyes feigned an innocence so
false she wanted to smash him in the face. "Couldn’t let my lady run
into danger without someone to guard her back." He pulled her toward
him. She pushed away halfheartedly, then stopped as she noticed a new
sensation.
"Spike, why are your pants vibrating? More than usual, I mean?"
He grimaced. "Been trying to ignore that."
"That’s not like you."
He pushed her away a couple of inches, fished in his pocket, and
pulled out a beeper. Buffy was close enough to read the message, "CALL
STEPHANIE," before he shut the device off.
"Who’s Stephanie?" she asked suspiciously.
"Jealous?" he asked hopefully.
"No," she lied adamantly.
"She’s Floyd’s counterpart on the day shift."
"In other words, your boss."
"Yeah." He shoved the beeper back into his pocket and pulled her close
again.
"Spike, I think there are some basics about having a real job that you
haven’t quite grasped yet."
"If you mean listening to the bloody boss, I can think of a couple of
other things I’d rather grasp first." His hand started to stray under
her blouse.
"And not feeling up coworkers in hallways is one of them." She moved
away from him and strode off resolutely.
"Uh, pet?"
She turned. "What?" she asked peevishly.
Spike pointed in the opposite direction. "Your desk is that way."
In
Chapter Four, the Scoobies try to make sense of Corporate Culture
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