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"Where you from, newbie?" His 'coworker' asks, face just a touch too jeering and something close to fond to not remember the countless deaths they've both suffered at the hands of this elevator. He doesn't answer at first, busy figuring out how to fix the problem of the vent without tools.
He quickly remembers he really should answer.
"Uh, sorry. Kansas City. My mom isn't..." From here, white, she's foreign flash through his mind before settling on, "American."
Coworker nods, like he understands. "I get it. My old man is English. Mom passed on," he says through the filter of his cigarette. Protag wants to grunt but he settles for a sorry to hear that, getting a shrug for his botched social interaction.
The elevator dings. Shit. Floor 8. They're gonna die again, he's gonna get them killed again—
"Hey, why not start with the weaker one first?" ...What?
"Keep pressing for information, the weaker ones always spill if you're hard or soft enough on 'em." Is this guy secretly a criminal? What kind of advice is this? Protag thinks, expression crinkled in sheer horror. This sounds like a euphemism for murder.
It goes better than expected. The doppelganger of his coworker falls for the bare minimum of niceties fast. It's humiliating for the real one, it must be, watching the other him all but beg for a conversation that isn't his protagonist. That makes him almost smile, but he keeps up the kind expression until they get the scissors.
"Jesus, you're a fuckin' animal," the blond man laughs as the doors close, eyes wide and smile just as big. Protag's nose wrinkles as the words register.
"I'm not an animal, I'm doing what anyone would've done," he snorts, snatching the lighter and ignoring the stare still on him. He wants to say he hates it, hates the feeling of being in control this idiot is giving him just from a back-handed compliment.
The scissors dig into his palm as he lights a burnt cigarette. "I took your advice, you should be happy your junior listened," he mutters, inhaling through the crumpled filter. He hears the sharp exhale Coworker lets out and allows the feeling of satisfaction of getting under his skin to wash over him. Damn, if it doesn't feel good. Good to watch him flounder, to shut up for once. His Adam's apple bobs as he looks at his coworker from the side.
Floor 3 needs something alive, as they learn. Time spent agonizing is quickly forgotten in the face of Newbie, use the damn rat and when it works? It's all the better. Protag ignores the way the rat squeaks and freezes in his hand as the maw accepts the mouse. It's eerily quiet after before Coworker leans down (close, too close for comfort, he can see every eyelash the man has, even the beauty mark hiding under said lash line) and snatches his lighter to light a cigarette. He unceremoniously hands it back after exhaling slowly. The cloud of smoke shouldn't be appealing. He shouldn't be appealing.
A CD is found, silence continues to reign supreme over the elevator. And the passkey is so simple Protag's feels near idiotic with how on the nose it is. "RAISE, how simple is that?" He mutters, gaze falling on his smoking coworker unwillingly.
"It's what we should all aim for, newbie. A raise, a promotion. A jump up from what we got," he grins, knocking the other with his shoulder. This idiot... promotions and raises can't be on the table. The Company is actively firing and hiring, trading out and buying in.
It's now that Protag feels sick. He's here to be needed, to be bought in and never traded out. What happens when he is eventually tossed away? He doesn't register slipping down the wall and curling into a ball. He needs a cigarette; he needs stability. He needs help, anything. A life boat, something to cling to because he isn't good enough to stay around and get a fucking raise—
The blond snaps his fingers as the elevator dings. "Get up, newbie. It's your interview," he says quietly, as he crouches down in front of his scrunched up body. Cigarette ash falls in the space between and makes him sicker. Oxfords polished, beautiful against the dusky cream carpet of the elevator. Same building, but so different.
Wild dark hair, tan skin, short lashes, a nose that never healed right from being broken. Thick frames, a suit that hangs too lose in the legs and too tight on arms. Brown eyes that shine red in the dull lights of the elevator, eyebags too noticeable, bitten lips and little calluses on his hands. It's too different from his coworker.
Blonde hair close cropped, but not too much. Too short and you run the risk of being unattractive, so use gel. Longer lashes than most have, double eyelids, a mole hidden by said eyelids and one behind his ear lobe. Nails better manicured than most women Protag knows and eyebags taken care of. Suit perfectly fitted. He's perfect, in short words.
Accent sharp and tight, long vowels and big gestures. Condescending faces and words natural to the place he was born and raised in. Protag didn't have any of that, he had no accent and a penchant for apologies. He had a habit of forgetting words and having to stop and think, special vocabulary not welcome in the office. Everything Coworker was, he wasn't.He wanted to ruin his face and nails and hair and suit. That perfection, it made him sick. Screw the interview, he could hit floor 4 and ignore the door. He could rip him apart with the scissors and screwdriver just to see him as pathetic as Protag was seen. Jealousy was secondary, corruption was the big issue now.
But he had an interview. He could simmer in his rage and fear and self-pity later. Shakily, hand holding the wall as he nearly falls over from the lack of horizon and ground on this floor. At least the interviewer is here.
"Katz, you took a while getting here. Showing our newest around?" The man asks, smile present but mouth never moving around the words. It's unnerving. Coworker shrugs, face almost blank and maybe... annoyed?
"In any case, was your senior a help?" Oh, a question for him. Protag frowns.
"I– he– he was a... a good resource," the shorter man answers, almost immediately regretting his answer when he sees the annoyance on Coworkers's face shift to carefully masked contempt at the... interviewer?
"I see. Beckley is a good asset at the company, I'm sure you gathered that," The interviewer says cheerfully. "As you know," he continues, "We value our workers along with our new hires. You! Now, your name is...?" He trailed off, smiling expectantly. Protag opened his mouth to answer, only to be cut off. "Wonderful! You can start tomorrow. I'm sure it was a hard time getting up here, you deserve a break. Go home, sleep, come back at your best," the interviewer chirped, patting him on the shoulder and shaking his hand once, twice, three times and waving a hand. "Cox, shall we?" Coworker sighs, putting the cigarette out in the carpet.
Not even a twitch on the interviewers face. Protag feels caught between two parties, he wants to smash the lobby key into the elevator and ride back down.
"Bye newbie. Been a blast," a manicured hand through sandy blond hair. "See you around!" Fake cheer injected like an IV as he stepped out. He's gonna fall, he's gonna die, grab his arm and help him—
He walks off and Protag lets the doors close in front of him. Fate sealed, deed written in his blood and suffering.