Round 5: Minor Male Characters fic: Rat Race #17 (Gavin, PG)
Author Brutti ma Buoni
Title Rat Race #17
Character Gavin Park
Rating PG
Word Count 600
Prompt For Voleuse, who wanted office politics, treadmills, and espresso without violence or zombie Gavin
The moment when - during an interview for possible promotion, which you've been pushing for for months - you're ushered smilingly into a punishment dungeon, is the moment when you start to question whether this career choice was really such a productive one and whether maybe going into real estate like your Mom wanted was maybe the better option.
So thought Gavin Park, as Linwood Murrow warmly directed him to consider the comparative performance of the inmates. Or, as they were known down here, the serfs. (Those wacky employers!)
Gavin observed the 'serfs' with some concern. They'd been fellow employees not so very long ago. He really, really did not want to end up with them. Using slave labour treadmills to power the offices was just one of the many creative ways his employers had found to encourage high performance among the personnel, and for his money, it was working well. He could see Tara Robards on Treadmill #4. She'd been consigned here only a month ago after the snafu over rodent control orders, when she got on the wrong side of Perks in Future Planning and ended up taking the fall. She really wasn't looking good, which was a little surprising - he'd thought she was a total gym bunny. Maybe she hadn't been working on stamina. Big mistake.
"So," said Linwood. "You understand the risks."
Gavin tried to sound enthused. "Indeed I do. With promotion comes increased exposure, as well as increased reward. That's inevitable."
"That's correct. And what with the weeding out during the Review, and Mr McDonald's little nervous breakdown, there are paths to the top available for the right guy."
Gavin smiled, slightly, projecting Yes, I am that guy. Your protégé. For now. Later, maybe more of an heir, if you're lucky. "I'm particularly interested in this Special Projects role, as you know. I think I'd really bring something to the table. I have a talent for nitpicking which I think could be put to strategic use."
Linwood chuckled, the picture of business benevolence. "Well, that's refreshingly pedestrian. A new approach to mysticism in my experience. So many people get hung up on the ritual sacrifices. Want to come upstairs and talk further?"
Upstairs was good. Upstairs meant civilised coffee and chitchat. Not, say, a decision he wasn't ambitious enough for the firm; followed by immediate consignment to Treadmill #6 and the discovery that his fitness regime wasn't enough to pull him through six months of hard labour.
Upstairs, sipping proper cappuccino brought by Linwood's fawning PA, Gavin felt like he could breathe again. He started to enlarge on some thrillingly pedestrian schemes for bringing down Angel, and Linwood nodded along. Emboldened, Gavin started to dilate on his plans to increase the demonic representation among low-level public employees, slowly building a powerbase which would allow Wolfram and Hart to -
- And then he stopped. Because this was his best idea so far, his best effort at a trump card and playing it now would be dumb.
Linwood waited a few moments, obviously hoping Gavin would continue. Then he faked good cheer, "Not gonna make a rookie mistake, huh, sport?" He even punched Gavin lightly in the arm, failing to cover his chagrin. "Not gonna hand us all your best ideas for free, huh?"
Gavin waited for the punching and grinning to stop. Then said, "No, sir."
Waited some more. Till Linwood started to smile again - not so much with the hey-sport-grin this time, more with the corporate shark-smirk - and he eventually managed to get out, "Welcome aboard, Mr Park. I'm sure you'll fit right in here in Special Projects."
**
Title Rat Race #17
Character Gavin Park
Rating PG
Word Count 600
Prompt For Voleuse, who wanted office politics, treadmills, and espresso without violence or zombie Gavin
The moment when - during an interview for possible promotion, which you've been pushing for for months - you're ushered smilingly into a punishment dungeon, is the moment when you start to question whether this career choice was really such a productive one and whether maybe going into real estate like your Mom wanted was maybe the better option.
So thought Gavin Park, as Linwood Murrow warmly directed him to consider the comparative performance of the inmates. Or, as they were known down here, the serfs. (Those wacky employers!)
Gavin observed the 'serfs' with some concern. They'd been fellow employees not so very long ago. He really, really did not want to end up with them. Using slave labour treadmills to power the offices was just one of the many creative ways his employers had found to encourage high performance among the personnel, and for his money, it was working well. He could see Tara Robards on Treadmill #4. She'd been consigned here only a month ago after the snafu over rodent control orders, when she got on the wrong side of Perks in Future Planning and ended up taking the fall. She really wasn't looking good, which was a little surprising - he'd thought she was a total gym bunny. Maybe she hadn't been working on stamina. Big mistake.
"So," said Linwood. "You understand the risks."
Gavin tried to sound enthused. "Indeed I do. With promotion comes increased exposure, as well as increased reward. That's inevitable."
"That's correct. And what with the weeding out during the Review, and Mr McDonald's little nervous breakdown, there are paths to the top available for the right guy."
Gavin smiled, slightly, projecting Yes, I am that guy. Your protégé. For now. Later, maybe more of an heir, if you're lucky. "I'm particularly interested in this Special Projects role, as you know. I think I'd really bring something to the table. I have a talent for nitpicking which I think could be put to strategic use."
Linwood chuckled, the picture of business benevolence. "Well, that's refreshingly pedestrian. A new approach to mysticism in my experience. So many people get hung up on the ritual sacrifices. Want to come upstairs and talk further?"
Upstairs was good. Upstairs meant civilised coffee and chitchat. Not, say, a decision he wasn't ambitious enough for the firm; followed by immediate consignment to Treadmill #6 and the discovery that his fitness regime wasn't enough to pull him through six months of hard labour.
Upstairs, sipping proper cappuccino brought by Linwood's fawning PA, Gavin felt like he could breathe again. He started to enlarge on some thrillingly pedestrian schemes for bringing down Angel, and Linwood nodded along. Emboldened, Gavin started to dilate on his plans to increase the demonic representation among low-level public employees, slowly building a powerbase which would allow Wolfram and Hart to -
- And then he stopped. Because this was his best idea so far, his best effort at a trump card and playing it now would be dumb.
Linwood waited a few moments, obviously hoping Gavin would continue. Then he faked good cheer, "Not gonna make a rookie mistake, huh, sport?" He even punched Gavin lightly in the arm, failing to cover his chagrin. "Not gonna hand us all your best ideas for free, huh?"
Gavin waited for the punching and grinning to stop. Then said, "No, sir."
Waited some more. Till Linwood started to smile again - not so much with the hey-sport-grin this time, more with the corporate shark-smirk - and he eventually managed to get out, "Welcome aboard, Mr Park. I'm sure you'll fit right in here in Special Projects."
**