Middleman/28 Days Later: The Mirror Christmas Carol Reinvention (1/5)
Rating: PG13 for some language and implied violence
Word Count: 2,153
Disclaimer: Middlecharacters and places belong to Javi Grillo-Marxuach, West belongs to Danny Boyle, I think.
A/N: For visiblemarket on my advent calendar. Better get this up before Christmas is really gone. So I guess I'll post a chapter a day.
Summary: The head of Fatboy in the Mirror Universe gets some visitors on Christmas Eve.
Warning: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR "PALINDROME REVERSAL PALINDROME."
Wendy stifles a yawn. “So,” she says to the quivering man before her, “How much money would you estimate you’ve stolen from Fatboy over the last quarter?”
The man flinches, face contorting in shame as he wrings his hands. His wide eyes dart to the televised image of Manservant Neville looking paternally disappointed just in time to miss the video loop start over. “Uh, w-well, Miss Watson, a p-p-pen costs approximately ninety-eight cents to manufacture... and I b-borrowed-”
“Stole. Please be specific.”
“S-s-stole, uh...”
“On average you stole eleven point three pens per quarter. That’s nearly thirty-five oinkers of Manservant Neville’s hard earned money you stuffed in your pockets and walked out the door with since your employment began. That’s not even including the value of the work that could have been done using those pens. So, tell me, if you were in my position, what would you do?”
The man sags on his feet. “The beard of bees,” he says miserably.
“The beard of bees.” Wendy shrugs, “I really don’t see how you’ve left me with any other option. Guards.”
“Remember,” the recording says as the man is dragged away, sniveling, “Manservant Neville serves you.” Wendy allows a small smile as she watches him go- another faulty cog removed from her beautiful machine.
“Miss Watson?”
Wendy frowns, casting her gaze to the corner where her Head of Security has stationed himself. “Yes?”
“Don’t we receive our office materials free of charge since we intervened in that civil unrest at Plant 19 in Sector G?”
Wendy blinks at him, “What’s your point?”
She watches his mouth draw into a thin line as he swallows, “Nothing, Miss Watson. Am I excused? That was the final delinquent to be dealt with, correct?”
She waves a hand, “Yes, fine, go.”
Major West walks out, and Wendy finds her eyes following him before she can stop them. Her frown becomes a scowl, directed inward. She’d been so good lately. Oh well. She stands and turns off Manservant Neville before making her way into the halls of Fatboy Command. Machinery hums and throbs around her, employees scurry here and there, the smell of ammonia perfumes the air. Wendy isn’t taken notice of beyond the guards’ brief nods, and that’s how she likes it. Some dictators would want their subjects to grovel at their feet whenever they graced the hopeless rabble with their presence, but no. Wendy likes being behind the scenes- she’s built her career on it. The only person who needs to know who’s in control is her.
Deeper and deeper she goes through the white and chrome corridors and workspaces, until a spot of color catches her attention from the corner of her eye. She stops, and peers through an open door into one of the two break rooms in Fatboy Command that’s open to employees. She steps closer, so that the thing sitting on the table inside comes into view again.
It’s about a foot and a half in height, roughly conical in shape, and constructed from discarded green wire. Little bits of different-colored wire are twisted in like decoration. One wire bent into the shape of a star sits on top. Wendy stares at it, something stirring faintly in her memory.
“We’ll have that removed within the hour,” a voice comes dangerously close to making her jump.
She turns to find Major West standing in the doorway. “What is it?”
“Supposed to be a tree. A conifer. Not a bad likeness, I suppose.”
“And the star?”
He looks confused, a rarity for him. “It’s for Christmas, Miss Watson.”
He says it like she should know, and that bothers her deeply, but the word does spark some recognition. “Oh, right, Christmas. I forgot it was that time of year.” Actually she has to strain to remember the last time she’s been outside, let alone in a position to determine the season. Not that something so... natural is a part of her life.
“Right, well, actually...” West rocks on his feet, looking awkward all of a sudden. Wendy doesn’t like it at all.
“What?”
“Christmas is tomorrow. I was wondering if I might have the day off.”
Wendy understands the words “day” and “off” separately just fine, but putting them together gives her a moment’s pause as she tries to find the meaning. “A day. Off.”
“Yeah. Just for Christmas. I thought I might find a few presents. For people.”
Yet another assault on Wendy’s memory, this time flashing back to the last present she received. Lacey... Irritated by an indefinable pain, she snaps, “Don’t be stupid, Major. If we have employees putting things like this,” she flicks the wire tree with a finger, “up in public, who knows what else they might do under the influence of this... Christmas. You can’t abandon your post at a time like this.”
He flinches, and she knows she has him. He’s so easy. “Right, understood.”
“Also,” she continues, “Talk to the audio boys. I want the Pledge to run on the hour for the next three days, and every security officer watching for anyone who doesn’t have a damn good reason not to stop what they’re doing and honor our corporate union.”
“I’ll see to it. Excuse me, Miss Watson.”
He’s gone in the turn of a heel, leaving Wendy to contemplate the tree until a custodial crew comes to melt it into a pool of rubber and bits of metal, peel it off the table, and dispose of it. The break room is returned to its appropriate cool monochrome state.
She resumes her stroll through Fatboy Command, eventually coming to the soaring space of Manservant Neville’s office. She walks to the wall and presses a hidden catch. A rectangular section of the wall depresses and slides away to reveal Wendy Watson’s personal quarters. It’s a narrow, dark little mouse hole hidden in the wall between Manservant Neville’s office and the conference room next door. Wendy casts her eye over an array of screens showing the closed circuit feeds from strategically chosen areas of the complex. All appears calm, though a thicker fog than usual roils outside. If she squints she can see frost forming on the sentries’ helmets.
She sits down at the desk built in below her raised, cot-like bed and opens up the waiting laptop. Her mind fills with the flood of reports coming in from various sectors, the galaxy of minutiae that comes with the running of a nation-dominating corporate empire.
Her machine lets out a small beep to let her know she has a new e-mail and her heart gives an absolutely disgusting jump when she thinks for an instant it might be an update from Major West. She heaves a sigh, and mentally runs through a list of completely unacceptable candidates for Head of Security. She opens the e-mail, and is assaulted by flashing, moving, colorful images of stylized holly branches, tree ornaments, horns, angels, stars, ribbons, presents, and even something she takes for the Fatboy mascot until she sees the long white beard and strange red hat. All-caps writing in green and red screams at her:
PLEASE SPARE AN OINK FOR NEEDY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!
THE GREATEST GIFT IS HELPING OTHERS!
ANONYMOUS DONATIONS ACCEPTED!
MERRY CHRISTMAS AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!
Wendy’s lip curls in a snarl. The Fatboy Charity Service was supposed to peter out long ago- just a publicity stunt for the masses. She opens a reply and types in vicious jabs at her keyboard:
I don’t know how you got this e-mail address, but I will find out and you will regret it.
As for handing out money to those who won’t earn it themselves: if they are too lazy, stupid, or impaired to find work in ANY of the sectors of Fatboy’s union, they should know the only way they can be useful is to rid us of the surplus population.
Merry Christmas? Shove it up your ass.
Firing off the reply like a pistol shot makes Wendy feel a little better. The nerve of some people. Wendy didn’t expect charity from the world and didn’t receive it- why should a bunch of bums be any different? Self-reliance is the only way to live, everything else is just weakness. Ask anyone at the Fatboy Management Training Schools.
She pushes herself away from the desk and steps back to the screens, letting the busy order of work soothe her offended senses. The night shift is coming on, not missing a beat as they take their places at the machines. Wendy thinks she feels an extra thrum of vibration beneath her feet with the rush of fresh blood.
Wendy pauses when she notices a still figure on one of the screens. She steps closer, peering at it. It’s a man, of medium build, and he’s staring directly at the camera. As Wendy moves closer, he seems to as well, though she knows the camera is positioned in a high corner of that particular factory floor. An icy chill suddenly runs through her as the man’s face becomes clear. Manservant Neville stares at Wendy, impossibly close to the camera. His features are pale and gaunt and his hand rises, reaching. Wendy reels backwards and slams a hand on the screen’s power button, smothering the awful sight in black.
She releases the breath that’s caught in her chest. Blinks a few times. Reality continues uninterrupted and unaltered. Wendy makes a mental note to add another half-hour to her sleep schedule before going back to her desk and opening her laptop. She almost falls out of her chair when Manservant Neville’s skeletal face fills the screen. “Wendy...” he whispers, voice falling on her ears like frost.
Wendy climbs to her feet and creeps backwards, but somehow Manservant Neville follows her, body congealing from the air until he stands before her, dressed in black and trailing wisps of cryo-steam. “W-who let you out of your bag?!” she demands, voice only shaking a little.
“Wendy... I’ve come to warn you...”
“Shut up! You can’t be here. You’re in the private control room. You’re on ice! I put you there myself!”
“My body perhaps,” he replies, bottomless eyes burning into her, “But my soul wanders. Trapped, between this world, and the next...”
Wendy rolls her eyes, “Ugh, are you kidding me? Listen, obviously there’s been some kind of gas leak and I’m hallucinating. That’s it. All I have to do is step outside, clear my head a little, and kill whoever’s responsible after they fix it. Problem solved.”
She takes a step towards the door, and suddenly the shade of Manservant Neville contorts and grows into a howling black wind, sending Wendy stumbling back against the wall and stealing the air from her lungs. “AM I A HALLUCINATION, WENDY WATSON?”
“No, no!” she cries, hand held up before her face.
The wind dies, and when she lowers her hand, Manservant Neville stares down at her, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“What the fuck do you want?!”
“I already said: to warn you. You scorned my plan to restore control to the people, now if you don’t embrace it, you will pay for all eternity. The cruelest punishment imaginable awaits you, Wendy, if you choose to ignore what you will experience tonight.”
“And what exactly will I experience?”
“You’ll be visited by three spirits. Listen to what they have to say, see what they have to show you. You were always so very bright, Miss Watson. If I was ever your teacher, please... learn something tonight.”
Manservant Neville tilts his head back with a long sigh and fades like fog blown by the breeze, leaving Wendy still backed up against the wall, completely alone in her quarters. She takes a breath, tries to catalogue possible symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning. She has no headache or nausea, the room doesn’t swim before her. She feels perfectly normal, except for reality crumbling around her.
Wendy pushes herself upright, and takes out her phone.
“West here.”
“Major, uh...” she coughs some residual fear from her throat, “I’m... leaving early tonight. And I won’t be in contact until tomorrow. I need to rest.”
She winces through the pause. “Very well. I’ll inform the managers.”
“Thanks. Tell Cratchit Manservant Neville needs his stats by morning. If he’s late again he knows what’s coming to him.”
“Of course.”
“And Manservant Neville has approved Fezziwig’s prototype. He wants thirty thousand by the end of the month. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Okay.”
“Good night, Miss Watson.”
Heat rushes to her cheeks. She blames it on the brush with insanity. “Oh, yeah. Good night.” She hangs up. Telling herself she cleared her schedule for a nice restorative slumber and not in preparation for the visitors foretold by a hallucination, she prepares for bed. She falls asleep faster than she has in the last five years.
Stave Two
Word Count: 2,153
Disclaimer: Middlecharacters and places belong to Javi Grillo-Marxuach, West belongs to Danny Boyle, I think.
A/N: For visiblemarket on my advent calendar. Better get this up before Christmas is really gone. So I guess I'll post a chapter a day.
Summary: The head of Fatboy in the Mirror Universe gets some visitors on Christmas Eve.
Warning: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR "PALINDROME REVERSAL PALINDROME."
Wendy stifles a yawn. “So,” she says to the quivering man before her, “How much money would you estimate you’ve stolen from Fatboy over the last quarter?”
The man flinches, face contorting in shame as he wrings his hands. His wide eyes dart to the televised image of Manservant Neville looking paternally disappointed just in time to miss the video loop start over. “Uh, w-well, Miss Watson, a p-p-pen costs approximately ninety-eight cents to manufacture... and I b-borrowed-”
“Stole. Please be specific.”
“S-s-stole, uh...”
“On average you stole eleven point three pens per quarter. That’s nearly thirty-five oinkers of Manservant Neville’s hard earned money you stuffed in your pockets and walked out the door with since your employment began. That’s not even including the value of the work that could have been done using those pens. So, tell me, if you were in my position, what would you do?”
The man sags on his feet. “The beard of bees,” he says miserably.
“The beard of bees.” Wendy shrugs, “I really don’t see how you’ve left me with any other option. Guards.”
“Remember,” the recording says as the man is dragged away, sniveling, “Manservant Neville serves you.” Wendy allows a small smile as she watches him go- another faulty cog removed from her beautiful machine.
“Miss Watson?”
Wendy frowns, casting her gaze to the corner where her Head of Security has stationed himself. “Yes?”
“Don’t we receive our office materials free of charge since we intervened in that civil unrest at Plant 19 in Sector G?”
Wendy blinks at him, “What’s your point?”
She watches his mouth draw into a thin line as he swallows, “Nothing, Miss Watson. Am I excused? That was the final delinquent to be dealt with, correct?”
She waves a hand, “Yes, fine, go.”
Major West walks out, and Wendy finds her eyes following him before she can stop them. Her frown becomes a scowl, directed inward. She’d been so good lately. Oh well. She stands and turns off Manservant Neville before making her way into the halls of Fatboy Command. Machinery hums and throbs around her, employees scurry here and there, the smell of ammonia perfumes the air. Wendy isn’t taken notice of beyond the guards’ brief nods, and that’s how she likes it. Some dictators would want their subjects to grovel at their feet whenever they graced the hopeless rabble with their presence, but no. Wendy likes being behind the scenes- she’s built her career on it. The only person who needs to know who’s in control is her.
Deeper and deeper she goes through the white and chrome corridors and workspaces, until a spot of color catches her attention from the corner of her eye. She stops, and peers through an open door into one of the two break rooms in Fatboy Command that’s open to employees. She steps closer, so that the thing sitting on the table inside comes into view again.
It’s about a foot and a half in height, roughly conical in shape, and constructed from discarded green wire. Little bits of different-colored wire are twisted in like decoration. One wire bent into the shape of a star sits on top. Wendy stares at it, something stirring faintly in her memory.
“We’ll have that removed within the hour,” a voice comes dangerously close to making her jump.
She turns to find Major West standing in the doorway. “What is it?”
“Supposed to be a tree. A conifer. Not a bad likeness, I suppose.”
“And the star?”
He looks confused, a rarity for him. “It’s for Christmas, Miss Watson.”
He says it like she should know, and that bothers her deeply, but the word does spark some recognition. “Oh, right, Christmas. I forgot it was that time of year.” Actually she has to strain to remember the last time she’s been outside, let alone in a position to determine the season. Not that something so... natural is a part of her life.
“Right, well, actually...” West rocks on his feet, looking awkward all of a sudden. Wendy doesn’t like it at all.
“What?”
“Christmas is tomorrow. I was wondering if I might have the day off.”
Wendy understands the words “day” and “off” separately just fine, but putting them together gives her a moment’s pause as she tries to find the meaning. “A day. Off.”
“Yeah. Just for Christmas. I thought I might find a few presents. For people.”
Yet another assault on Wendy’s memory, this time flashing back to the last present she received. Lacey... Irritated by an indefinable pain, she snaps, “Don’t be stupid, Major. If we have employees putting things like this,” she flicks the wire tree with a finger, “up in public, who knows what else they might do under the influence of this... Christmas. You can’t abandon your post at a time like this.”
He flinches, and she knows she has him. He’s so easy. “Right, understood.”
“Also,” she continues, “Talk to the audio boys. I want the Pledge to run on the hour for the next three days, and every security officer watching for anyone who doesn’t have a damn good reason not to stop what they’re doing and honor our corporate union.”
“I’ll see to it. Excuse me, Miss Watson.”
He’s gone in the turn of a heel, leaving Wendy to contemplate the tree until a custodial crew comes to melt it into a pool of rubber and bits of metal, peel it off the table, and dispose of it. The break room is returned to its appropriate cool monochrome state.
She resumes her stroll through Fatboy Command, eventually coming to the soaring space of Manservant Neville’s office. She walks to the wall and presses a hidden catch. A rectangular section of the wall depresses and slides away to reveal Wendy Watson’s personal quarters. It’s a narrow, dark little mouse hole hidden in the wall between Manservant Neville’s office and the conference room next door. Wendy casts her eye over an array of screens showing the closed circuit feeds from strategically chosen areas of the complex. All appears calm, though a thicker fog than usual roils outside. If she squints she can see frost forming on the sentries’ helmets.
She sits down at the desk built in below her raised, cot-like bed and opens up the waiting laptop. Her mind fills with the flood of reports coming in from various sectors, the galaxy of minutiae that comes with the running of a nation-dominating corporate empire.
Her machine lets out a small beep to let her know she has a new e-mail and her heart gives an absolutely disgusting jump when she thinks for an instant it might be an update from Major West. She heaves a sigh, and mentally runs through a list of completely unacceptable candidates for Head of Security. She opens the e-mail, and is assaulted by flashing, moving, colorful images of stylized holly branches, tree ornaments, horns, angels, stars, ribbons, presents, and even something she takes for the Fatboy mascot until she sees the long white beard and strange red hat. All-caps writing in green and red screams at her:
PLEASE SPARE AN OINK FOR NEEDY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!
THE GREATEST GIFT IS HELPING OTHERS!
ANONYMOUS DONATIONS ACCEPTED!
MERRY CHRISTMAS AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!
Wendy’s lip curls in a snarl. The Fatboy Charity Service was supposed to peter out long ago- just a publicity stunt for the masses. She opens a reply and types in vicious jabs at her keyboard:
I don’t know how you got this e-mail address, but I will find out and you will regret it.
As for handing out money to those who won’t earn it themselves: if they are too lazy, stupid, or impaired to find work in ANY of the sectors of Fatboy’s union, they should know the only way they can be useful is to rid us of the surplus population.
Merry Christmas? Shove it up your ass.
Firing off the reply like a pistol shot makes Wendy feel a little better. The nerve of some people. Wendy didn’t expect charity from the world and didn’t receive it- why should a bunch of bums be any different? Self-reliance is the only way to live, everything else is just weakness. Ask anyone at the Fatboy Management Training Schools.
She pushes herself away from the desk and steps back to the screens, letting the busy order of work soothe her offended senses. The night shift is coming on, not missing a beat as they take their places at the machines. Wendy thinks she feels an extra thrum of vibration beneath her feet with the rush of fresh blood.
Wendy pauses when she notices a still figure on one of the screens. She steps closer, peering at it. It’s a man, of medium build, and he’s staring directly at the camera. As Wendy moves closer, he seems to as well, though she knows the camera is positioned in a high corner of that particular factory floor. An icy chill suddenly runs through her as the man’s face becomes clear. Manservant Neville stares at Wendy, impossibly close to the camera. His features are pale and gaunt and his hand rises, reaching. Wendy reels backwards and slams a hand on the screen’s power button, smothering the awful sight in black.
She releases the breath that’s caught in her chest. Blinks a few times. Reality continues uninterrupted and unaltered. Wendy makes a mental note to add another half-hour to her sleep schedule before going back to her desk and opening her laptop. She almost falls out of her chair when Manservant Neville’s skeletal face fills the screen. “Wendy...” he whispers, voice falling on her ears like frost.
Wendy climbs to her feet and creeps backwards, but somehow Manservant Neville follows her, body congealing from the air until he stands before her, dressed in black and trailing wisps of cryo-steam. “W-who let you out of your bag?!” she demands, voice only shaking a little.
“Wendy... I’ve come to warn you...”
“Shut up! You can’t be here. You’re in the private control room. You’re on ice! I put you there myself!”
“My body perhaps,” he replies, bottomless eyes burning into her, “But my soul wanders. Trapped, between this world, and the next...”
Wendy rolls her eyes, “Ugh, are you kidding me? Listen, obviously there’s been some kind of gas leak and I’m hallucinating. That’s it. All I have to do is step outside, clear my head a little, and kill whoever’s responsible after they fix it. Problem solved.”
She takes a step towards the door, and suddenly the shade of Manservant Neville contorts and grows into a howling black wind, sending Wendy stumbling back against the wall and stealing the air from her lungs. “AM I A HALLUCINATION, WENDY WATSON?”
“No, no!” she cries, hand held up before her face.
The wind dies, and when she lowers her hand, Manservant Neville stares down at her, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“What the fuck do you want?!”
“I already said: to warn you. You scorned my plan to restore control to the people, now if you don’t embrace it, you will pay for all eternity. The cruelest punishment imaginable awaits you, Wendy, if you choose to ignore what you will experience tonight.”
“And what exactly will I experience?”
“You’ll be visited by three spirits. Listen to what they have to say, see what they have to show you. You were always so very bright, Miss Watson. If I was ever your teacher, please... learn something tonight.”
Manservant Neville tilts his head back with a long sigh and fades like fog blown by the breeze, leaving Wendy still backed up against the wall, completely alone in her quarters. She takes a breath, tries to catalogue possible symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning. She has no headache or nausea, the room doesn’t swim before her. She feels perfectly normal, except for reality crumbling around her.
Wendy pushes herself upright, and takes out her phone.
“West here.”
“Major, uh...” she coughs some residual fear from her throat, “I’m... leaving early tonight. And I won’t be in contact until tomorrow. I need to rest.”
She winces through the pause. “Very well. I’ll inform the managers.”
“Thanks. Tell Cratchit Manservant Neville needs his stats by morning. If he’s late again he knows what’s coming to him.”
“Of course.”
“And Manservant Neville has approved Fezziwig’s prototype. He wants thirty thousand by the end of the month. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Okay.”
“Good night, Miss Watson.”
Heat rushes to her cheeks. She blames it on the brush with insanity. “Oh, yeah. Good night.” She hangs up. Telling herself she cleared her schedule for a nice restorative slumber and not in preparation for the visitors foretold by a hallucination, she prepares for bed. She falls asleep faster than she has in the last five years.
Stave Two