Circuit Breaker, Chapter One- Boom City
Following an illustrious academic career, the world had its eye on Eduard von Bock, a promising new IT prodigy from Estonia who had announced his progress in creating a new coding language that would revolutionize computer programming and take the technological world by storm.
Somehow at the age of 23, he still found himself working as the manager of the Nerd Herd at the Seattle-branch of Prime Purchase, answering phone calls from people who couldn’t tell their motherboard from their mouse pad and he found it all So Dull.
Wednesday always seemed to be the worst; everybody with some technological know-how was at work using their computers, so that left only the most borderline brain-dead customers to call him and shriek into his ear for help.
And old people.
He hated answering calls from old people.
“I only bought this computer yesterday and it isn’t working! You corporate people and your greedy ways, trying to take advantage of an old woman like me...I just wanted a computer to keep in contact with my granddaughter and you all sell me this useless piece of junk! I want a refund!”
The ones that called begging for pity were generally the worst. They guilt-tripped the hell out of you (or tried), but eventually you got used to it. Eduard tuned the woman out as he dug the dirt out from beneath his fingernails with the end of a bent paperclip.
“Have you tried turning it on?” he asked in a bland voice, readjusting his glasses where they sat on his nose. He hated the damn headsets they were forced to wear because it pressed his glasses into his face uncomfortably, but Prime Purchase insisted the Nerd Herd use them; said it gave them a more “professional look”.
Clearly a guy in a lime-green headset and crooked glasses simply screamed professionalism.
“Of course I have! Nothing happens!”
“Have you plugged it into a wall?”
There was a brief silence which Eduard hoped was for affronted astonishment that he believed she could be so stupid. He winced as the paperclip grated a bit against his nail; suddenly the old lady’s voice crackled over the other end of his headset in full force.
“This computer didn’t come with a wall!”
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There should have been some sort of karmic balance to living in a city like Seattle like he did, in the crappy apartment he was in, having a job like he had. He should’ve had a really popular underground band, or had the ability to pick up any girl he wanted, or his friends should’ve been at the height of the Seattle 20-somethings’ social network.
As it was, he was sitting in the Stumptown Coffee on East Pine with Toris and Feliks because the one 12th Avenue had gotten invaded by tourists and the irritatingly hipster crowd so that nothing but The Trews, or maybe Blue Scholars or Pretty Girls Make Graves (if the staff was feeling some Seattle patriotism) played over the sound system.
Eduard did not have a popular underground band. The barista behind the counter had given his hair a (pierced) raised eyebrow before refusing to acknowledge him any further than handing him his order, so he wasn’t able to pick up any girl he wanted. As for Toris and Feliks...
Well, they all knew each other (though Feliks reportedly ran with some pretty wild groups around 3 am) and that was good enough, though it was no top-ranked socialite echelon.
“Was work any better today, Eduard?” Toris asked politely, letting the heat from his cup of coffee (black, surprisingly) warm his hands. It was surprisingly cold even for March and the draft let in by the door was no help; however, it was their tradition to take the unpopular and unfashionable table by the entrance. Eduard shrugged amiably and gave Toris a weak smile, feeling self-conscious in the (fashionable by corporate’s standards) grey and purple sweatervest and bright yellow tie that marked him as a full-time working schmuck with a dead-end job. It was embarrassing.
He should’ve gone home to change first. Or at least had the foresight to dump the vest and tie.
“It was...the same. Just like everyday,” he answered calmly. He stared down at the table separating them, where Feliks’s shoe was growing alarming close to Eduard’s espresso. Eduard had stopped questioning why the Polish boy always insisted on sitting in the most strange positions. (And honestly, it inconvenienced all of them. It was amazing how such a slight person could take up so much room.) He glanced up at Feliks, who was gazing intently at his laptop (a completely stock Macbook Pro with a Tokidoki fashion gelaskin and it made Eduard cringe), green eyes flashing over lines of text with an unusual amount of gravity in his expression.
All Eduard really cared about was that Feliks had his electric blue heels propped up on the table and they were becoming an increasingly large threat to the safety of his espresso, and he could see up Feliks’s “skirt-that-he-insisted-was-actually-a-hipwrap-and-so-socially-acceptable, okay?”.
“...oh my God,” Feliks announced at last, slowly (melodramatically, Eduard thought) closing his laptop and letting his feet slide off the table (and away from Eduard’s drink). He twisted slightly to stare at Toris with wide eyes. Toris stared back in complete confusion.
“Toris,” Feliks said slowly, “Did you know Lithuania has, like, the world’s highest suicide rate? Omigawd, I am like SO glad you don’t live there anymore.” The awkward spell was broken as Feliks leaned back and flipped his blonde hair over his shoulder with a self-satisfied smirk.
“I totally helped you dodge a bullet there, seriously.”
Toris winced at the unfortunate choice in wording. Eduard blinked, adjusted his glasses, and loosened his tie.
“You realize that we live in Seattle, right?”
Feliks stared back at him uncomprehendingly. Toris stared back at him beseechingly, mouthing pleas silently.
“I think it has a reputation for being something like the suicide capital.”
Toris glared at Eduard as Feliks began to shriek and shake Toris by the shoulders. Eduard quietly sipped his drink, hiding a smirk behind the cup’s rim.
The Lithuanian began to speak to Eduard, though the words were impeded by the violence of Feliks’ movements. Apparently they were to be expecting someone. Eduard immediately took this as a bad sign. “Expecting someone” was Toris’ tactful way of saying--
“Oh yeah and Liet totally set you up with this really cute guy and he’s like, on his way.”
--that he’d set Eduard up for another disastrous blind date. Again. For the eighth time in as many months.
(With a guy. Again. He was straight, for the love of God.)
“Feliks!” Toris cried in dismay, breaking free of the Pole’s grasp and slamming his hand over Feliks’ renegade mouth to prevent any other sort of pertinent information from escaping. Eduard stared down at his empty cup and the remaining dregs of deep brown espresso beading together along the sides and puddling at the bottom with a thoughtful expression before setting it down on the table with a gentle scuff and beginning to gather his things together. Toris gazed at him with a vaguely fearful expression.
“Eduard--”
“I thought I mentioned around...oh, five-ish dates ago,” Eduard murmured pleasantly, “That I didn’t particularly enjoy being set up with strangers, nor do I appreciate the implications you make by continuing to set me up.”
He donned his coat and his battered messenger bag went over his shoulder.
“It’s very rude,” he said with as much sternness as he could muster. He had planned a dramatic exit, coattails flailing in the wind, a smattering of snow by the front door and a still-warm but empty cup as the only evidence of his presence.
Instead, his mental theatre was interrupted as someone opened the door with a great deal of force. Anyone with a sense of how physics works and comedic timing will realize that this had a rather bad consequence on Eduard and his back.
The culprit was a small (teenaged?) boy, short in stature with a pale complexion even by a wintry Seattlite’s standards, large eyes (of a strange shade of violet, which Eduard found unnerving and plain odd), and a mess of unruly sand-colored curls topping his head.
He was dressed in what had to be uncomfortably tight pants that were artfully ripped over the thighs and knees, some offbrand canvas shoes, a tightly fitted vintage concert tee from the 60s for a band that nobody had heard of or cared for or even bothered to remember, and a clearly borrowed (or intentionally bought that way) oversized tweed overcoat, patched with mismatched twill.
He tilted his head to regard Eduard with some care, eyebrows knitting together. The Estonian caught Toris’ nervous smile in his peripheral and felt a thrill of horror crawl up his spine.
‘Oh God,’ he thought, ‘They set me up with a hipster.’
“You know,” the small blonde in front of him said slowly, “You looked much better in your pictures.”
Eduard von Bock had never wanted to hit someone so much in his life.
Somehow at the age of 23, he still found himself working as the manager of the Nerd Herd at the Seattle-branch of Prime Purchase, answering phone calls from people who couldn’t tell their motherboard from their mouse pad and he found it all So Dull.
Wednesday always seemed to be the worst; everybody with some technological know-how was at work using their computers, so that left only the most borderline brain-dead customers to call him and shriek into his ear for help.
And old people.
He hated answering calls from old people.
“I only bought this computer yesterday and it isn’t working! You corporate people and your greedy ways, trying to take advantage of an old woman like me...I just wanted a computer to keep in contact with my granddaughter and you all sell me this useless piece of junk! I want a refund!”
The ones that called begging for pity were generally the worst. They guilt-tripped the hell out of you (or tried), but eventually you got used to it. Eduard tuned the woman out as he dug the dirt out from beneath his fingernails with the end of a bent paperclip.
“Have you tried turning it on?” he asked in a bland voice, readjusting his glasses where they sat on his nose. He hated the damn headsets they were forced to wear because it pressed his glasses into his face uncomfortably, but Prime Purchase insisted the Nerd Herd use them; said it gave them a more “professional look”.
Clearly a guy in a lime-green headset and crooked glasses simply screamed professionalism.
“Of course I have! Nothing happens!”
“Have you plugged it into a wall?”
There was a brief silence which Eduard hoped was for affronted astonishment that he believed she could be so stupid. He winced as the paperclip grated a bit against his nail; suddenly the old lady’s voice crackled over the other end of his headset in full force.
“This computer didn’t come with a wall!”
------------------------------------------------------------------
There should have been some sort of karmic balance to living in a city like Seattle like he did, in the crappy apartment he was in, having a job like he had. He should’ve had a really popular underground band, or had the ability to pick up any girl he wanted, or his friends should’ve been at the height of the Seattle 20-somethings’ social network.
As it was, he was sitting in the Stumptown Coffee on East Pine with Toris and Feliks because the one 12th Avenue had gotten invaded by tourists and the irritatingly hipster crowd so that nothing but The Trews, or maybe Blue Scholars or Pretty Girls Make Graves (if the staff was feeling some Seattle patriotism) played over the sound system.
Eduard did not have a popular underground band. The barista behind the counter had given his hair a (pierced) raised eyebrow before refusing to acknowledge him any further than handing him his order, so he wasn’t able to pick up any girl he wanted. As for Toris and Feliks...
Well, they all knew each other (though Feliks reportedly ran with some pretty wild groups around 3 am) and that was good enough, though it was no top-ranked socialite echelon.
“Was work any better today, Eduard?” Toris asked politely, letting the heat from his cup of coffee (black, surprisingly) warm his hands. It was surprisingly cold even for March and the draft let in by the door was no help; however, it was their tradition to take the unpopular and unfashionable table by the entrance. Eduard shrugged amiably and gave Toris a weak smile, feeling self-conscious in the (fashionable by corporate’s standards) grey and purple sweatervest and bright yellow tie that marked him as a full-time working schmuck with a dead-end job. It was embarrassing.
He should’ve gone home to change first. Or at least had the foresight to dump the vest and tie.
“It was...the same. Just like everyday,” he answered calmly. He stared down at the table separating them, where Feliks’s shoe was growing alarming close to Eduard’s espresso. Eduard had stopped questioning why the Polish boy always insisted on sitting in the most strange positions. (And honestly, it inconvenienced all of them. It was amazing how such a slight person could take up so much room.) He glanced up at Feliks, who was gazing intently at his laptop (a completely stock Macbook Pro with a Tokidoki fashion gelaskin and it made Eduard cringe), green eyes flashing over lines of text with an unusual amount of gravity in his expression.
All Eduard really cared about was that Feliks had his electric blue heels propped up on the table and they were becoming an increasingly large threat to the safety of his espresso, and he could see up Feliks’s “skirt-that-he-insisted-was-actually-a-hipwrap-and-so-socially-acceptable, okay?”.
“...oh my God,” Feliks announced at last, slowly (melodramatically, Eduard thought) closing his laptop and letting his feet slide off the table (and away from Eduard’s drink). He twisted slightly to stare at Toris with wide eyes. Toris stared back in complete confusion.
“Toris,” Feliks said slowly, “Did you know Lithuania has, like, the world’s highest suicide rate? Omigawd, I am like SO glad you don’t live there anymore.” The awkward spell was broken as Feliks leaned back and flipped his blonde hair over his shoulder with a self-satisfied smirk.
“I totally helped you dodge a bullet there, seriously.”
Toris winced at the unfortunate choice in wording. Eduard blinked, adjusted his glasses, and loosened his tie.
“You realize that we live in Seattle, right?”
Feliks stared back at him uncomprehendingly. Toris stared back at him beseechingly, mouthing pleas silently.
“I think it has a reputation for being something like the suicide capital.”
Toris glared at Eduard as Feliks began to shriek and shake Toris by the shoulders. Eduard quietly sipped his drink, hiding a smirk behind the cup’s rim.
The Lithuanian began to speak to Eduard, though the words were impeded by the violence of Feliks’ movements. Apparently they were to be expecting someone. Eduard immediately took this as a bad sign. “Expecting someone” was Toris’ tactful way of saying--
“Oh yeah and Liet totally set you up with this really cute guy and he’s like, on his way.”
--that he’d set Eduard up for another disastrous blind date. Again. For the eighth time in as many months.
(With a guy. Again. He was straight, for the love of God.)
“Feliks!” Toris cried in dismay, breaking free of the Pole’s grasp and slamming his hand over Feliks’ renegade mouth to prevent any other sort of pertinent information from escaping. Eduard stared down at his empty cup and the remaining dregs of deep brown espresso beading together along the sides and puddling at the bottom with a thoughtful expression before setting it down on the table with a gentle scuff and beginning to gather his things together. Toris gazed at him with a vaguely fearful expression.
“Eduard--”
“I thought I mentioned around...oh, five-ish dates ago,” Eduard murmured pleasantly, “That I didn’t particularly enjoy being set up with strangers, nor do I appreciate the implications you make by continuing to set me up.”
He donned his coat and his battered messenger bag went over his shoulder.
“It’s very rude,” he said with as much sternness as he could muster. He had planned a dramatic exit, coattails flailing in the wind, a smattering of snow by the front door and a still-warm but empty cup as the only evidence of his presence.
Instead, his mental theatre was interrupted as someone opened the door with a great deal of force. Anyone with a sense of how physics works and comedic timing will realize that this had a rather bad consequence on Eduard and his back.
The culprit was a small (teenaged?) boy, short in stature with a pale complexion even by a wintry Seattlite’s standards, large eyes (of a strange shade of violet, which Eduard found unnerving and plain odd), and a mess of unruly sand-colored curls topping his head.
He was dressed in what had to be uncomfortably tight pants that were artfully ripped over the thighs and knees, some offbrand canvas shoes, a tightly fitted vintage concert tee from the 60s for a band that nobody had heard of or cared for or even bothered to remember, and a clearly borrowed (or intentionally bought that way) oversized tweed overcoat, patched with mismatched twill.
He tilted his head to regard Eduard with some care, eyebrows knitting together. The Estonian caught Toris’ nervous smile in his peripheral and felt a thrill of horror crawl up his spine.
‘Oh God,’ he thought, ‘They set me up with a hipster.’
“You know,” the small blonde in front of him said slowly, “You looked much better in your pictures.”
Eduard von Bock had never wanted to hit someone so much in his life.