Chapter Text
He followed the line of suits to the auditorium with good humor. Most are old enough that a first day at a new job doesn’t faze them, just another cycle of corporate nonsense to zone out during, but there are a few young guns fidgeting with their sleeve cuffs or near buzzing with nerves.
He pats one of those nervous bees on the shoulder, giving them a friendly grin. “Don’t worry too much,” he murmurs conspiratorially. “Can’t imagine they’ll expect much when you just walked in the door. It’s just going through policies and procedures, I assume.”
“Right,” the little guy says, visibly rallying. “It’s day one. Not going to be sent to the field right away or anything.”
“Exactly. You should probably prepare yourself for a lot of droning on and on and an icebreaker or two.”
He received a sheepish grin. “Guess I’m just excited. I didn't expect to end up here at a secret alphabet agency after the academy.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he says cheerily. “Hey, let’s grab those seats. Got a good vantage point without being right in the line of sight of whoever’s presenting.”
Recent college grad seems delighted to not have to make a choice and follows him like a duckling. It’s almost cute. And, being fair, that lack of desire to think for one’s self is exactly what “secret alphabet agencies” look for in their recruits.
They chitchat as if they’re actually going to be colleagues, as if Agent Stone isn’t already a seasoned veteran of GUN. He’s recently back from assignment and should be meeting with officials unknown to the public and receiving his next target, not listening to Edward (“You can call me Ed!”) babble about his cousin’s friend’s dentist who also works for the government.
His current predicament is due to a dumb mistake on HR’s part, he assumes, but he’s not the type to go out of his way to fix someone else’s idiocy. He does as he’s told, and in this case, Agent Stone has been ordered to attend new employee orientation by a slim woman from the onboarding department who’s clearly overworked and running on fumes if she can’t extrapolate that a “new” field agent with a huge CLASSIFIED stamp over top his file might not actually be all that new.
It’s amusing in the same way watching someone on the street trip and fall on their face is. Not gut-wrenchingly hilarious, but a bit entertaining. A small reminder that you’re not the dumbest brick in the pile.
He’s sure that someone higher up will be less amused at her wasting his - and therefore the government’s - time, but that’s not his problem. He believes in going where he’s told, doing exactly what he’s told, and letting the universe decide the shape of his day from there. It’s how he found his favorite type of coffee beans, his longest lasting pair of boots, his beloved cat (now deceased after fifteen years of quiet companionship and yet to be replaced), his first joint, and a long-lost half-brother in an Aldi’s parking lot (also deceased through less-than-legal circumstances.)
He’s had entertaining adventures just by following whims and temporary intrigue, and he rarely regrets his impulsivity. Orientation may be boring, but he has faith there will be some redeeming quality to toughing out the dull event.
There always is. You just have to look close enough and have an open, accepting attitude.
He identifies at least three people that must have been planted by foreign governments, a dozen that won’t make it past the first week, and twenty that shouldn’t make it past the first week but will probably become handlers, directors, and supervisors themselves in the next five years. The rest are bland at best, and most likely half a step above cannon fodder.
They’re all as dull as the presentation is. There’s a lot of subtle talk about loyalty and honor in a poor attempt at some mild subliminal manipulation, and as predicted, the lectures mainly center around, “Here’s how to send emails and submit reports to the right people in the right way, here’s the dress code, here’s the water cooler, no you won’t get a gun any time soon,” nonsense.
He waits. Back straight, eyes forward, attentive in a way no one except the most eager recruits are after two hours of boredom.
He is rewarded with the doors slamming open and an absolute vision of a man striding in.
The heavens are singing.
Or screaming.
Something’s ringing in Stone’s ears, at the very least, and it leaves him dazed and amazed. He already likes the shape his day will now be taking.
This man, all in black, perfectly coiffed and covered entirely from the neck down - a twirly, almost cartoonish mustache - a gait that commands the room - and a jovial yet jeering tenor. He demands notice, and Stone perks up like a dog who can hear its master’s footsteps approaching.
“Oh Commanderrrrr,” he sings, loud and visibly pleased with himself. “Someone’s been a naughty, naughty boy. You’ve been avoiding me. Me! It’s like you don’t like me or the multimillion-dollar tech I create for you and your braindead superiors! I’m almost hurt, Commander Dumb Haircut.”
He holds a hand over his heart with a large, fake pout. “You don’t write, you don’t call, you walk in the opposite direction when I approach - I thought we had something special! Dare I even say, a connection ? What will our children think, Commander?” He tsks, waggling a finger as he approaches the stage. “Or, I suppose, my children, since you’re pretending to have nothing to do with their conception.”
“Doctor Robotnik,” the current presenter says, all teeth and tense muscles. “Is now an appropriate time - ?”
“Do NOT speak to me, peon.” He points at the previous presenter, sitting in a crappy folding chair with the rest of the speakers, and the man, already pale, somehow turns whiter. “I’ve got a bone to pick with this deadbeat father. You trick me into bed under false pretenses, knock me up with unauthorized, unsanctioned tech requests - then you have the audacity to try to frame me for your piss poor attempt at embezzling and leave me out to dry! Now Mommy’s left trying to explain why you never came home after going out for milk. Our babies widdle hearts bwoke, and mine aches for them. Truly.”
He leaps onto stage and takes the microphone, dancing out of reach when the furious dullard tries to retrieve it. “Hello morons, idiots, and imbeciles! I’m going to show you what happens when you write checks you can’t cash! Or, more importantly: What happens when you PISS ME OFF and make me have to step away from my work WHICH IS WORTH MORE THAN A SMALL COUNTRY.” A deep breath, then he continues in a calmer tone, “It will be a valuable first lesson that might - just might! - make you the teeny, tiniest bit useful sometime in the future. You’ll never approach any level of meaningful intellect, as your brains are nothing more than dead-weight in your Neanderthalic skills, but at the very least, try not to be as mindbogglingly stupid as Mr. Dumb-Enough-to-Make-Elon-Look-At-Least-as-Smart-as-a-Third-Grader over here, or else you, too, will never know peace.”
He lifts a single hand, snaps his fingers, and every screen in the auditorium flashes red.
Stone’s breath hitches ever so slightly as they start scrolling through the many, many embarrassing secrets of one Commander Franklin Reichold, a parody of the government-branded PowerPoints they’d just been sitting through. It flips slowly through his sins like a smooth screensaver - His Fetlife profile, the bank transfers between him and a recently social-media canceled celebrity, photos of him with an obscene amount of blow, photos of him with an obscene amount of blow AND his dick out, the contracts he signed with a Russian arms dealer, and, worst of all: Video evidence of him leaving bathrooms without washing his hands.
Disgusting.
Hilarious.
This Robotnik guy is a gift from the universe. He’s fun .
Stone can’t believe he hasn’t heard of the man until now. He can’t believe he’s been living, entirely ignorant of someone so amazing . His fingers itch to start researching, to figure out more about this bold, demanding man. The rest of him wants nothing more than to absorb every moment of Robotnik’s performance, to commit every microsecond to his long-term memory.
Robotnik turns to Reichold and Stone can just barely see the edge of his nasty grin.
“You really thought you could get one over on me?” Robotnik says. “Really? You?” He gives a short, still jovial laugh, and then in one, lightning-fast move, he throws the microphone at Reichold’s head. “YOU’RE NOT EVEN WORTH THE SHIT STUCK TO YOUR UNWASHED ASS, YOU DISGUSTING WASTE OF OXYGEN. YOU PATHETIC FUCK. YOU SHOULDN’T DARE BREATHE IN THE SAME HEMISPHERE AS ME, WORM.”
“D-Doctor, I - “
A hand darts out and grabs him by the throat. “SHUT. UP.”
As agents pour in through the doors to separate the two (and likely to arrest Reichold, given what they’ve all just seen proof of), as this incoming group of new recruits stare in bafflement at what their orientation has turned into, as Robotnik snaps his fingers again and a small, white robot flies over from God-knows-where to hand him a small, still steaming cup, Stone smiles; certain that he has ended up exactly where he is meant to be, certain that his patience has once again been rewarded with a delightfully intriguing opportunity that could change his entire life.