Chapter Text
In a chipped blue mug next to the kitchen sink sits a tepid, long since cooled cup of English breakfast tea. There are drops of a thin, oily film floating on top that shift ever so slightly along the surface before settling back into place.
Charles Rowland walks past it for the third time this week. It serves as a blurry blue outline out of the corner of his eye while he fills a glass with water from the tap and throws back two paracetamol. The process should be practiced by now, but the bitter coating still manages to catch on his tongue. He gives himself a reluctant once over in the bathroom mirror, not even sparing a wince anymore at the haggard sight slowly blinking back at him. Over the last two years he’s accepted that the dark shadows worn under his eyes will probably never fade—a feature as permanent now as his mouth or nose.
He splashes cool water on his face, and feels a twinge in his chest while reaching for the lone towel on the rack. With his face a little pinker after drying the delicate skin none too carefully, he heads out the door—straightening the crooked tie around his neck like a noose.
____
Car engine spluttering to a stop, Charles pulls up to the massive L & F corporate building. It sits over the landscape like a foreboding, grey cloud. Hot tears threaten to spill down his cheeks, and he has to take a deep breath to coerce them back in. The car park is quiet, though—he must be one of the last people scheduled to enter. It’s a small comfort that even if one of his coworkers were to witness one of his pre-work breakdowns, it’s not like they’d recognise him anyways. He slams the car door closed and ambles across the asphalt, a mixture of snow and slushy ice crunching under his boots. A wall of warm air encloses him as he enters the building, though its trademark staleness does little to comfort him while he treks down a winding staircase.
“Mornin’” Charles says to Mr. Post, the security guard stationed outside the elevator.
He nods his head, tipping a blue cap, “Morning, Mr. Rowland.” It's odd, he’s the only person Charles talks to all day—well, remembers talking to anyways—and yet they only ever exchange these few words. It’s well enough, at this point in his life Charles can’t find it within himself to engage any further.
Opening up a little locker, he switches out a keycard labeled with his identifying information to a blank one, removes the dangling gold earring from his left ear, and enters the elevator.
Ding.
____
Christ, Charles R.’s head pounds as the elevator doors slide open, what the fuck is that bloke getting up to out there?
He doesn’t get a chance to dwell on what the outside version of himself might be doing with his free time to make Charles feel like he fell down a flight of stairs, because his boss Mrs. Finch is standing there, hands on her hips, waiting to greet him. The sight of her sharp, deep crimson nails always sends a shiver up his spine. She has an air about her that makes you wonder if the filed edges are practical rather than aesthetic—almost as if she’s waiting for an excuse to sink them into your skin and rip you apart to see what's inside.
“Charles R., you’re being observed today.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Oh darling, not by me—at least not officially.” She taunts, “No, your performance has been abysmal lately and your whole department is suffering for it. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you, Crystal H. and Jenny G. sticking your little noses where they don’t belong, leaving your desks empty to galavant around. Your data is woefully unrefined as of late.”
For a while Charles had bought the company line—the work they were doing was mysterious and important, and you don’t ask questions about it. That was until Crystal showed up, disoriented and lying on a table while the disembodied voice of Charles asked her if she could remember her own name, either of her parent’s names, where she was from, and if she could name any of her pets.
When she couldn’t answer any of these questions, growing increasingly more combative with each one, he’d informed her that she’d gotten a perfect score. Charles then entered the conference room where she was stomping around, and told her the deal. She herself had chosen to be here—only, she couldn’t access that version of herself, at least while she was in this building. The version of her that existed outside these walls willingly underwent a procedure called severance to split her consciousness, and her inside self and outside self could only access their own memories.
“So, you’re saying this is going to be my whole life—this ugly ass office building?”
“Well yeah, but it’s not so bad really. Plus if you do a good job you get certain perks, like I finished ten files and they threw a spaghetti social. I think you’re gonna like it he—” a rectangular black blur whizzed forward, connected with his head and knocked him backwards. “Did you just throw a fucking stapler at my head?”
For a few days Charles had a welt on his head, although it was almost worth it to picture outside Charles having to contend with head pain outside of his control. Crystal had eventually capitulated—though it soon became clear that her acquiescence was a front. Ever since, she’d been dragging Charles and their coworker Jenny along through the labyrinthian stark white corridors, intent on getting to the bottom of what this company actually did.
“Haven’t got a clue what you’re on about,” Charles says, staring Mrs. Finch down where she stood framed in the middle of a massive mural depicting a dizzyingly tall, circular staircase. “But if you’d like to send someone in to observe my bang up work, go for it.”
“Funny, you acting like you’re the one giving me permission.” Mrs. Finch snarls, before pointing a sharp finger down the hallway, “Now run along, wouldn’t want to keep the rest of your good-for-nothing team waiting, now would you? Oh, and when Mr. Payne arrives, see if you can manage to be civil—after all he’s only here because you can’t keep it together.”
____
“Charles, you look like shit again.” Crystal tells him as she looks up from a large, blocky computer monitor.
“Thanks Crystal, you always know just what to say.” He plops himself down in his chair, spinning around once for good measure. “I’ve got a new theory about what he’s getting up to out there, you wanna hear it?”
“Seeing as your last theory was that you’re some kind of detective, chasing down leads and getting into trouble—then no, not really.” Crystal says, although her quips have taken on a more teasing than outright stinging quality lately.
“No I’m past that theory, wouldn’t make sense anyways. How would I be working two jobs? Doesn’t add up.” He holds the empty pierced hole on his earlobe between his pointer finger and thumb, “Look at this, never noticed it before yesterday—I bet outside me is all kinds of cool, staying out late, going to concerts and flirting with everyone.”
“Your definition of cool is a 30 year old man with an earring, chatting up strangers at rock shows with sticky floors?” Jenny says from behind a small, grey divider wall. She slowly slides it down, eying him facetiously.
“You’ve never even been to a rock show, how would you know?” Charles says.
“Maybe it’s a sense memory, I’m guessing from these--” Jenny shows off the variety of tattoos covering her wrists and crawling up her neck, “that she’s probably out late at concerts.”
“Who knows, we could be best mates out there—getting up to all sorts of trouble.” Charles winks at her. Jenny stares at him for another moment before she rolls her eyes and slides the divider back up.
He turns back to Crystal, leaning back in his seat, “So, apparently they’re sending someone in to monitor us today?”
“Shit.” Crystal stabs a finger into the keyboard.
“It’ll be alright, just—”
There’s a knock from the other side of the single, stark white door in their office before it’s opened slowly. Charles nearly falls backwards and catches himself at the last moment before tumbling onto a sea of green carpet. A man that Charles hasn’t seen before enters and glances around the room before his gaze falls on Charles. He makes a steady beeline towards him, his midnight blue jumper and dark, neatly parted hair seem to almost absorb the harsh fluorescent lighting.
The man looks around, as if he’s unsure what he’s meant to be doing before holding a hand out to Charles. “Uh—Charles R., correct?”
Charles nods. Maybe he’s being a little immature and standoffish, but who cares. He’s been a model employee for years, and now that he’s started sticking it to the higher ups he’s finding it hard to stop.
He eyes Charles’ lack of outstretched hand for another beat before he lets his fall to his side.
“I’m Mr. Payne, I have been told to observe you for the day—if that is alright.”
That politeness catches Charles off guard, though he does his best not to show it on his face. “Not like I can stop you, can I?”
“They told me to anticipate a degree of obstinance.” He begins to mill about the room, holding his hands behind his back like he’s investigating the space. Charles feels something twitch in his chest, far, far away.
Mr. Payne doesn’t say much for the rest of the day. Charles could almost forget he was there if not for the scratching of a pen against a legal pad as he takes notes a few feet away from Charles.
Charles tries not to let his presence distract him. Though he’s finding it harder to refine the macrodata today—usually, the grid of green numbers floating by the monitor would call to him, evoke a certain emotion. For some reason each time he spots an anomaly, a clustering of numbers that feel happy or angry or content, he has the urge to look behind him. It continues on like that for the rest of the day, and by the time Charles waves Crystal and Jenny goodbye he figures that he hasn’t done a single productive thing all day.
When he crosses the threshold to the hallway Charles has the strangest urge to look back to where Mr. Payne is sitting perfectly upright, methodically completing his notes. Charles thinks better of it, and heads out towards the elevator.
Ding.
____
“Charles I know you’re home, and if you don’t let me in I’m going to climb in through the window.” Charles Rowland hears Niko yell from the other side of his front door. It’s not a hollow threat—in the past when Charles has gotten like this, despondent and barely able to feed himself Niko has taken it upon herself to pick him back up. He’s endlessly grateful for it, even if he doesn’t know how to express much other than apathy anymore.
He hauls himself up off the couch and swings the door open, revealing Niko bundled up in a long, soft pink coat. She’s clutching a collection of folders between mittened hands, and pushes past him to let herself inside.
She heads towards the kitchen and Charles rushes to intercept.
“I’m just going to make us some tea.” Niko says decisively.
Charles follows behind and leans against the wall, hoping she won’t go into cleaning mode. Unfortunately, he’s not so lucky.
Niko wrinkles her nose at the mug next to the sink. “Charles, is there a reason there’s a stinky old cup of tea sitting out. If I go further into the house am I going to find piles of laundry on the floor too?” She gives him a soft look, and it makes him feel deeply useless, “Do you need me to stay with you again?”
“No it’s just—” Charles’ throat tightens up as she moves to pour the tea out, “I—it’s stupid. I’m being stupid.”
Niko sets the mug down and crosses the room in two easy steps, hugging him until he starts to talk again.
“I added sugar to it—” his voice cracks, and it’s only a little muffled against Niko’s shoulder, “I added two sugars to the tea.”
“Oh…” she pauses and then squeezes a little tighter when she realizes what he’s saying, “Oh, Charles. That’s not stupid.”
In a moment of lapsed judgement, his brain apparently occupying a carefree state from years ago, he’d accidentally made Edwin’s tea. The moment it hit him what he’d done, Charles could only stare back into its dark reflective surface, unable to pour the liquid out. The whole thing felt miserably symbolic.
“How about just some waters then.” Niko reaches into another cabinet, glasses clinking together. She fills them at the tap—careful to leave the mug of tea where it sits on the counter, and gestures with her head for Charles to follow into the sitting room.
She sits herself cross legged on the floor at the coffee table, and Charles lets his eyes fall on the manila folders she’d arrived with. “What’ve you got there?”
Niko takes a small sip of water and delicately places the glass back down, fixing him with very intent eye contact. “I’ve been doing research.”
“I can see that.” He says as she begins pulling out newspaper clippings, scrawled notes, and odd scientific diagrams.
“I don’t know if we can talk here.” She whispers, glancing around the room suspiciously.
“Niko, what are you talking about?”
“Charles, it’s about Edwin.”
“Niko, I don’t know what you’re doing but I—I can’t. He’s gone.”
“Are you sure?” She slides a grainy photo across the table, and Charles feels every cell in his body reset at once.