Square Roots and Radicals- a Metalocalypse fanfic
A/N: I'm baaaack! With something small to get the juices flowing again before I get back to work on "Contingency Plan" and "Jailklok." This is actually something I've wanted to do for a very long time now- my personal take on the events- as usual, being very Charles oriented- that led up to the formation of Dethklok and his involvement with them. This story goes hand in hand with my one shot, "Off the Clock," which you can find on my main page. So, in short, welcome to my very first Metalocalypse PREQUEL. If you don't like being ever so slightly- and purposely- confused, get out now. If you stay, read on, reader!
Chapter 1
The alarm clock sounded viciously, but the young man in the bed- on top of it? Tangled up in it?- barely moved. It wasn't until his headache kicked in that his hand finally shot out and tried to beat the life out of modern technology.
Charlie Offdensen moaned, his hair sticking to his already sweating face. It was a scorching summer day. He had to get up. He knew he had to get up. But actually doing it was a completely different story.
Seven o'clock in the morning was far too early after the party he'd been to the night before. The waves of a mild hangover crashed over him, and he almost wretched into his pillows, which were soaked with sweat and who knew what other fluids. Last night's lovely lady was, apparently, long gone, though he found, as he rolled over, she had left behind a calling card- her panties were still between the wrinkled sheets of the unoccupied side of the bed. Charlie smiled to himself knowingly. He'd see her again.
Finally, he roused enough energy to sit up, immediately feeling the weight of reality crash into him. He swooned for a moment, before tiredly searching for the power button on his stereo. Instantly, he felt better, as the Fixx started curing his headache. He stood, oh so carefully, before stumbling into the adjacent bathroom, finding his date from the evening hours had also left her lipstick on the edge of his sink. He smirked, feeling the weight of it in his palm before placing it in his medicine cabinet. She'd be back. They usually were.
The radio was so loud it was nearly crystal clear while he showered, starting to feel a little more human. Midnight Oil, Missing Persons…he hummed along to them all. He clambered out of the shower and shaved, being careful not to cut himself while he uncontrollably tapped his foot to the music. Successfully completing this task, he set to work blow drying, brushing, and styling his hair. It was a labor of love- Charlie often heard he had beautiful hair. It was past his shoulders, just wavy enough on it's own to not have to worry much about, and just manageable enough that his employers didn't say much about it. As he flipped it over his face and began to brush out the underside, the stereo decided it would humor him with a little Huey Lewis and the News. He grinned under his hair, and began to belt out "I Want a New Drug" as loud as he could manage, pre- morning coffee.
It was no secret that Charlie Offdensen had a passion for music. He was an absolute nerd for music. It showed in how he handled his day, the people he hung out with, what he did for fun, the way he carried and conducted himself, and in his unbelievable collection of 8 tracks, records, and cassettes.
Lumbering out of the bathroom after tugging on a clean pair of underwear, Charlie sleepily headed towards the kitchen, leaving the bedroom door open to continue the stream of incredible music that lifted his spirits and made him feel as though he were flying- and not in the "just dropped acid" sort of way, though he wasn't unfamiliar with that sensation, either. He sang his way through a block of Poison and Ratt, air guitar-ed to Autograph, and drummed on the table to Styx while he waited for the coffee to brew. He was barely aware of making some toast and shoving it into his mouth as he recalled the events of the previous night, before he had arrived home. It had been amazing, as it was every time it happened.
The coffee finished, and he poured it black, stuck it in the refrigerator for a few minutes while he tidied up, and then sucked it down, feeling it's still-hot sting burn his sensitive throat. And then he chanced a glance at the clock, and nearly spit said beverage out all over the table.
Charlie swallowed, choking, and then dashed back into his bedroom. He practically threw himself into his closet, searching for clean clothes. He hadn't been to the laundromat in a while. He cursed when he realized he had no clean dress shirts, knowing his boss would be excruciatingly unhappy. He groaned, and debated quickly between the silk paisley or a plain black t shirt. Settling on the t shirt, he groped for a jacket to match his aqua slacks. Finally, he got his hands on the matching jacket, and threw himself on the bed, wriggling into his clothes as fast as he could, and keeping a nervous eye on the time. Now…where were his shoes?
His shirt and pants finally on, he spotted his leather belt across the room where he had inattentively dropped it, and flipped himself, worming to the edge of the bed and hanging over. Ah. There were his shoes. Must've gotten kicked under the night before. He reached for them, just making it when the phone rang. He didn't have time to catch the call, however, so he let the answering machine pick up as he tugged on his black wing tips and hastily tied the laces. Scrabbling for his belt, he pulled it through with caution, making sure he caught every belt loop, and then fished around on top his bureau for his glasses. His big, dorky glasses. He supposed it could be worse, however. At least he had great hair.
And then he was off, snatching his briefcase up from the table and his keys off the hook beside the door. His car was, unfortunately, in the shop, so he was winging it from there on out.
He had one arm through the sleeve of his jacket when he reached the edge of the sidewalk and tried to stop dead. Traffic was heavy- he supposed he was faster on foot anyway. He'd spent his childhood roaming all over Ohio and wearing his sneakers out in a couple weeks time, much to the anger of his father and the quiet, tutting dismay of his mother. And now here was there, in San Francisco, trying to make a living and trying to strike it rich, like everyone else.
The light changed color, and he was running again, people watching him in curiosity as he booked it down the street as fast as he could, hair flying, briefcase in tow. He nearly slammed into a couple sidewalk occupants, but avoided them at the last second. He kept a careful eye on the face of his watch, palms beginning to sweat nervously when he realized he had five minutes to get to a destination that was at least six away.
"Shit. He's not gonna be happy about this…" Charlie muttered to himself, turning the corner and slowing down ever so slightly as he moved throughout the throngs of people. Pointedly worming his way through amassed bodies, he sighed. He could see the building he was headed for, towering six blocks away.
"Hey! Charlie! What's da haps, bro?" The man behind the food cart smiled at him, and Charlie waved a hand in greeting.
"Gonna be late…no time to talk!" He said breathlessly, and then darted across the street when he had an unobstructed shot at the crosswalk.
Buildings, windows, people…they all flew by in a multi-colored blur. Sprinting the rest of the distance, Charlie's breath came hot and heavy. He forced himself to speed up, forced himself to block out the searing pain in his chest and legs, and just kept running. In this home stretch stupor, he ducked in the door of the formidable office building with exactly four seconds to spare.
Charlie gasped, a few lobby occupants looking at him like he had just announced he was engaged to a hobo. His eyelids fluttered shut, and all he could see was pulsating red that beat in time with the roaring in his ears and the pounding of his heart. He wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve, trying to readjust his hair before neatly pulling it back and securing it in a subdued ponytail. Straightening his jacket, he stood, nodded at the curious eyes that followed him as he marched past the front desk.
Externally, he looked unflappable. Completely cool. But internally, his stomach was wrenching itself into knots. He just had to make it to his cubicle. Then he could relax. No one would rat him out. No one would know!
He jabbed at the elevator button with a trembling finger, and then resumed tapping his foot, waiting impatiently for it to descend to ground floor. He tried to stay calm. But then, suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt panicky. He just wanted to turn around and run back out the double glass doors, and never look back.
The door slid open. He gulped, and stepped inside the elevator, absent-mindedly pressing the button to close the door on his way in. No one had been behind him. Then, he nearly jumped in fright. A hand slammed into the closing door and triggered the sensor that made it slide back open.
"You know it's rude to shut doors in people's faces." Charlie's eyes closed again, and his mouth went dry.
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"We'll see about that. But my, an improper greeter, too?"
"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning to you, too, Charles."
All decorum was suddenly lost. The elevator doors slid shut, and it was just the two of them in the small metal box, both on their way to the same floor.
"It's Charlie. How many times do I have to tell you that? My name. Is. Charlie. Charles is-" He was cut off, mid rant.
"Is what, boy? Is a stupid name? Is an old person's name?" Green eyes stared him down, and Charlie suddenly felt very, very small.
"I…was, ah…just going to say it's your name."
The size of the elevator seemed to decrease rapidly, even though no one spoke, and no one moved. The triangular patterned carpet and the gilded brass trimming in the elevator crashed into the remnants of Charlie's hangover, and he felt dizzy.
Suddenly his companion shifted, staring straight ahead at the door, clutching his briefcase tighter by his side.
"It's your name, too." He commented offhandedly. Not necessarily angry, but none-too-pleased, either.
"I…I know, sir. I just…I prefer Charlie." It was hopeless. He'd never win this battle. He never won any of them.
They neared their floor. Charlie's companion cleared his throat.
"In my office. Ten minutes. Or will you be late for that, too?"
"Hey! I wasn-"
"Save it, Charles. We'll talk in ten." The older man snapped, squaring his shoulders in such a formidable way that Charlie couldn't look at him anymore.
The metal cage dinged, and the doors slid open. The older man stepped out and briskly walked off without another word, greeting choruses following him down the hall. Charlie winced, trudging off towards his cubicle in the opposite direction, and plopped down in his chair. He eyed his watch with disdain, switching off between staring at the ceiling while spinning the chair in circles, and thrumming his fingers on the desk. There was no point in even settling in. He had a nagging feeling that he wasn't going to make it through to lunch, anyway.
At the nine minute mark, Charlie rose, silently stalking down the row of cubicles and rounding the corner. Finally, at the end of that row, he reached a heavy office door. He paused for a moment, his fingers tracing the embossed gold name on the window. And then he let himself in.
The secretary looked up in alarm, but then relaxed. It was only Charlie.
"Morning." She called, cocking her head in a silent question. Charlie's shoulders sagged.
"Mornin.' He's, ah…he's expecting me." Her eyes softened, the softness rivaling the dusty rose color of her suit.
"Go right in, then, Charlie. And good luck." She smiled reassuringly and both hands, crossing her fingers on each. He swallowed over the cactus-like dryness in his throat, and pushed open the door.
The same commanding man sat in the high-backed office chair, having swiveled it so he stared out the window in thought. Without turning, he addressed Charlie.
"Shut the door and take a seat."
Wordlessly, Charlie did so, his fingers thrumming on the tan armchair. The man behind the desk finally turned, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
"Harvard called again."
"Uh huh."
"They wanted to know what you're planning on doing."
"I…haven't decided yet." This lackadaisical answer seemed to frustrate the older man, who glared daggers at the younger.
"Dammit, Charles, this is your whole life we're talking about! Have some goddamn responsibility!" Now it was Charlie's turn to grow angry. He figured it was all downhill from here on out- yelling wouldn't make it much worse.
"I have plenty! I moved out, didn't I?"
"Yeah, into a tiny dump of an apartment that you share with three other slimeballs on occasion. Roof still leak in the kitchen?"
Charlie teetered between seething rage and quiet acceptance. He shook with emotion in the chair, fighting back the urge to stand up and loom over the desk that separated them.
"I know what I pay you, and I know what that apartment costs. Yet your car's been out of commission for a week and a half, you show up here, barely dressed, and you look like you haven't seen a good barber in years! Where does it all go, Charles? Food? Booze? Drugs?" He looked concerned and nauseated at the same time.
"Pfft. As if!" Charlie barely realized he said that out loud before he turned bright pink. An uncomfortable silence followed.
"Go ahead. Tell me then. What do you do with all your money?"
Charlie balked at the thought of opening his mouth again, but the eyes that bored holes into him held him a captive to the older man's will. He had no choice but to speak the truth.
"Some of it. Some of it goes to food. I don't drink or do drugs (Charlie was blatantly lying, there, but he did mostly avoid the hard stuff. They weren't his thing)."
"Continue."
"The rest…goes into…music." He stuttered, a cold sweat beading up on his pale skin.
"What kind of music, Charles?" The older man was goading him. Charlie could feel it. And this time, he wasn't sure it not giving in would even make a difference.
"You know damn well what kind of music, Dad."
Ice. Ice flowed through the air vents now, and into both their veins. The use of such a familiar term in the workplace had been strictly forbidden. Yet, it seemed to break the unaddressed tension between them.
Charlie glared at his father from under a few locks of the bangs of his hair. His father. Charles Cornelius Offdensen. Financial wizard. Infamous business man. And strict, but attentive father and husband. He loved his father deeply, but hated him at the same time. And never more than in that moment alone.
"It's that rock and roll bullshit, isn't it?" Charles asked softly. Charlie, on the other hand, was still fuming.
"Well, maybe if you'd come to a fuckin' show once in a while, you'd know!"
"Watch your mouth!" Charles barked, instantly shutting his son up and settling him back in the chair. His rage abating, he, too, settled down, smoothing his neatly clipped hair back.
"So, do you plan on becoming a famous rock star in this little band of yours? Is that why you're avoiding Harvard and Yale like the plague? Is that why you're in community college for liberal arts?"
"Maybe."
"Don't get belligerent with me. My God, cut the crap! It's 1987, and you're 19 years old, Charles! Wake up! This rock nonsense- and, heaven forbid you like this, this…metal thing…it's just a fad! A passing phase! It's going to die out, and when it does, you'll be up a creek without a paddle. Your mother and I…we just want to see you succeed, Charles. We want you be able to support yourself, and a family someday. We want to see that happen for you, and we want to see you make enough to comfortably retire, and put your own kids through college. We didn't raise you to take this kind of risk. You'd be throwing your life away!"
Charlie gasped, his back automatically straightening as the truth came out. It reminded him of his school years. Catholic school. And then preparatory school. All those uptight yuppies…he grimaced at the memories.
Charlie Offdensen hated the establishment. He hated working as an accountant for a big commercial money-sucker, even if it was owned by his own father. He hated the pressure, hated the constant tack tack of fingers on keys, hated the water cooler conversations that were really just cover-ups for how miserable everyone else was. He hated industry, big business, and corporate takeover more than he had words to express.
But most of all, he hated wearing a suit to work every day.
His father noticed his son's discomfort, and backed off, his strategy shifting. He walked around the front of his desk and leaned against the edge of it. The silver hair at his temples shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the window. It backlit the older man- put shadows on his face that no one could mistake for laugh lines. Charlie stared up at his father, noting just how the light turned him into some sort of higher deity. Lighting was always very important in such a setting. Suddenly, his face softened into a small, knowing smile.
"Elvis Presley."
"What about him?" Charlie was cautious.
"He was my hero for a long time. He was the king, after all." The older Offdensen looked nostalgic.
"And?" The executive chuckled at his son's ignorance. He'd grow out of it someday, and see the world for what it really was. After all, that's what happened to him. Only it had taken a special girl and an impending child to make him see reason instead of rebellion. Perhaps it would be similar for Charlie (though, his father hoped marriage would occur before he was made a grandfather. It hadn't been the case for him and Grace).
"Look, son. What's I'm saying is that you can like any music you want to like. Your mother and I…we thought you'd outgrow it by the time high school was finished, but I can see that's obviously not going to happen. But still. You have to think of the future. Let's say one of your band members quits. What would you do then?"
"Enlist another."
"And if the popular music changes direction in a few years? Would you give up what you built your career on to follow a new trend in the hopes that it will stick around, or keep going and lose your fanbase and your money? Either way, you lose, in the end."
Charlie was more stunned than hurt, though his heart was breaking. Whether he liked it or not, his father was right. Things were definitely changing. Music was changing. Some of it not for the better. He had known all along that he could only enjoy himself for so long. Spending a lifetime in uptight setting after uptight setting had made him antsy and sullen. After graduation, he'd jumped in his Camaro and just driven. He hadn't said goodbye to anyone, taken nothing with him- he just went, cap and gown and all. Two weeks later he'd returned, announced he was moving out, and loaded his things into his car and driven them into town. Being independent only went so far when you worked at your father's accounting firm, however. Still, he had perfect grades. Ivy League schools were fighting over him. He had plenty of scholarships under his belt. He knew he should cool out and cut his hair.
Yet, in that moment, something snapped inside little Charlie Offdensen, and he was filled with a sort of sordid determination to go down with his ship. His beloved musical vessel that kept him afloat, even on the worst of days.
"Huuh luuwes sais da hurt aff rackn rullish shtill beading." He mumbled. His father raised an eyebrow.
"Speak up, Charles."
"Huey Lewis says the heart of rock and roll is still beating." Charles glared fiercely into his father's surprised green eyes, which rolled in response.
"Oh please. You're still obsessed with him? For six years now, it's been 'Huey Lewis' this and 'Huey Lewis' that. Do you still ask the paper boy if he's heard the news?" The elder Offdensen was incredulous, the younger feeling rather petulant.
"Yeah, and for your information, he has. But you'll see. You and mom. You'll both see. Everyone's gonna see! I can do this. I'm gonna make it. I'm gonna be a famous rock and roll star. It's never gonna die, Dad! Don't you get it? The people keep it alive!" Charlie had risen from his chair with stars in his eyes and a song in his heart (which was actually "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner, but he wasn't about to break out in song now). His father towered over him, even leaning (he had his mother's height, eyes, and ears), but he still felt like the Incredible Hulk. Charlie waited with bated breath for his father's response.
"I see. Well, it's your life, Charles."
"Exactly."
"You can do with it what you want."
"I will."
"So if you think you're so ready to be a rock star, I suppose there's no point in me keeping you employed here. I'm sure you'll make enough money on your own."
And there went the dream. Charlie stood there uncomfortably for a moment, thoughts panning between the two extremes of walking triumphantly out the door and making the world listen to him, or sitting down and begging for forgiveness.
Charles Cornelius Offdensen turned his back and started rifling through a file cabinet to the left of his desk, smirking to himself knowingly. His son had a good heart. If he truly thought he could make it that easy, then who was he to stand in the way of progress? After all, he knew the boy was talented, anyway. He was stubborn as an ox, and just as quick witted as the man who pondered his own offspring at that moment. He would be fine on his own.
"Ah…alright, then. I'm as good as gone. Thanks for the job, Dad. It's been real."
"I'll start the paperwork, then. Good luck out there, Charles."
Charlie turned and made for the door with a false spring in his step. He was out the door and collecting his personal effects while his father settled back into his seat of power. The high, leather backed throne and the heavy oak desk made him feel the weight of the importance he held.
He smiled when he thought of what it would be like to see Charles Foster Offdensen achieve the same level of power on his own.
Out the door, down the hall, and into the elevator. The farther away he got from his stuffy cubicle, the better and more light-hearted Charlie felt. By the time he reached ground floor, he practically crossed the lobby with excited leaps and bounds, throwing open the doors with a huge smile on his face. He began the trek home, then suddenly stopped, and turned back. He paced the front of the building for a moment, before settling in on one particular chunk of sidewalk, raising his hands to cup his mouth, and taking a deep breath.
"AND MY NAME'S NOT CHARLES! IT'S SMOOTH CHARLIE!"