Working With You is Killing Me
by Invisible Ranger (HBF) 2014
Elysium and all related characters/scenes belong to N. Blomkamp/Sony. Doing this for fun only.
Dedicated: To MauMauKa. Happy birthday and thanks for loving Kruger along with me.
Brendan Newhall-Smythe pressed the comm on his desk. His secretary's face appeared. "Emmeline, whom do I have as my next appointment?" It was his last for the day and he was glad of it. It had been a bad week. Out of the few jobs not performed by droids on Elysium, Brendan's was one of the most tedious: human resources. He'd been at it for just under a year and was already burned out. Job assignments, yearly reviews, and lots and lots of paperwork. Occasionally dealing with the junior techies and writing them up for med-bay misuse and similar shenanigans. He sighed. Even in paradise, humankind refused to give up its bureaucracy and red tape.
Emmeline seemed nervous, frazzled. That wasn't her style. "Um, sir, it's a Mr. C.M. Kruger. His annual performance review."
That didn't sound too bad. Fifteen minutes, tops, and Brendan would be off to one of the many Friday night cocktail parties on Elysium. Maybe he'd be able to schmooze a little and network so he could get the hell out of this office. He always liked to imagine that one day, he'd be in the control room. This was just a stepping stone.
"This one, um, isn't an Elysium citizen-employee. Not technically. He's CCB. Secretary Delacourt sent him over. He's…" Somewhere behind her, there was the sound of loud talking in a harsh foreign language followed by a lewd wolf whistle. "Well, he's a special case. She wanted you to conduct this one personally. Oh, and, sir?"
"What?"
"Try not to be, um, too taken aback." The holo disappeared.
From his desk, Brendan picked up the mug of lukewarm tea he'd been drinking and took a sip. When his office door opened, he nearly spat it all back out in surprise. This was no Elysian. This was one of Delacourt's pets…the wild-eyed, black-ops mercenaries she used to do all her dirty work. Brendan had never seen one of them up close. Now that he had, it was all he could do not to piss his well-pressed pants.
And he could smell the alcohol on the mercenary's breath even from where he stood. Maybe happy hour hadn't started yet for Elysium's citizens, but Mr. C.M. Kruger was already well on his way to being completely blitzed.
"Howzit, boet? Yer secretary's a choty goty for sure. Yer a lucky man." The tenor voice was surprisingly jovial coming from such a fierce-looking man. It wasn't slurred, either. This guy could surely hold his liquor more than Brendan, who usually fell asleep after a mimosa or two.
Once they were face to face, instead of a handshake, Kruger raised his hand for a high-five. Brendan didn't return it, but just blinked and looked him over. He wore rough, faded fatigues and boots underneath customized CCB body armor. He had a shaggy beard and a mop of hair which Brendan doubted were regulation by any standard. Every inch of him was sharp edges, hard angles, and exotic weaponry. Either he didn't know about the gun-free zone for civilians in this sector or didn't care. "Get me another beer, won't you?"
"Excuse me?" Brendan heard himself talking, but the register was high and wavering. "A what?"
Kruger scowled. "A fokken beer. That is why I'm here, right?"
The HR manager cleared his throat. "No, I'm afraid not. Unfortunately this is not a cocktail hour. This is a performance review, Mr. Kruger. Strictly business. I do have some…" He'd been about to say "bottled sparkling water," but the mercenary had already found them atop the coffee table and smashed one open with his bare hands. When he took a sip and discovered it was just water, he hurled the rest of it across the room, where the bottle shattered against the framed Picasso lithograph on the far wall. A moment later the frame fell down and broke into several pieces.
"Never liked that kak. Sorry to have broken your little piccie there, eh?"
The picture in question was worth six months' wages, but it didn't seem worth bringing up. The man was not only drunk, he had a sword on his back, for God's sake. Brendan feigned indifference. "Have a seat, won't you?"
"Dankie." Kruger sprawled into one of the two sleek, ergonomic chairs and placed his dirty, stinking combat boots up onto Brendan's spotless chrome desk. "So what kinda business you want to talk about? You need anyone," he slashed a finger across his own throat, "you know, taken care of? Eh?"
"No, no, nothing like that." How did Delacourt deal with this man? He's a bloody barbarian! Uncivilized, not to mention bloody rude! "Um…I thought we could talk about you. Sort of a look-back at your past year at work," Brendan said. When he tried to reach for a pen, his hand was shaking so badly he knocked over the framed holo of his wife and young son. "Why don't you start? Tell me what a typical day is like for you. How do you usually spend your working hours? What is the best thing about it for you?"
Kruger leaned forward and grinned lopsidedly. "I got the best fokken job in the world, boykie. The greatest thing about it? No two days are the same." He looked like a naughty kid who'd raided the cookie jar.
Brendan wanted to ask him not to use such awful language, then looked at the assortment of Asgari-stamped knives strapped to Kruger's armor and held his tongue. "I suppose what I'm asking is, what do you do?" He'd spent his entire life above Earth. He had to admit he didn't know how the mercenaries, or anyone else, earned a living down there. This should be educational.
"Well, lessee," Kruger began, ticking off on his fingers, "I like to start by hunting down a few of them chop-shop boys in the morning, you see, gets the blood flowing. Then I might have a search and destroy around noon, once in a while, blow up one of them illegal ships, and then after lunch it's…"
"Hang on. Wait." Brendan had been dutifully scribbling down notes. "Are you saying you actually hunt people? Live human beings?"
"I'm sayin' I don't hunt fokken rats, man." Kruger's dark eyes flashed. "Unless I get really hungry."
Scribble, scribble. "All right, then. Moving on." Brendan swallowed hard. "Can you tell me about a situation on the job you think you resolved well or," he consulted his notes, "a problem you feel you solved in a harmonious manner?"
"Oh, ja. I remember this one oke in Sao Paolo, some big drug lord living in a compound. When I finally caught up to him I shoved this," Kruger patted the sword hilt, "straight through his jugular to the other side. Looked like one of them meat thingies on a skewer. Didn't know there was that much blood in one body! Anyway, no more black market drug ring, which was the whole point of that one. I'd say that was pretty fokken harmonious, wouldn't you?"
Brendan chose his next words carefully. There was no telling what this man might do if provoked, and he had a feeling that wasn't hard to do. "That's so nice. How about your supervisor?" He checked the dossier, which was thick and covered with notes in Delacourt's neat hand. "Secretary Delacourt is your direct supervisor, I'm told. What would you say you like best about working for her?" This ought to be good…nobody will actually admit they like that ice queen.
The mercenary actually gave this one a moment's thought. "She's got really lekker anties," he finally said with a sly grin.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Brendan frowned at the Afrikaans slang. "Can you repeat that in English, please?"
"Her tits, man. You've seen 'em, right? Eish." Kruger chuckled and pounded the desk for emphasis. "Talk about a perfect pair. Fokken wonder twins, I say."
If Brendan had harbored any doubts as to what this man was, they were out the door. Barbaric didn't even begin to cover it. "Mr. Kruger, I must remind you, this is all going on your work record. Secretary Delacourt is a very important person, as you know, and I'm sure she wouldn't like being talked about in, well, such a disrespectful manner." At least if he got killed, he'd have put in a good word for the brass.
"Still, seems a fokken shame not to point out the obvious, boykie. If more people did that with her instead of sticking their heads up her tight little arse all the time, maybe she wouldn't be so uppity. She's a woman, isn't she? They all love that kak."
That was a point well made. Brendan mentally filed it away for future use. Maybe he'd even try it on his wife, who'd been so distant lately. Though he wouldn't use that particular compliment. "Oh. Yes, well, I do have a few more questions for you…"
"How much longer is this gonna take?" Kruger pulled his feet down from the desk, looking ready to pounce. "You know what they say about it always being 1700 hours somewhere, don't you?" The clock indicated 1654. I got places to go, people to kill, more beer to drink…"
"I'm sure you do," Brendan said delicately. "However, this will only take a bit longer, then you'll be free to go. Let's see." He glanced at the series of questions he'd prepared. No way was he getting through all these. He'd have to pick and choose and fill in the rest."Would you say there is anything that might help you better perform your duties?"
"Other than more fokken weapons? No, I do fairly well for myself. Of course, the cheap CCB bastards could pay for my recreation, if you've got me."
"Where do you see yourself in ten years?" Brendan had begun to write as fast as he could. The sooner this was over, the better. The man was insane. If he could get out of here without a fatal wound it would be a miracle. He was silently drafting a letter of condolence to his wife and son just in case.
Kruger looked almost dreamy. "Oh, retired, for sure. I'm gettin' a bit old for this, boet. Lessee…maybe running some pub back home, with a belly full of beer, lots of credits, no klap, and some pretty meisie's mouth around my piel. How's that for forward thinking?"
It was all Brendan could do not to blush. He didn't speak Afrikaans but had a fairly good idea what he'd just been told. That part he'd have to somehow edit out. It simply wasn't appropriate for corporate reports. Or anywhere else. "Ahem. Well, I do like an honest man." There were so few to be found on Elysium. "And what about your co-workers? What would they say about you, do you think?"
"I just got two mates most of the time. Drakey and Crowe. They'd probably say I was a good-for-nothing, cheeky, mean bastard son of a whore," he said, "but in the best way, you know? They are my boeties." He shrugged apologetically. "Course, I'd say the same thing about them. Plus, they smell worse than dogs."
Brendan couldn't argue with that assessment. "One more question, Mr. Kruger, then we'll be finished." He randomly selected one from the list. "Looking ahead, what would you say your goals are for the upcoming year?"
Kruger smiled that horrible predatory smile. "Kill all the fokken pests who ask too many questions, eh? Go wherever Delacourt and her okes send me. Whatever I get paid to do, I do. That's my job. Always has been." He stood up. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go find myself a beer. You got any Castle Lager up here?"
"There is just one small thing. I'll need your signature." Brendan was acutely aware of the wetness between his legs. He had pissed himself after all. "And we'll, um, need to get you scheduled for the next sexual harassment awareness seminar," he added in a tiny voice.
"Why the fok I need that?"
"It's, you know, to stop the prevalence of sexual harassment in the workplace."
Kruger snorted with laughter, doubling over. "Why the fokken hell would anyone want to prevent it?" When he'd finally stopped, he scrawled a rough signature at the bottom of the page. "Oh, speaking of, lemme have your secretary's comm number, eh? She gets me all jags. See you around, rooinek, and thanks for a good joke." And just like that, he was gone, slamming the door behind him so hard that the other pictures all fell off the walls to join the Picasso. Only his thick, musky smell remained.
Brendan shakily pressed the comm button to summon Emmeline. It took her a moment to arrive, and when she did, she echoed his thoughts perfectly.
"Is he gone?" She must have been hiding in one of the closets, or maybe the ladies' loo. Kruger, thankfully, hadn't found her. She looked as shaken up as her boss felt.
He sighed wearily. "Yes. He is. Can you send a holo to my wife? Tell her I'll be working late tonight, and I'll be on the last shuttle. Also, can you have some flowers sent? With a nice message, please." Nothing about lekker anties. No.
"Yes, sir, of course. Is there anything else?"
"As a matter of fact, there is." Brendan stayed seated, the better to hide his wet pants. "Please bring me a mimosa. I think I'll be needing a long nap."
The End