Chapter I: Needed the Most - Monday

AN:

Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!

Not sure I like this chapter. I was trying to write a Victoria different from the ones in Empire and Blackwell Job; one with a slightly... colder and more isolated, yet more mature feel, I suppose. Not sure it came off as I intended. Victoria's voice is a little harder to make unique than Chloe and Max's are.

Anyway, I have a question about where y'all would like me to take this story. It's definitely gonna be Chasefield, but I'm not sure whether to turn it into a kid-fic or just keep them both as single-bachelorette types. Up to y'all. Oh, and any suggestions for alternate titles for this story. I'm hella unsatisfied with the one I have, but I can't think of anything better.

Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.

It was a particularly idyllic morning in Seattle that day, though that wasn't really saying much. Idyllic for Seattle just meant not raining. Light fluttered gracefully through my bedroom window, a symphony of car horns and metro screeches serenading my ears, accompanied by the pungent aroma of spices and arguing drifting up from the Indian family downstairs.

I sigh, rolling my eyes under my sleep mask as I try bury my face back into sleep. I feel myself drifting off once again when...

BLARP BLARP BLARP

"Jesus fucking shit-ass goddamn motherfuck alarm!" I rolled over in bed, fumbling for the damn thing so I could throw it at a wall, or maybe out the window of my apartment, anything just to make that fucking supersonic blarping die. "Let's see who's still blarping after a six story fall." I muttered vindictively. The alarm deserved the tone.

When my hand finally finds the off switch and the room falls back into blissful morning quiet, I let out a deep breath. My alarm has kept up its survival streak and lived to annoy the hell out of me another day.

Now. Let's do this thing.

Despite my utter distaste for Mondays, one shared by all sensible people, I force myself to rise out of bed and up onto my feet and the hardwood flooring. I hiss when my warm feet touch the cool floor and think, as I do every morning, how much of a pity it is that a carpet wouldn't go with the walls in here. It'd be far easier on my poor feet.

Still, a Chase endures. I walk across and take a seat in front of my vanity, picking up the pearl-handled hairbrush and running it through my fucking rats-nest morning hair, taming it until it appears at least somewhat acceptable for polite company. Before coffee, that was the best I could manage.

Speaking of coffee...

I stumble gracefully into the kitchen, flicking the switch on the Keurig and watching the waiting cup fill with the glorious, delicious nectar of the gods. Caffeine in the form of my triple-roasted Kopi Luwak was the one indulgence I allowed myself at Breakfast, contenting myself with only an egg white and two slices of low-fat buttered toast to eat.

I take them over to the small windowed-nook in my kitchen, where I'd set up a small table and a single chair, depositing my food and coffee on the table and daintily flopping down onto the seat.

My mind wanders as I eat, my hands and mouth going on through my meal without me and kindly letting my brain mull around in old, depressing memories. Oh, and the fact that I'm eating breakfast alone for the 718th time. Thanks, Hands.

I sigh, smiling sadly at the pictures tacked up on the wall at the other side of the table. There was one with Tay and I at the beach, a couple with me, her, and Nate back at school, and three Vortex group shots of us chilling after a party. I hadn't seen any of them since I moved out here.

God, I miss those assholes.

Skype just wasn't the same. Tay tried, she really did, but we were both way too busy to keep up with each other. And Time Zones were still a thing. Jesus, I really hated that they were. Even a lame three hour difference made it hard to line our schedules up. When she got home, I was still at work, and by the time I got home six hours after her I was too exhausted to operate my coffee machine, never mind a laptop.

I... I couldn't even remember the last conversation I'd had with my best friend. How sad is that?

Ugh. Without really thinking about it, I let my head drift gently backwards until it leans (un)comfortably against the other wall of my little breakfast nook, thunking it a couple times in a well-practised motion to dislodge the melancholy.

As my head empties, I realise my plate and mug have emptied too. With a sigh, I pick up both and glide over to the sink, depositing both into it, on top of the perpetually wobbling pile already there. I mutter a curse. I'm running out of plates. Again.

Damnit.

I catch sight of the clock, realising I'm also running out of time. I dash back into my room to get ready. Jesus, could this day get any worse?

Apparently it could.

Ugh. Why do all these idiots always have to be around here, breathing on me with their germs and poor taste. Every day in this fucking coffeeshop is like a minefield of poor hygiene and even fucking poorer fashion choices. Like, Jesus, who wears a purple top with neon green pants? I feel like I'm going to catch something just standing in this queue. Like flu. Or worse, Bad Taste. (AN2)

"Max? Max?"

I roll my eyes when the barista yells the name for the fifth time. What kind of moron swans off halfway through their drink being made? Or, like, doesn't know their own name? Is it just a thing for people named Max? Jesus, that little hipster was just as absentminded as whoever this fucker is.

I mull it over for a second, trying to remember what the hell happened to her. She moved... somewhere, after graduation. New York, maybe?

After the eighth yell, I walk over and slap my hand, along with ten dollars, down on the counter. "Sorry. I'm Max. I was in the bathroom. Keep the change as an apology."

The barista rolls his eyes, but hands me the drink and takes the cash. I quickly leave the coffeeshop, immediately dismissing the glares of the tasteless morons in line. What did they matter? They couldn't even find the time to dress themselves properly!

I take a left outside and head along the street towards the nearest subway stop. Along the way, I take a sip of my... gleh. Why is this cold? What the fuck even is this? I take a look at the side.

What the fuck is a frappucino? What kind of monster drinks cold coffee? Ugh. Deviants.

I toss it in the first trashcan I walk past.

Fuck it. I'll just have to get some of that crappy filter coffee from the breakroom.

I scuttle into my cubicle, mug in hand, about four minutes late. Damn that asshole. Who the hell does he think he is, trying to chat me up in the breakroom? Before coffee?!

He's lucky I didn't castrate him.

Still. Back in my cubicle now, my sanctum sanctorum. Now I can get to work.

Or, well. I could try.

Barely twenty seconds after I sit down, a gruff voice yells out "Chance!" from my cubicle doorway at least thirty decibels louder than necessary. I spin my chair to see my idiot boss, Dr Pointy Hair, holding several papers and fixing me with his most fearsome glare. It was more tigger than tiger, but the man had the power to fire me whenever he liked, so... I just kept the nicknames inside my head.

"Chance," he said again, still incapable of learning any name other than his own (which was actually Pontier, not Pointy Hair, but the man had two cornetto-cones of hair sticking back from each temple. That, along with his time-strewn face and relentless balding made for an interesting picture to sit atop his always surprisingly well-tailored suit. I'd long since exhausted my eyeroll capacity for this man, so I let it slide. Plus, the suit gave him a little leeway.) "Where's the latest draft portfolio for the Ed account? I've a meeting with them in three minutes and I-"

I quickly spin back, deftly dropping my coffeecup onto my desk, sweeping up the file as I go, and handing it to Pointy Hair without a pause and before he finishes his sentence. "Here, Sir."

"And the-"

"The projections are in the back," I ease open the file and tap one of the dividers "under projections."

He blinks for a second, then grins. "Good work, Chance." He spins around, somehow faster than my chair, and heads off down the corridor. "I'll let you know how the meeting goes!"

He never did. Luckily, his assistant Summer was kind of a blabbermouth. She gave me the full minutes, and Pointy Hair was never the wiser. I think he still thought he reported the results back to me.

I lean back in my chair and take a gulp of my coffee, listening to his idiotic footsteps clack-clacking away.

Ugh.

Only... I peer up at the clock... six more hours to go.

Jesus, I am going to need more coffee.

I almost snarl when I see the poster of a woman holding coffee, sat on a stupid bench. Jesus Christ. Shine? Fucking seriously? What kind of hippie bullshit is this? I am not going to stare at this positive mindset bullshit every time I travel, no fucking way.

I rifle through my bag for a second, pull out my sharpie, and get to work. Hmm. Ah, I have it. Something more appropriate for the shitty day we're all having.

After a few moments of scribbling, I step back to admire my handiwork. A dark, black cloud sits over the coffee-holding woman (bitch probably drank frappucinos and smiled at those idiots on the street trying to blather on about global warming or pandas or whatever) and her terrible clothes are being soaked with rain.

Fantastic.

I take another few moments to appreciate the now appropriate poster before heading off to catch my subway tram.

As I step on, I throw a glare at the man-spreading asshole who's trying to take up two damn seats, smirking when his eyes widen and he pulls his legs in. I give him a polite little nod, barely an incline of my head, and sit down next to him.

I can feel him shaking next to me.

I smile.

After another moment to gloat, I pull out my phone and bring up the news app. I'd had a hell of a day. The Anarchists would be good for a laugh. They always were. Those costumed idiots had gone from fuck-up to fuck-up ever since they'd appeared. And... oh look! They'd tried to rob a bank. And failed at it. How do you fail at robbing a bank? Jesus, I bet I could rob a bank.

I smirk. Maybe they should ask the proper criminals for some help. They could teach the Anarchists how to actually commit crimes and in return the Anarchists could... oh, I don't know, they could try teach the other criminals to have a decent fashion sense? Some of these idiots were surprisingly well dressed.

Oh, shit, that was my stop!

AN1 - I imagine her saying this like Hermione's line about death and expelling from Harry Potter.