Risk Factor-A Metalocalypse Fanfic (REVAMPED VERSION!)
Rating: Mature, for language, sexual imagery, and violence.
Summary: Charles Ofdensen has always had everything, or so he thought. But if something insufferably good came between him and Dethklok, which would he choose?
Author's Note: This story has been finished for almost a year now, but that's just it. Today, I ended up doodling a few scenes from this fic in my sketchbook, and it prompted me to reread what I had written. As I look back on it from where I am now, I'm cringing. It seriously needs to be overhauled, and I need the boost to finish Contingency Plan, this tale's long-dormant companion fic. So, whether you're new to the story or you've read it before, I'd like to welcome you now or welcome you back, and I hope you find this version to be even better than it was before. A big thanks goes out to all my previous reviewers- I never could've done this without you. You rock! And now, with out further procrastination- on to the story! Happy reading!
The crisp fall air butted against Mordhaus and blew crunchy leaves across the land beneath it, which swirled like phantasms in the early morning. A seemingly sedate car pulled onto the premises, immediately swarmed by Klokateers wearing overcoats and gloves in addition to their executioners' masks. It seemed like hours before the inner sanctum guards were radioed to seek entrance for the newcomer, and the sun was dousing the sky in shades of pink and orange.
Inside Mordhaus, an exhausted Charles Foster Ofdensen removed his glasses and rubbed at his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn't slept, and he hadn't gone to his room the night before, or even snoozed in his office chair. He had just poured over paper after paper, lawsuit after lawsuit from disgruntled parents whose children had died at Dethklok concerts, and wondered why it mattered so much to them. Charles never liked children; regardless of their age, when he had to look at people as someone's offspring, he got goosebumps and felt nauseated. Money mattered, which was why he worked so hard to make sure said disgruntled parents either disappeared or didn't get a cent. Dethklok mattered, which was why he spent all his time and effort making damn certain they were morbidly happy, healthy, and on top of the world. Even dying hadn't changed his outlook for the better. His life revolved solely around his work.
He sighed and stretched, the first rays of light nearly blinding him as he leaned as far back as the chair would go. The stubble on his face that was just slightly tinged with gray pricked his hand as he desperately tried to work off the shots he'd thrown down through the long hours of the night. He was worn out, hung over, and inexplicably angry, out of nowhere.
Charles stewed in his sudden attitude as he schlepped across his office to his mahogany cabinet, where he kept an extra suit for just such occasions. He put on a fresh pot of coffee for himself, and went to shower and shave. The only one that was usually awake at this time of the morning, besides the Klokateers on the day shift, was Toki, who was no bother to him this early.
He was completely alone in the shower, and in a rare moment fueled by alcohol and insomnia, let all defenses fall as he stepped into the spray. Charles' usually taut body went limp, and he slumped to the shower floor, not caring that he banged his bad knee on the hard tiles below. He tipped his face to the warm water and exhaled, feeling some of the stress in his shoulders abate. Even the shoulders of a man who constantly carried the weight of the world needed to rest eventually. He reached up, touching the scars that adorned his body, and then touched the faint mark across his left cheek, shivering.
Suddenly, a knock at the heavy wooden door.
"Sir? There's someone here who says they must speak with you…shall I have them executed?"
Charles scrambled to his feet and poked his head out of the shower stall, clearing his throat to address the Klokateer.
"No, no, that, ah…that won't be necessary. Send them to my office. Keep a couple guards on them at all times. I'll be there shortly."
Charles waited until the Klokateers' footsteps faded into the distance beyond the bathroom before sighing loudly and slipping back into the soothing spray. He washed quickly, shaved, dressed, and slicked his chestnut hair back, noticing how long it was getting and making a mental note to have it trimmed.
Charles looked at his reflection, squared his shoulders, and marched out of the bathroom like the soldier he was. His office was only down the hall, but he took his time getting there, calculating a game plan for the rest of the day.
It was only when he reached the door that it registered that he had no idea who was inside his office. He hadn't scheduled any meetings, no one was due for anything…he stopped in mid foot-fall and frowned. Something was amiss; he was immediately on guard.
Charles flung open the door and looked around coolly. There was a slight figure at his window, peering out at the desolate landscape below. The figure was silhouetted, however, so he could only make out a vague human shape, and not the face. He strode in, and the figure turned around. He still found his eyes adjusting to the light pouring through the glass, so he simply spoke.
"Hello. I'm, ah, Charles Ofdensen. Is there… something I can do for you?" He leaned across his own desk and extended his hand.
The figure moved under the cast light of the chandelier, and Charles was surprised, but shook it off quickly. The demure young woman smiled up at him, but her handshake belied her expression. It was firm and confident, much unlike what he was expecting.
"Zoe Warwick. It's a pleasure, Mr. Ofdensen. I'm a big fan of your work."
Charles blinked.
"Excuse me, my work?"
Zoe nodded. "Well, yes, of course! You manage every aspect of the biggest band in history. How is absolutely unknown-but, then again, that's sort of why I'm here."
The young lady moved around the desk, her gray booted stilettos clicking on the hard wood and her pleated slate skirt swishing around her knees. Charles looked her over evenly. She looked very smart, he thought. Morbidly corporate casual. Her suitcoat matched her skirt, and the blood red silk dress shirt underneath nearly matched his tie. All in all, perfectly suited for his realm of Mordhaus.
He figured she would be dead before the end of business that day.
Charles gestured to the arm chair in front of his desk as he crossed behind it and settled into his personal seat of power. Zoe nodded her thanks and seated herself prettily, smoothing her skirt. He folded his hands on the desk and waited. She lifted her briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers, then cleared her throat.
"Mr. Ofdensen, I'm a new hire with Crystal Mountain Records, and though during college I interned for them, I've been told I am being assigned as your assistant before I am able to manage contracts of my own."
Charles leaned back, his brows knitting together in the middle of his forehead.
"I'm sorry, Miss Warwick, but I think there's, ah, been a mistake. I work alone, hiring my own assistants when and if I need them. And, quite frankly, you do not possess the… qualifications I look for in hiring such an assistant." He pulled a snooty face to punctuate his surety.
Zoe processed this information with narrowed eyes. She quirked an eyebrow at the end of his refusal for her services, but did not comment on the obvious insult. Instead of moving, however, she thrust the pile of papers towards Charles and then sat back, crossing her legs and propping her head up on her hand like bored royalty. Charles pulled the stack towards him, adjusting his glasses. At first, he skimmed the pile, but as the minutes ticked by he became more and more engrossed in his reading, and his expression grew more and more sour. Zoe yawned.
"In the iron clad contract before you, you will find that you do not have to sacrifice a cent of the money Dethklok makes to me, except for the obvious paycheck I receive from the revenue obtained by Crystal Mountain. I am here to be a helping hand, not a hindrance. The contract states that you may not terminate me as your assistant unless I fail to perform my duties adequately and efficiently, lest you face a pay dock and possible performance review."
Charles looked up at her over the rim of his glasses.
"I know what it says, Miss Warwick. I am capable of reading, you know."
Zoe blushed, looking down at her folded hands.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ofdensen. I overstepped. Of all people, I know just how capable you are."
Again, Charles glanced up at her, and she rushed to expand.
"You're a legend on campus, Mr. Ofdensen. All law, executive, business management, and financial assistance students practically worship you. You've written the book for the next wave of corporate competitors."
The manager felt the faint traces of a smile turn up the corners of his lips, and he took a brief moment to revel in his pride and rarely stroked ego.
"Well, Miss Warwick, I'm flattered, really. That's quite the, ah, thing to say. As for the position…I am serious when I say you've been sent to assist in what will likely lead to your own death. I see that if you refuse this position for personal reasons, Crystal Mountain will ah, terminate your employment. However, it would seem they're already out to get you."
Zoe seemed to grow smaller, the chair engulfing her, but her gaze remained steady.
"Pardon my ignorance, but what do you mean, sir?"
Charles smirked. The overhead light caught his glasses as he inclined his head to hide his expression, and reflected, completely obscuring his eyes. He suddenly looked as demonic as he felt.
"It's, ah, quite simple, Miss Warwick. All of my assistants are constantly being maimed, slaughtered, and killed in some very unpleasant way. It has… never failed, since I began working as Dethklok's manager. The assistants I choose are always Klokateers, who have been trained to fight to the death and to protect Dethklok at the cost of their own lives. They already know all the ins and outs of working for the band and living in Mordhaus. Many are trained as assassins or guards if they survive long enough to get promoted. So, you, ah, see, it is highly unlikely that you will be able to serve as my assistant and preserve your own existence, or even be of any use to me. A college degree is worth next to nothing when you work with this band."
Charles' intent had been to make her cry, and he had the secret satisfaction of watching micro expressions of rejection, horror, and anger flit across Zoe's face. But when he saw determination set in, he was taken aback. Her eyes grew steely and she leaned forward, a triumphant smile on her face.
"So, what time do you want me here tomorrow morning?"
Charles was beginning to calculate the extent to which he would find her annoying, and the extent to which she might actually prove a valuable asset, should she survive. At that moment, both weighed equally against each other. At the least, she would make a useful diversion in many a situation.
Charles gave her a long look, the finality of his new assistant sinking in. And then, he reached out and shook her hand.
"9 AM sharp."
Zoe exhaled the breath she'd been holding and flashed Charles a brilliant smile, giggling nervously, but happily. She took the manager's hand tightly in her own, and stood up.
"Thank you, Mr. Ofdensen. I promise I'll do whatever it takes to learn from you and help you without getting in your way." She beamed.
Charles was feeling slightly unnerved by her joy, and diffused her by standing stiffly and showing her to the door.
"Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, Mr. Ofdensen, please, call me Zoe." She looked up at him as she turned around at the door. He shook his head.
"Thanks, but I don't think so. Now, let me get you acquainted with Mordhaus, and then I'll introduce you to the band." He was just happy to have an excuse to stretch his legs, regardless of the unnecessary companionship, though it would have made more sense to make a Klokateer orient her.
Zoe nodded, straightening her coat and shrugging as she was resigned to a last name basis, and followed just behind Charles, about to embark on the adventure of her life. He, on the other hand, was feverishly computing how long it would take a woman like Zoe Warwick to meet the reaper while working for Dethklok.
The more devious part of him hoped it wouldn't be long.