9/19/11
It really didn't matter too much. In the whole scheme of things, as long as the team came out on top, it would be okay.
"Such comforting thoughts, but that is the extent of what they are."
Her fist curled into a tight ball, knuckles turning white.
"What do you want from me," she started, trying her hardest to keep her voice in the same, flat tone as the other's, "I did my job."
The man chuckled a bit, cigarette clenched in his teeth. He leaned forward so that his blue pinstriped suit was illuminated by the lone, bare bulb fixed into the ceiling. Scooting her chair back a bit, the young woman concluded that this proximity was too much. Hollow aluminum hit the floor as the chair fell back. She was standing now, hands on the metal tabletop and glaring straight into the older, taller man's eyes. A cold, steely blue to a vivid, bright green.
"What you did," he continued in his light French accent, unfazed, "is cost the team a victory."
She shuddered. Those thoughts from earlier flooded into her mind, trying to calm it. To no avail. Her eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinted forward in a silent rage. She racked her brain for a comeback, something that would prove her point that she was not entirely to blame.
"I saw the scoreboard. You were on the very bottom," she spat out all too hastily, words slurring together as her cockney roots began to show through her accent. Damn she couldn't be losing it now. The man simply smirked and took a long drag from his cigarette, standing up to his full height of five feet eleven inches. He looked at the stub in his leather-gloved hand for a moment, and then let it fall to the ground before crushing it cleanly with his heel.
"Indeed I was. But if you are trying to share the blame," the man flipped open his silver cigarette case, "it is useless." He took one of the slender sticks in his fingers and lit it with an internal device on his case in one swift motion, returning the case into his jacket. "I am not the one who fell off the second floor, left my post, and dumped our objective into the sewers."
The objective. A small, dense briefcase red in color called the Intelligence. Right when it splashed into the water, the young woman's heart sunk like it, to the murky depths. The enemy team had won by default and the briefcase salvaged after ceasefire was called. The bloodshed before ceasefire, however, was horrendous. Why was it that after every failure their weapons vanished and they all ran slower? Another question for another time. At this point, she had nothing to say for herself.
"The Administrator has given me a letter of dismissal to give out at my leisure. I do hope you keep this in mind before trying anything stupid."
This man was so adept at reading her mind and actions. Annoyed, she gave in to the impulse anyway and leapt over the desk, landing a punch square in the man's jaw. He stumbled backward, cigarette now on the floor and smoldering.
"Blimey, I did my job! I did it and even attempted more! Doesn't that bloody woman appreciate that? Doesn't the team bloody appreciate that I wanted to help? It was right there," she paused to catch her breath, arm still held aloft and ready for another strike, "and I couldn't bloody well call for help. No one else seemed to have made it into the base!"
Slightly dazed, the man clutched his jaw painfully as he stood up. He could have dodged that normally, had she not hesitated at first.
"The idiot was already en route. The fact remains that you abandoned your primary duty."
"Scout was bloody blown to blooming bits by the time I ran out of the basement!"
"Like I said, mademoiselle, the fact remains you abandoned your primary duty."
She couldn't afford to get fired, not at this point. She had landed a job that actually appreciated her talents, her abilities that earned her scorn in her house. The annoyed looks her sister gave her when she requested the time and the young woman had replied with the full time down to the second without looking up, the frowning expression her mother gave her when she came home looking like a car hit her. The young woman had a point to prove with this job. A point that seemed so far out of reach now. The man adjusted the blue balaclava he wore before stomping out his barely-smoked cigarette with disgust.
"This is not Sunday School, where you repent and all is on its merry way. I hope you are prepared for your dismissal, délinquant." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a white envelope. She froze, her breath caught, and she nearly fainted from forgetting to breathe the three seconds it took him to step over and extend the envelope to her. Despite herself, her hands trembled as she took it, turned her chair back upright, and sat down. The man chuckled to himself and walked out of the room, heels clicking softly on the linoleum flooring and door slamming behind him. Pulling out the letter, she gazed at the type with an attitude akin to that of a funeral procession.
"To: Express. Subject: Your Performance. I would like to take the opportunity to inform your performance for this week is below subpar. Egregiously below. This, as I hope you know, is grounds for immediate termination of contract and other factors. In short, Miss Burns, you are on probation."
She stopped short and read the sentence over a few more times. Her job was safe, for the most part. With a slightly less glum expression, she continued with the letter.
"Improve your performance by actually succeeding in your required functions for a time period of one month or you will be fired from Builder's League United prematurely. You understand the difficulty I have keeping you employed due to certain aspects about your person, and so you will understand the repercussions and costs of keeping an inadequate extra."
One month. One month to mend her mistakes. One month for redemption. She held the letter to her chest as if it were a note from God himself. As if on cue, the light bulb shorted out, and she simply resigned herself to resting her head on the lone table, relief lulling her into a dreamless slumber.