Monday morning started just like any other day for Preston Tucci. He and Antoine took the bus to work together, then parted ways at the gate. Antoine headed off towards the guts of the plant and Infrastructure. Preston took the short elevator ride up to the administrative level.
He let himself into his office, and started slightly. A young woman with short hair gelled in a severe pixie style stood by his desk, laying out several folders. She was immaculately dressed in a black skirt, white blouse, and black blazer. She wore an amethyst scarf around her neck.
The woman stopped when he entered, and turned to face him.
"Good morning, Mister Tucci," she said crisply. "I've taken the liberty of bringing over today's files, and have arranged them in order of time sensitivity." She stepped to the side, and folded her hands behind her back. Her expression, Preston noted, seemed ironically familiar. It was the same one he'd worn when he replaced Dimas' previous assistant. Confident, perhaps a bit conceited. Definitely ambitious and ready to work.
Preston sat down at his desk and glanced over the files. Typical Monday grind, nothing too exciting. At least there's not a mountain in my inbox that I have to sort myself. "Ah, thank you, Rigel." He paused. "Am I pronouncing that right?"
She tilted her head. "Unlike the star, it's actually pronounced 'Rye-gel,' sir. Though, 'Riley' is also an option."
"That's an unusual name, is it not, Miss Vought?"
Rigel's eyes narrowed slightly. "My parents' choice, not mine, I must confess sir."
Preston nodded thoughtfully.
"Mister Tucci?" Rigel began.
"Yes?"
"Since, unfortunately I am coming into this position cold, I was wondering if you'd have a moment to go over a few things with me."
Preston gestured to one of the guest chairs. "Of course; by all means. Please have a seat, Miss Vought. So, what can I help you with?"
Preston watched Rigel carefully as she settled down and crossed her legs at the knee. It felt good to deal with a new employee, someone who had no reason to doubt his ability. Preston felt oddly confident as he sat back in his chair. Rigel couldn't be more than twenty two years old, twenty three at the most. Sure, the age gap between them was not substantial, but it felt nice not to be one of the youngest employees at the plant for a change. Preston interlaced his fingers and put on what he hoped was a good I'm listening expression.
She reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a miniature marble notebook and chrome pen.
Rigel Bella Vought, "Riley" to her friends, tapped her pen against the tiny notebook thoughtfully. She'd known that she wouldn't be coming in as a direct replacement. The spot for "executive assistant" had been left empty since Preston Tucci himself had vacated it.
Rigel wasn't sure how that worked, exactly. The man in front of her wasn't quite what she'd been expecting. Then again, Rigel wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. His features were finer that she'd be lead to believe. Preston Tucci had a lean face, mouth slightly drawn, giving him a mildly worried expression. He wore glasses, a surprise. Most people these days preferred contacts. His hair was gelled in a messy-chic style, and he wore a suit Rigel assumed cost more than a month's paycheck at her level.
His hands, she noted, were recently manicured. He didn't wear any ring on either hand, but he did have a fancy-looking watch. Silver, most likely. Rigel wasn't sure the manufacturer. It was something she decided she'd figure out. If her boss collected watches, that was something she should know about.
Rigel opened her notebook to the list of questions she'd written down.
"Mister Tucci, I want to be sure I know what you expect of me. I know there hasn't been a personal assistant here for quite some time, and that you've been managing most of the tasks yourself. I don't want to be presumptuous. I want to make sure I cover exactly what you want me to. Do you have any specific tasks you want me to handle?"
Her boss rubbed his thumbs together as if thinking.
"I'll definitely need you to manage my calendar," he began. "Email too. There are a few priority senders, I'll give you a list, anything from them you can put into my Personal folder, and I'll open it. Aside from those, I'll expect you to go through my incoming email." Preston listed off a few other tasks he had in mind, including a morning meeting together to discuss his projects and daily priorities.
At least, Rigel reasoned, having been an assistant himself once, he knows exactly what he wants. It made her job easier. Preston (she couldn't think of him as Mister Tucci, though she knew she would refer to him that way), had a clear idea of what he needed in an executive assistant.
After Preston had finished listing his requirements, Rigel nodded.
"Do you have any questions for me, Miss Vought?" he asked.
"Only a few, sir," Rigel replied.
He waited, patiently while she turned to a fresh page. "Do you have a list of callers that I should always put directly though to you? Ones that I should always screen?"
"I'll have to think about that, and get a complete list back to you," Preston replied.
"Yessir. Do you have any names in the meantime that I should be aware of who may try to contact you? Spouse, children, parents or close acquaintances who take priority?"
Preston unfolded his hands. "A short list? Montgomery Burns; he's the owner of a nuclear power plant in Springfield, North Tacoma. And his assistant Waylon Smithers. They're calls I can normally always take. Family? Not so much. Antoine Radson; he's my pilot. If he calls you can always put him though. The rest, well, like I said Miss Vought, I'll have to think about that."
Rigel nodded, and scribbled down the names in her notebook.
"What time do you like to take lunch, sir? Do you have a particular time you want me to set aside and keep free of appointments?"
"I take lunch between noon and one in the afternoon. As for uninterrupted time, I'd like nothing scheduled earlier than nine in the morning, unless it's an urgent matter. And even then, check with me first."
"Understood," Rigel noted.
"The final question I had on my list, sir: organization. Do you want me to organize your desk and office?"
Preston ran his slender fingers over his lips.
Rigel watched thoughtfully.
"Yes. Please. I like things kept in tight order. I'm sure you can see my system, but I'll be glad to answer any questions you might have about what I want where." He paused. "Have you been shown your office yet?"
"Ms. LeBlanc showed me, but I've yet to settle in, sir."
Preston rose, and gestured her to follow him.
Rigel closed her little notebook, and slipped it into her pocket. Her boss gave a brief tour of her space, and listed his few ground rules: quiet music was fine, she could eat at her desk if she did so neatly, and the like. Rigel walked to her desk, examining the computer and phone. It was all standard fare to her, familiar. Preston went on to explain that the mail and calendars were synchronized on a main system. A change she made at her computer would be visible on any of his devices.
Rigel noticed that her boss kept a tablet tucked under his arm protectively. At one point he paused, and looked at it. He gave a shrug, and gestured to her office. "I think that concludes everything I have, Miss Vought. I have a few calls to return from the other day. Unless you have anything further for me, I shall leave you to your work." He turned, heading back to his office.
"Mister Tucci," Rigel called. He paused, brow wrinkling slightly. He reminded Rigel of a confused puppy, the way his forehead creased.
"Yes, Miss Vought?"
"This packaged arrived for you this morning, before you arrived. I took the liberty of signing for it." She reached down and lifted an unmarked box about the size of a hardcover novel from her chair. "I didn't know if you wanted me to open your physical mail, or leave it on your desk; sir."
Preston turned lightly on his toe and walked over to her desk. "That depends, Miss Vought, on who it's from."
"It's from a W. Smithers, of Burns Worldwide Consolidated." She held the package carefully. It was lighter than it looked. Only a few ounces. Whatever was inside had been well-packed. Nothing slid an inch. "That's the same individual you asked to always put through, correct?"
Preston reached for the box, and Rigel was struck again by how pale and smooth his hands were. Not a laborer's hands, to be sure. She released the package into his care.
"That is correct," he replied distractedly. He gently tilted the package, as if listening to guess the contents. His expression had clouded over. Not anger, Rigel noted, but something else. Something she couldn't quite identify.
"Is there anything else, sir?" she asked.
Preston shook his head. "That will be all. I'll page you if I need you." He left her office through route that joined his, shutting the door behind him.
Rigel booted up the computer, logged in using the information provided, and got to work.
Preston sat down and placed the package gently on his desk. He'd recognize Waylon Smithers' neat print anywhere. The man hadn't even used a prepackaged label. It was hand written in a dark green ink. The ink itself had almost a reflective, lacquer-like quality to it.
Mr. Preston Tucci
Chief Executive Officer
Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station
Plateau City, NY 12199
Preston reached into his desk and pulled out a letter opener, a relic from the Dimas Era. He worked it under an edge of tape, and slowly started cutting the package open. Finally, he managed to open the box. He dumped out a handful of packing material onto his desk. He was not entirely surprised to find it contained a second, smaller box. This one was about the size of a small paperback book.
This one simply had his name, written in the same green ink.
It was not as heavily bound as the outer package, and Preston opened it easily.
At the center of everything was a nondescript grey smartphone, and a note closed with a wax seal the same shade of green as the ink. The shield, the hunting horn, the fleur-de-lis. Preston might not have been a student of heraldry, but he could recognize the same crest he'd seen hanging above a mantle at Burns Manor. The only difference was the trim around the edge. At the boundary of the imprint were two names: Waylon J. Smithers. C. Montgomery Burns; or possibly in the other order. Preston didn't think it much mattered.
He split the seal, and took out a small piece of thick paper.
The note began without preamble.
Preston, we have business to discuss. This phone is untraceable and untappable. Put a passcode on it, and only use it in a private location. It will only dial the numbers programmed into it. I would like to hear from you at your earliest convenience. Thank you. Waylon.
With a snort, Preston stuffed the letter back into its envelope. As if he didn't have enough on his plate. As if there weren't already too many things demanding his attention. Preston checked his watch. Springfield was several timezones behind Plateau City, but it would be late enough to call.
Why am I doing this? he asked himself as he turned the phone on and waited for it to boot up. He already knew the answer. Ignoring Montgomery Burns, or his associate Waylon Smithers, would only make the problem worse later on. Those two, either one actually, would not drop this matter.
The phone had finally finished booting up, and now displayed the home screen.
Preston tabbed into the contacts list. Everything had been almost completely restricted. Preston couldn't access the internet, make changes to the address book, or adjust the settings. The numbers in the address book were for both Burns and Smithers respectively, private lines as far as Preston could tell. The numbers were not displayed. They were only listed by initials, and times.
Preston fired off a "Do Not Disturb" alert to Rigel. Unless the end of the word was coming, he was not to be bothered. Or perhaps not even then, he thought sourly. If the world ended, at least it would take his problems with it.
He spun his chair so he faced the window, and looked out over the view of his nuclear plant. Knowing he'd regret it, Preston selected a contact "WJS – anytime," and hit "call."