by P. S. Power
It didn't work.
No, that reek had driven to the bone already. Into his soul. An odor of stale sweat, urine and desperation that clung to him like slime, shifting with his every movement. It whispered to him that he'd be going back soon, or to an even smaller box.
A grave. It frightened him, of course. There was no reason it shouldn't. Marcia didn't seem like she'd been kidding earlier about him being killed and Brian Yi being the only person on the planet that would step forward for him.
That scared him worst of all.
If anyone had a right to be mad, to hate him, it was that guy, so how close had he really been to death without even knowing it?
Re-dressing in the same clothes, since it neared five and he felt just a little hungry, Denis made his way to the dining room, only to find that a different hot red-head sat waiting for the meal to start. Her hair was brighter than Karen's and she looked maybe a year or two older than the twenty-something gymnast. Possibly thirty, but if so, she wore it really well. She looked good. Not just “I just got out of prison let's fuck” good either, the real deal. If Karen was a sports nut, this woman must be insane about it...
Her clothing was just the normal team three sweats that most people wore day to day. A subtle reminder to actually work out Denis guessed. He'd always eschewed them in favor of bad tweed and plaid jackets and slacks himself, going for a unique and “dapper” look. Another legacy of his upbringing in a diehard Christian cult. Everyone had to look “good”, all the time, mainly so that “Prophet Darren” could decide who he wanted to fuck that night at a moment's notice.
The guy only liked girls, thank God, but used to tease Denis about being gay or liking men or even secretly being a girl. Later, when he hit his teens, he'd outright accused him of it, the gay part at least. That was about the time he started getting sarcastic and mouthy, to “prove” his manhood to the supposed “mouthpiece of God”.
Maybe it would be a good change if he just dressed like a regular guy for a while? The woman in front of him didn't seem put off by the idea. No, she just looked at him and smiled, staring a bit.
“Well, hello.” She nearly purred at him, her voice rich and full bodied. “I'm Rachel.”
Extending his hand and trying to not stare at the woman's breasts overly, which took work, all things considered, since they were perky and, um, happy to see him? Or cold. The room didn't feel bad to him, but the hand was hot. Either she had malaria or a metabolism so fast she had to eat butter by the stick just to keep her weight steady.
“Denis Tompkins. Pleased to meet you.” There, it was polite and didn't involve suggestions about what they might do later at all. No one could fault him on that, could they? “Call me Denis, please.”
The look she gave him spoke of a lot of things they might do together anyway, even if they'd just met.
That or Denis was imagining things. Possible. Things really had been lonely for a long time.
The room filled up shortly, and to his surprise no one hit him or anything. Everyone on the team was there, which gave him the biggest shock he'd had in a long time. Marcia wasn't on team three anymore at all, but the fucking Director of the whole IPB was? Just to watch him? That seemed likely. Why though? This place had cameras in places that barely counted as places at all. If he wanted to keep tabs on him...
Well, this just didn't make sense. Before he could ask about it the next shock came as the nearly seventy year old, fairly portly, fellow in a nice suit sat down next to Rachel and they started to get more than a little chummy. Ack. Denis started to make a quip about robbing the cradle, but caught a sudden kick to the shin from across the table, where the ever so proper Christian sat looking at him innocently.
So... something not to talk about? Fine. Keeping his mouth shut seemed like a good enough plan to him. Also Chris was wearing hard soled shoes and the edge stung where it met shin. Denis kind of wanted to avoid having that happen again if he could. Aversion therapy after a fashion. Probably her point.
After dinner there was nothing to do, and no one wanted to stick around with him, which was fair, so he went back to his room and just sat for a while. At seven, he decided to curl up in an actually dark room and sleep. It had been too long for that and things had gotten really freaking weird in his life. The man he tried to murder had saved his life and now he was not just being given a job, but something that sounded important.
He needed a drink, but couldn't afford one for so many reasons. Not the least of which was that he'd insult someone if he did. Even a sip of booze turned him into a raging ass. Penny might not actually kill him for a single lapse, but Marcia would. That woman had hard written all over her and always had. Denis needed to be careful, or death would be a real possibility.
With that in mind he fell asleep.
The next morning started with a pounding on his door. Normal enough, being woken suddenly. It surprised him when he realized that there wasn't a cold cell around him and it was pitch black. After a moment he grinned. Free again. After a fashion at least. The pounding continued, hopefully it wasn't an emergency. When he got the hollow wooden door open Mark stood smiling gently. For a calm guy, he sure knocked loud.
“Time for work! Normally we won't have to start this early, but today we need to get several display cakes done for the first episode, so meet me up on one in half an hour? Just in the restaurant.” Then, without giving him a chance to back out or even complain, the man disappeared, looking at the clock Denis winced.
Four-thirty? What the fuck was this bullshit? Even the prison guards hadn't gotten him up that early.
Still, he'd gotten to bed at a decent hour, so why not? It was a struggle to get going, his eyes still heavy and dragging for a long time. The shower helped, turned up full blast, hot water pounding, then cold, followed by hot again. It sucked. Got him to wake up fast though. As kid's they'd had to endure long cold showers to “purify” their souls at the church. The compound really. It did work. After all, they'd purified him so much he wasn't at Faithhome anymore, right? Taken the sin that was that place right out of him.
He dragged into the restaurant fifteen minutes later, and settled by his teammate at the four person table along the front wall, the second table into the room. It was covered with a fine white linen tablecloth and had a small, but tasteful flower arrangement in the middle. White and red carnations in a white base along with those little white dried nibs everyone loved to use so much. Baby's breath? They didn't smell like sour milk to him, so he'd never gotten the name.
Denis hoped he could get a cup of coffee or six before they started for the day and mentioned that out loud, half expecting to be told he hadn't earned it yet. Mark agreed to let him have one, since a few other people had to show up first. The agreement came with a smile though, and not an edgy thing either, a joke then? Maybe Mark wouldn't deprive a man of his coffee if he could help it? A saint if that was the case. One of the people to come in was a plain, but not ugly, girl from team two named Kerry who looked at him sleepily and held out her hand as if to shake. His half full cup of coffee moved from his hand and landed in hers. She promptly drank the rest.
“Thanks. I need more though. Ugh it's early. Whoever invented mornings should be shot.”
Laughing Denis scored a full pot of coffee and a few more cups from the morning hostess, the same kind one from the day before, making a point of thanking her profusely, then cooled his cup with water, figuring that Mark wanted to get going as soon as the last person arrived. The guy that showed up wasn't anyone he knew at all, but they shook hands anyway.
“Warren; nice to meet you?” The man said with a tired looking yawn.
“Denis; I have coffee?” It was an attempt to be playful but the guy just nodded and yawned again.
“That probably means you're a living saint. Set me up and I'm your new best friend. Should we get to work before Mark starts hitting us or what?”
Denis blinked, hearing his own thoughts of a few minutes before repeated, but didn't m
ention it. Here it could mean anything from telepathy to great minds thinking alike. The guy had slightly thinning hair and a thin build, he wore all white, like a real cook or baker already. It kind of made him feel a little jealous, having only team three sweats on and all. He wanted a dorky looking white outfit too.
They walked out the front door of the fine place carrying cups with them, which made him wonder if the morning hostess was going to jump them or at least yell, but she just grabbed the coffee pot, a nice dispenser with shiny silver legs and a glass body, topped it off and sent it along, handing it to Denis with a smile. He thanked her again and took the thing by the warm glass handle, grinning back as best as his sleepy face could manage. It made his cheeks hurt a little, smiling wasn't something he was used to.
The room they went to looked good. It was a half kitchen really, a huge space about fifty foot long and sixty wide, with cameras already set up in half of it. Mark showed them the room proudly.
“This is just the set, the real kitchen is in the back. Through that door to the left. OK, we need to move fast, so division of labor and chain of command here.” Mark smiled, his voice still dreamy and soft.
“My show, so I'm boss. If Warren tells you to do something, do it, obviously, but we'll try to stay on the same page as much as possible. Kerry next, since she actually has a culinary arts degree and then Denis, who's our runner. Any questions?”
Denis raised his hand a little so Mark nodded.
“Runner? Is that like a gopher?” Or just everyone's bitch? He stopped the words before they were spoken and tried to keep an interested look on his face instead of the surly one that wanted to come out.
Kerry smiled at him, it actually made her a bit prettier. Not a lot, but enough to get attention from him. Wholesome looking might work as a descriptor. She had a cute little snubbed nose that reminded him a little of some of his sisters. Not too different than his own really. It would have been off-putting if he hadn't been so freaking lonely for so long and probably would be until he could get laid. Unless she was willing...
He could suck up the similarity in that case.
“Kind of, but a good runner does everything in the kitchen. It basically means that we all get to yell at you, and work you half to death, but in the real world it's a place to start learning, not just scutt work. That too though. The runner does most of the scutt work. Keep that part in mind. You equals menial tasks.” It came with a wink attached and a playful tone.
Denis sighed. Sounded about right didn't it? Get out of prison only to be used as near slave labor. Well, it beat dying, so far at least and they had coffee. Good coffee too. He just sat and listened while everyone else went over the plan for the day. He didn't try to do more than pay attention, since most of what they said didn't make sense. What he got was that they were making two small cakes, and a large decorative one in the shape of a turn of the last century dirigible for the Director's birthday. That wasn't for six months, but it made a good gimmick and brought the IPB into the show with one of their most public figures. Not everyone liked the Director, but no one was afraid of him either. Denis could see it working.
Most of the prep work for that, thankfully, had been done the day before and they had three ready to go, just in case something happened. What they needed to do was show the baking of one and have an already finished version of the smaller cakes. It sounded like a lot of work to him, but the others just nodded, so he went with it. What did he know about television cooking shows after all? He hadn't even been watching T.V. for half a year and before that he'd preferred sit-coms. It was the way he hoped most real people grew up.
With a laugh track and moms and dads that always loved you at the end of each half hour. No torture either. What wasn't to like?
His part, it turned out, wouldn't be that hard. Just run around trying to find things for everyone and washing the large bowls and pans while people yelled at him to hurry faster, since they were running out of time. That was the literal job description and came from Mark, who as a rule didn't scream, so Denis knew to take it seriously. Right, move as fast as he could. Denis got the general idea.
What all they did individually, he couldn't tell, being pretty busy himself. There was a carrot cake, one made of marbled chocolate and vanilla and the big blimps, which kept trying to fall apart the second Mark worked with them. This went on from about six in the morning to nearly three in the afternoon when a half dozen men and women showed up to do the actual show. They sauntered in, looking at the equipment and the people actually dressed for the show. He caught some looks too, even though he wouldn't have to be on screen at all.
If they had names they didn't care to share them, not with him at least. Mark had dressed him in a white baker's outfit, with an apron and a funny hat, but he was still the gopher, which, once it got found out, meant that everyone placed drink orders with him as if he were a waiter. For a moment, just a brief – tiny really – twenty-five second flash, Denis really considered making the bitchy woman that demanded coffee from him feel like her insides were on fire. Or, if he had to keep to the new, kinder and gentler plan, making her feel like she was about to lose her lunch or even other, messier things were about to happen. The idea made him smile after a bit.
Instead he got the coffee, but raised his eyebrows at Mark. The guy winced back a little, sympathetically. So it wasn't all him just being too harsh or making mountains out of mole hills? Good to know. In an odd way that made it easier for him to keep his cool. If Mark noticed she was a bit abrasive and demanding, she probably really was.
The bitchy woman was like that with everyone at least, even her own people. She was the Director of the show, so he cut her a little slack for the day. It was her first time here and it seemed like everything bugged her just a bit. Enough he almost wondered if she was secretly Infected. It passed to the others, three camera people, a lighting woman and a sound guy. It took a while to figure out, because they all played the reason for their nerves close to their chests.
Denis got it about twenty minutes after they arrived, when one of the camera guys called him over to ask if it would be possible to get some water. So far he was the only one that had really been polite about asking, adding in please and using a happy enough tone, so Denis actually hurried to make it happen. That took about ten minutes, since the staff at the restaurant bent over backwards to help people out and had a selection of expensive water to hand just in case anyone ever asked, both pre-chilled and room temperature, to suit all kinds of preferences. They made up two buckets, one with ice the other with cool water and had him back before anyone died of thirst.
“Hey, thanks man.” The guy had a large gut and a red t-shirt that said “I saw the Grateful Dead” on it. Taking a blue labeled water from the silver and green ice bucket he took a sip.
“Good. Clean... hey, um, doesn't it ever worry you working here? I mean with,” the guy dropped his deep voice low, so it wouldn't carry.
“All the Infected? What if they, I don't know, get mad and use their laser eyes or read your mind to find out that you're cheating on your girlfriend? Or what if that Proxy dude comes in and starts killing everyone? That has to freak you out, that guy's scary. I saw the unedited video of him fighting that serial killer, the Jackal? I mean, man... killing someone with your teeth... He has to be insane, doesn't he?” The man actually seemed frightened at least, so Denis cut him a little slack too. It took work though. At its heart it was just bigotry, if the quiet kind that masqueraded as fear. The stuff about Brian didn't make a lot of sense but he tried to play down the fact that he wasn't up to speed. Looking like he didn't know things everyone else did wouldn't help him seem trustworthy, would it?
“Really? Tell you the truth Proxy isn't that bad a guy. If he came in here he wouldn't even ask for a piece of cake without being invited. As for hurting you, well, his power makes him go and fight people that are trying to hurt or kill someone else. Don't do that and he's just a guy. He likes video games and science fiction I thin
k. Recently bailed me out of a jam. Nice guy like that.” That being all he'd gotten from the briefing originally Denis changed the subject.
“Now, a couple of the team two people can seem all intense, but for the most part everyone here is just like anyone else. Some are cool, like Mark there, the host of the show? He's completely nice all the time, a pacifist I think. Really good guy. Kerry? She's on team two and as far as I can tell so far, is a complete sweetheart. Even Prime is OK once you get past him demanding to be on camera all the time. So you'll be his best friend... It's an ego thing, he pretty much can't help it. Point that camera at him and he'll be pretty happy though.” Just as he said that the man himself walked in wearing a nice blue suit tailored to show off his form, complete with ass hugging slacks. That was special, since they weren't normally designed to do that.
“And there he is now. Well, that kind of had to happen, didn't it? Don't worry though, he's not a dick or anything, just into himself. Just remember that it isn't really something he has control over and he's easy enough to manage.”
Denis made the rounds and got everyone something to drink, even Prime and then sat back behind the cameras quietly, trying to not be noticed.
The show went really well, shot in about eighteen parts, all smooth and relaxed, with Warren acting as Mark's assistant and Kerry as the junior person of the team. That meant she just ran in and helped, bringing stuff on screen and explained quickly how the white and silver butter-cream frosting was made. When she started the first time her voice cracked and nearly choked in her throat with fear. Stage fright.
Denis could relate. It wasn't his idea of a good time either, being put on display like that. As a child in his world, attention, especially in public, had always been a bad thing. The second take was even worse as the bitchy woman in her green and black pant suit kind of yelled at her. Because, as everyone knew, screaming at an already nervous person always helped them feel better.
