Chapter Text
Who knew the Alchemax corporation would be so out-of-touch with reality that they'd need a sensitivity reader to ensure they didn't horrify the general public with their articles? Certainly not you-- but when you got a call from a friend of a friend who 'happened to know a guy', you were nothing short of elated.
You had been searching for a sensitivity reading job for a while, as you'd had some experience in the editing and proofreading field. And you had hardly expected a job opening at Alchemax.
Normally people would be running to a job opening at the corporation like middle-aged white moms running to the local Wal-Mart on Black Fridays. But since the sensitivity reading business was so small in your area, you had only a few competitors.
Naturally, you were the best of the bunch.
Alchemax must have known this, getting word from the friend of a friend who knew a guy, because they called you the day after you got news of their job opening. A friendly lady on the phone asked if you'd be available to come in for an interview.
"Yes, of course," you had told her, trying to keep the desperation and excitement out of your voice. She seemed surprised at your immediate acceptance of the offer, but she gave you a time to come in regardless and hung up happily.
The moment she hung up you flung yourself onto your couch and practically squealed. You might have been getting a job at Alchemax-- from friends and acquaintances you'd heard how well they pay. Something to do with being disliked by the public, and chemical fumes.
But you didn't mind that. Eventually, you'd scrape up enough savings to continue pursuing your actual passion: music.
You had been playing bass guitar and piano for at least a decade of your life. It hadn't always been something you enjoyed, but after you realized you didn't have to play just what was on the sheet music-- the day you realized improvisation existed-- you dove headfirst into the world of music.
For a while, you made enough money by filling in for band members who were sick or injured. In other words, you were a backup player. And after some time a few people noticed your skills and invited you into their band.
Hysteria in Paradise, it was called. You played bass for them.
You were still a member of Hysteria in Paradise, but gigs became less and less frequent and money grew sparse. You had just started to manage getting by on your musical career money, and then it vanished.
So you turned to sensitivity reading, which was an easy enough job. A few jobs in, you were accumulating friends in the business. Connections. Which is how Alchemax found you.
You sighed wearily, getting up from the couch now that your moment of glee had faded. It was time to head to your closet and pick clothes for the interview-- you were expected at ten in the morning tomorrow.
Humming to yourself, you dug through the closet for your dress pants and navy blue blazer. Pairing those with the light gray button-up was your go-to outfit for what interviews you had gone to: if you found that you weren't dressed casually enough, you could just take off the blazer. Otherwise, it was just enough to loosely qualify as business casual.
You laid them on your bed-- did they need to be ironed? Nah. There were only a few hardly-noticeable wrinkles, and with how Alchemax had called you, you assumed that they were too desperate to pay attention to how you dressed.
After this, you set off to have dinner and get to bed early. It wasn't that you had to get up very early-- after all, they expected you at ten, which was practically when you had lunch-- but more so in hopes that the next day would come sooner if you went to sleep sooner.
For dinner you ordered a pizza. With pineapples, of course. There was a newfound confidence in your voice as you spoke on the phone.
Yes, you thought smugly after hanging up, I'm ordering a pizza with pineapples. What are you going to do, make fun of me? You can't-- because I'm getting a new job!
After scarfing down some pizza, you slid the leftovers into the refrigerator and got ready for bed. You settled under the covers, the clothes for the next day still sitting on your bed, and dozed off to dreams of cold hard cash.
---
The glare of morning sunlight filtered through your windows, and you squirmed under the covers. Once your eyes gradually opened, you checked the time-- six in the morning. That gave you four hours: three to get ready, and one to drive to Alchemax. Although it wasn't an hour's drive, more like half an hour, you decided it couldn't hurt to be early.
You made yourself coffee and squinted at the episode of Friendly Guy on the TV. However, you were neither familiar with the show nor fond of it. The white cartoon dog said something about airplanes and there was a pause. You tried to figure out what the joke was supposed to be, if there was one; you could not.
Directing your attention to more significant things, you checked your phone for any missed calls or messages from Alchemax. There were none, but you did have a notification from Scrabble. Wonderful.
With a groan, you went to the bathroom and scrubbed your face, then your hands. You brushed over the calloused fingertips of your nondominant hand, wondering if it would hurt to type with them. Probably not, you reasoned with yourself.
You hadn't played bass excessively for a while-- just here and there, in the evenings and sometimes in the mornings. But because of how long you'd been playing, they were only grayish callouses and not raw, not blisters.
After washing your face, you carefully preened your hair, trying to make it look as professional as it could. And with sudden horror, you realized an hour and a half had passed.
You took a quick shower and then changed into your interview clothes. The pants had gotten a little tight since you last wore them, but you didn't mind. Tugging the blazer over your button-up, you were about to leave the house-- until you saw your torn, muddy tennis shoes sitting by the door.
"Absolutely not," you muttered as you glared at them. You'd have to find another pair of shoes; back to the closet you went.
You found a pair of shiny platform boots, a pair of sandals so old-looking they might as well have been worn by Jesus, and to your dismay, nothing else. You'd have to stop by a store and pick up a pair of kitten heels or Mary Janes.
For the time being, though, you donned the Jesus sandals and headed out the front door, bag slung over your shoulder. Before pulling out of your apartment building's parking lot, you pulled up the directions to Alchemax on your phone. When you saw the directions, your eyes widened.
Oh, Lord.
Traffic was bad-- your online map predicted it'd take an extra twenty minutes to get to Alchemax.
That twenty minutes you had planned to spend at the store, picking up appropriate shoes. But now? You supposed you'd have to show up to your interview as you were, sad-eyed and sandaled like the Son of God.
You took a breath to steady yourself. You turned on your jazz playlist, in the hopes that Ella Fitzgerald would serenade you into serenity. And, hesitantly, you pulled out into the slow trickle of traffic.
---
You made it to Alchemax in time for your interview; somehow, you weren't late. Hopping out of your car, you headed to the front entrance with your portfolio in-hand. You'd stashed your portfolio, a small folder, in your glove-box so you wouldn't forget it at the apartment. Your sandals flopped as you walked, and you tried to pretend the clacking sound they made didn't bother you. To you, it was the sound of failure. The sound of being poorly prepared.
Not without some reluctance, you lifted your finger and rang the doorbell. A speaker switched on, and you could hear static filtering through it before someone spoke.
"State your name and intentions."
You told the disembodied voice your name, and that you had been invited for an interview.
"Oh-- it's you, come on in," the voice said, suddenly friendly, and there was a click as the door was unlocked. A short, mousy-haired woman opened the door and smiled brightly.
"I'm Sasha, the lady you spoke to over the phone."
"Ah, I thought your voice was familiar." This was not true, but you thought it would momentarily keep her attention off of your sandals.
"You've got a good memory," she giggled. "Here, I'll take you to the interview room."
The two of you made small talk as you walked: Sasha talking about how the working conditions really weren't that bad, you almost never get sick because of the fumes, and the public is misunderstanding what we do here, it'll be good to have a sensitivity reader because certain scientists certainly don't know how to make their articles anything short of terror-inducing. You nodded, agreed with her politely, even though you didn't know any of the people she was name-dropping.
"Okay, here we are. Good luck!" she said, gesturing to a tall metal door that was half-opened. You waved as she hurried down the hallway, skinny heels clicking quietly.
"Come in," a gravelly voice called from inside the room. You obliged, and stood with your hands folded. Your interviewer was a man with sandy blond hair and round glasses, sitting at a square table-- he made a motion for you to sit across from him.
As you sat, you gently placed your portfolio on the table, turning it to face your interviewer. You shuffled your feet silently into a position where he couldn't see what kind of shoes you were wearing.
"So tell me," he began, "what makes you a good candidate for our sensitivity reader job?"
---
Needless to say, the interview went almost perfectly. You prattled about how your clients never got complaints from readers about their work being insensitive, how you could point out even the smallest details that might cause an issue with readers.
Since Alchemax was looking for somebody to simply convert the horrors of their experiments into something that didn't sound awful, you were more than suitable. After a while, the interviewer held up his hand to stop you and looked down at his notepad.
Just like that, you were hired.
"You can start today. We have a few articles with upcoming deadlines, and because of this damned transparency policy we've got now, we need to get them out to the public soon." You agreed with a knowing look, and mentally gave thanks to this transparency policy for ensuring you a job.
Walking out of the interview room, you sighed in immense relief. Not a word had come up about the Jesus sandals.
To get to the office where articles were written and edited, the interviewer said you needed to take a left, and then a right, another left, and finally one more left. You followed these instructions to the best of your abilities and miraculously ended up in the right place.
You took a deep breath. Okay, you could do this. Easiest job in the world. After a moment, you walked into the office, looking for the desk the interviewer had said would be yours.
There were only a few people in the office, and they all seemed as though they wanted to be somewhere else. You walked past them, on your tip-toes as to minimize the flopping of your sandals, and sat down at the empty desk with some papers and a computer on it.
Squinting at the papers, you saw that they were for the new sensitivity reader-- which, of course, was you. Without a moment of doubt, you got started on your work.
Immediately you realized how bad the situations at Alchemax were. May cause mass destruction not unlike that of a World War, if used the wrong way, one scientist had written about an in-the-works machine. You balked at this: was there any way to make this sound all right?
Despite the sheer alarm these articles caused, you managed to sugar-coat three of the four that had been assigned to you in the span of four hours.
"On to the last one," you murmured, going to the shared files of the company computers to find it. But a few minutes of searching went by in vain-- where was this article? You re-checked your assignment paper, in case you'd gotten the name or author wrong. You had not: it was still Possible effects of interdimensional resource harvesting on the U.S. economy, by Dr. Johnathon Ohnn.
You checked again and again, and couldn't find the article. Eventually, you made to call Sasha, who had e-mailed you earlier in the day that she was available if you needed help with anything. She picked up almost instantly.
"Hey, there," she said cheerfully. "How's it going over there?"
"Not bad. I've got through all the articles except for one, which I can't find anywhere." You talked as loud as you pleased, since everyone else had left and you were now the only one in the office.
"Which article is that?"
"Something interdimensional resources, by Dr. Johnathon Ohnn."
"I see. He probably forgot to submit it, he's a bit forgetful. Why don't you call him and ask him to send it to you?"
You blinked. You had suspected that you might have to make a call, but you were hoping Sasha would make the call for you since it was your first day. Perhaps not.
"All right. I can do that."
"Good." With that, she e-mailed you his work phone number and you dialed it in.
The phone rang for a long time. Johnathon Ohnn, pick up please, you thought frustratedly. You had to get his article in by tonight, and had no time to play games. Still, the phone rang-- he wasn't picking up.
Okay, maybe he's busy. You could call again in a little bit. In the meantime, you played Scrabble on the computer for a couple of minutes. But you were too distracted and too impatient to focus, so you called again.
It rang, and rang, and rang. The bastard simply refused to pick up, you supposed.
You called Sasha again, and she picked up after a few rings.
"Hi again, can I help you?"
"Dr. Ohnn won't pick up. I've called twice and it just rings for five or so minutes."
"Oh-- ah... hmm. You could go talk to him, I guess? We really need that article soon."
You agreed, and she gave you directions to his lab.
It wasn't a very long walk, but you prolonged it, a bit nervous to confront such a likely renowned scientist about a deadline. When you got to the door, you were debating turning back and just having somebody else talk to Dr. Ohnn.
What do you think you're doing? part of you thought. You can do this! You don't owe him. If anything, he owes you that article. Go get it from him.
That's right-- go get 'em.
You knocked a bit louder than you intended to, and a few moments passed before the door opened half-way. A man peered out at you.
The man was tall, but an awkward kind of tall: he had lanky limbs and big nervous cow eyes. There was a prickly beard on his face, and his long hair was tied in a bun and covered with a hairnet. He was watching you carefully, as if you were something unfamiliar.
"Can I help you?"
"Oh, um. I'd like to see Dr. Johnathon Ohnn?" The man blinked slowly.
"That's me. What do you need?"
This was Dr. Ohnn? You suppressed a scoff-- he didn't look very scientific to you. You scrutinized him, top to bottom, not sure if he was joking with you.
"I was wondering if you could send me the article you wrote? About the interdimensional resource harvesting?"
"Ah, about that--" he said with a newfound certainty in his tone, as though he was only now sure you were a fellow employee, "I... it's not done."
You stared at him, mouth open.
"It's not done," you echoed weakly. He nodded.
"Why do you ask?" He was pensive, but then he snapped his fingers and looked at you with realization. "Ohhh, are you the new sensitivity editor or whatever it is?"
"Yes, I am, and I'm not sure if you realize but I need to get that article edited by today. So if it's not done... you had better get it done."
"Is that a threat?" He arched an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. This attitude was starting to get on your nerves.
"No, it's not a threat. But you need to get it done. You're on a deadline too." He scoffed.
"You can't rush research. I need more than just one month to write this paper."
"A month?? You've been writing for a month and you haven't finished?"
"Like I said, you can't rush research," he repeated, putting a condescending emphasis on his words. You narrowed your eyes at him.
"Well, that's too bad. Get the paper done in the next two hours, please, so I don't have to work on it all night." He rolled his eyes, and pushed up his glasses.
"No, I don't think I will. By the way, those sandals look like they were worn by Jesus."
You paled, half in shock and half in irritation. The only person who noticed your sandals happened to be the rudest of your coworkers you'd met so far.
"I..." You couldn't figure out what you wanted to say to him. Everything you came up with would be sure to get you into trouble.
"Is that all, new-hire of Nazareth?"
"That's all." He nodded, a look of patronizing pity in his eyes, and shut the door in your face.
This, you were sure-- or rather, he-- was going to be a problem.