Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, you decide there is only one smart way to handle this. “Sir, if you’re not taking my job application seriously I’d like to be escorted from the building now.”
Philip Chapman’s grip on your shoulder gets tighter, “Mister Narang, I don’t think...” He pauses, his vice grip on your shoulder shifting into an explorative massage. “...just how many shirts are you wearing?”
You wince, “Today, seven.” Normally you go with just six, but you felt boosting the layers up to seven would be a good luck charm.
Not being satisfied, the squirrel spins you around and gives you a through pat down. Thankfully you’re covered from wrist to neck in thick layers of clothes so there’s nothing he can do... except rip open your every single layer appart at once with his almost impossibly huge muscles. You almost think you hear a seam or two split on his own suit, though that is far from your main concern at the moment. “Mister Chapman!”
Ignoring your protests, Philip runs his hands up and down your exposed ribs. “You don’t seem to have an ounce of muscle on you.” Reaching back up, he grabs the collar of your ripped shirts and pulls them down, exposing your skeletal arms. “Just how emaciated are you?”
Trying your best to keep your breathing under control, you respond, “It’s a chronic medical condition. Now if you are done sexually assaulting me I’d like to leave.” Arms effectively pinned as long as he holds onto your shirts and their cuffs are still buttoned, all you can do is just stare at him definitely.
Philip Chapman is momentarily taken aback, but he quickly regains his composure with a glare. “Mister Narang, if you seriously think you are walking out of this office without giving me answers then you really don’t know what you’ve walked into.”
You can feel your breath pick up the pace as you close your eyes you force yourself to regain composure. It’s not easy; it feels more and more like your life is on the line here. But then you remember the words Sable used when you left this morning; you’re too good for this place, don’t let them tell you otherwise. When you open your eyes again they don’t waiver.
“What I’ve walked into,” you say in an even tone, “Is the office of some pencil pusher who is so bored he’ll slap around anyone for the chance to play the role of a Bond villain.” That appears to take him aback, so you push the verbal offensive. “You’re lucky I’m not someone in position to press charges. What would you have done if I was under witness protection, or an illegal immigrant? I don’t care if you report to a board of directors or league of super villains, that kinda publicity wouldn’t look good for you.”
That puts some wind back in his sails, and as the squirrel puts a death grip around both of your wrists he growls, “Listen, if you think you can threaten...”
“I’m twelve.” You say flatly, knocking the wind out of him again. “I’ve been rapidly aging almost every year of my life. I spent an increasing amount of that time crying, wishing it would stop before I died an old man at age twenty. Those wishes were granted when I stabilized at age ten. Since then I’ve been working with the insidious intention to get employed, spend a few years talking to people who aren’t my family, and then taking my earnings to get a college education once I’m eighteen. I am surely a threat to all your company stands for.”
Your last sarcastic remark hangs in the air. Letting go of you, the larger than life squirrel staggers back, looking at you as if for the first time. When he speaks again, there’s a slight hint of disbelief. “You’re twelve...”
“Yes,” is the only response you give him. He already suspected your age. This shouldn’t be too hard to get him to accept.
“You can’t be just twelve,” Phillip says with exasperation. “There has to be some explanation, some story.”
You sigh, “Of course there’s a story.” He waits, expectantly. “No, I’m not telling you.”
This causes the squirrel to grind his teeth as he gets up in your face again. “Mister Nar... Mist D Narang,” he corrects himself as he realizes he was addresses a twelve year old with a title of seniority, “if you don’t tell me what I want to know...”
“You’ll what,” You interrupt, “kill me?” He pauses, as if just realizing he was threatening a twelve year old kid. Funny, normally you feel self conscious about people suspecting your real age, but here you are with a grown man who knew it and suddenly you had all the power. Pity these were exceptional circumstances.
Standing up straight, he looms over you as he stares down at you in disbelief. “You can’t be twelve. No twelve year old would be this composed in the face of death.”
He give the squirrel a sigh before responding. “Mister Chapman, I’ve had the deck stacked against me my entire life; from the act of being conceived to walking into your office ten minutes ago. And through all that I’ve only had four people in my corner. I will not say anything to put those people at risk. If the price of that loyalty is death, I’ll pay it.”
Philip Chapman stares at you for a moment, before walking around the desk and picking up his phone. “Hello, security. Mi... Mister Narang is going to need an escort out of the building.” You visibly sigh, and almost feel your bones melt into jelly before you catch yourself. You still need to walk out of here with a modercrim of dignity and composure.
--- --- --- --- ---
Philip Chapman flips through the digital files on his desk, as he’s been doing since the security guards came to escort Mist D Narang out of the building. Finding what he’s looking for, he presses a finger to it to hold it in place as he dismisses the rest of the virtual documents with a flip of his hand. That done, he presses the speaker button on his phone and then places a call.
It doesn’t take long for the person on the other side to pick up. “Phil. Glad to hear from you. How was the spy who was important enough to cancel our lunch time plans?”
“Turns out it I was looking at him from the wrong angle.” The squirrel responds, not taking his finder off the single file he pulled up. “Are you near a smart surface?”
“I am now,” the voice responds with just a moment delay. On cue, Philip swishes the virtual document over towards the phone, it disappearing the second it makes contact with the device. Philip waits a moment, “OK, and is there any reason you want to show me to the contact information for Solomon Bio?”
“That’s the emergency contact information for our supposed spy,” the squirrel snorts, “Turns out he isn’t some twelve year old super spy Sable Paige has been training in secret. He’s just... twelve. Rapidly aged due to losing the genetic lottery, not intentional tampering. [censored], his miracle stabilization may have been due to Sable’s secret tampering rather than his prayers being answered like he thinks.”
“And you’ve confirmed this?” The voice on the other side of the line asks, ever pragmatic.
“For now it’s just a gut feeling,” Philip says as he carefully and slowly pulls a needle out from under his right ring finger, “But I got a blood sample with the micro syringe. We’ll see what our geneticists come up with.”
The voice on the other side anyways, “Right. Well if they confirm everything you just said, I’ll forgive you. Until then...”
“My gut also says he’s the reason Stork Tech has refused all our offers to buy Solomon Bio no matter how lucrative.” Philip Chapman lets that sink in for a moment.
“Right...” the voice on the other side of the phone responds. “If that pans out, I owe your gut an entire side of beef. Still, there is a question of how we use this information. We need Sable Paige.”
--- --- --- --- ---
Exiting the office building, you exhaustively look about. It is now early afternoon, you don’t have a job, your shirts are ruined, and you haven’t had lunch yet. With the adrenaline rush of talking your way out Mister Chapman’s office running out, you really need a pick me up. Thankfully...
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