Chapter Text
“Jezebel, Waylon’s not answering, do you mind going to see what they want?”
Jezebel turns her head, looking at the man holding onto the side of the doorway and looking in on her workspace.
“That’s not like him,” Jezebel muses, standing. The brunette knows Waylon, she’s had lunch with him a few times to avoid Andrew- Waylon is also kinda creeped out by the man, so they bail each other out. Also the light brunet is one of the only ones who was actually kind to her and wasn't put off by her standoffish ways when she first arrived in Colorado. “Sure, I’ll head on over,” the girl nods at her superior, following him into the hallway. She knows the way to the observation area, even though it gives her the creeps- not only is Andrew often there for one reason or another, but seeing that man suspended in the pod on the screens as she fixes a minor technical bug makes her skin crawl. But the doctors constantly assure her that it’s for the man’s own good.
“Thanks, Jess,” her superior calls after her, and the young woman turns on her heel and gives him a thumbs-up and a wide smile.
“No problem, boss,” she calls back, turning around and going down the hallway. “Filling in for Waylon,” she informs the guard at the desk.
“He’s been paged three times,” the man shakes his head. “I’ll let them know you’re coming, Jezebel.”
Jezebel opens the door not being guarded by another security officer and walks down the hall, smiling gently at the guard in front of the metal doors.
“Coming to fix the problem, Jess,” the man asks.
“Yeah, Stan,” Jezebel nods at him.
“Alright, hurry up,” Stan says, standing aside.
The great metal doors open slowly, and Jezebel steps in as soon as the gap’s wide enough for her shoulders.
“My boss sent me here since you were paging for Mr. Park and he wasn’t coming, what seems to be the problem,” Jezebel asks of the closest doctor.
“Patient’s incoming, Arterial Spin’s still dark,” the man gruffly explains, voice muffled by the gas mask he wears. He waves towards the main computer. Jezebel walks over and sits herself at the desk.
“Ellis? We called Park,” a doctor groans from her left.
“Park wasn’t coming, I did,” Jezebel bites back. “What’s the problem?”
“The functional imaging interface isn’t talking to the ASL,” the doctor explains. “We’ve got a patient thirty seconds out and we’re blind inside his head,” the man angrily gestures to the machine, eyes not leaving Jezebel’s face. She’s seen the man around, his name begins with an S or something. Stan? Steve? Stan-Steve? Let’s go with that. Jezebel fights back a giggle at her own dumb thoughts as she clicks on the keyboard.
The doors open again behind Jezebel. She pauses and goes to turn, finding her face full of Andrew. The girl jumps in her seat, pressing a hand to her rapidly-beating heart.
“God, Andrew,” Jezebel huffs out.
“Sorry,” Andrew grins lasciviously. The man doesn’t look contrite in the least.
“Where have you been, Park,” a doctor asks, and Jezebel latches onto the excuse to ignore Andrew.
“Waylon,” Jezebel greets, and the slim man steps over to her. “My boss sent me over because you weren’t coming,” she explains, remaining seated because Andrew is blocking her from one side and Stan-Steve from the other.
“Sorry, got caught up in something else,” the other brunet explains, waving his hand. Jezebel likes Waylon, he’s sweet and kind. And they have sass-offs, which she looks forward to. But their boss, Jeremy Blaire, is a real piece of work. Jezebel always gets the feeling that he’s hiding something big. It’s probably him that kept Waylon up.
“Here, let me get up,” Jezebel says, ostentatiously to Waylon, but really so that Andrew will give her some personal space, Jesus Christ.
“I’m sure that you are more than capable of fixing my problem,” Andrew purrs, not moving an inch. In fact, he puts his hand on the back of Jezebel’s chair, caging her in. Jezebel glances pleadingly at Waylon, but the man is helpless- technically, Andrew is their superior.
“Ok,” Jezebel acquiesces, turning to the monitor. Waylon comes behind her and leans over a bit, watching the process, ‘in case she messes up’. Jezebel doesn’t need him, she knows the system like the back of her hand, but his presence makes Andrew back off a bit, which she’s thankful for. She’d just typed in a line of code that should establish connection between the two spatting systems when the sound of distant yelling draws her attention. The word ‘rape’ especially catches her interest. She looks inside the glass chamber, seeing a man fighting to get away from the doctors holding him. She looks back to the progress bar, catching sight of the guard beyond her monitor looking inside the chamber with his hand on the gun at his hip, when a body slamming itself against the glass in front of her startles both her and Waylon back. There’s a naked man there, his wide blue eyes pleading. He’s muscular, but his forearms seem too large for the rest of his arms. Maybe steroids, Jezebel’s mind supplies. Jezebel’s eyes flick to a screen- the patient’s name is Eddie Gluskin, and his picture is up along with a partial shot of his file, which Jezebel had noticed on her way in. Plus, she had heard a doctor mention his name while he was complaining that Waylon wasn’t coming when she walked in.
“Help me,” Gluskin pleads, looking at Waylon and Jezebel. He probably turns to them because they look different from the doctors and guards around them; they're both dressed more casually in jeans. He turns his face aside, looking out for the doctors who are coming to get him. “Don’t let them do this! Don’t let them! You!” The black-haired man is begging them, and it’s breaking Jezebel’s heart. He’s pulled away by a doctor holding something in his hands, Jezebel can’t figure out if it’s a machine gun or a huge needle. But Eddie pulls away again, banging on the glass with his fists way above his head. Machine gun, Jezebel decides, and why the fuck would they need that? “I know you can stop this. You have to help me,” Eddie continues. He’s dragged back, his arms still flailing above his head. “You have to help me, you have to help me,” he repeats, desperate.
“Hey,” a guard in Jezebel’s face startles her, and she ends up next to Waylon, both of them holding their hands up to shield against the man. “This is a high-security-”
Andrew stops him, much to Jezebel’s relief. She and Waylon look at each other, assessing. Waylon seems fine, just a little freaked out, much like Jezebel. Jezebel turns her attention to where Eddie is still fighting.
“Wait,” Jezebel cries, stopping the creepy doctor in the middle of what sounds like an attempt at a pep talk. “Andrew, stop them,” she pleads.
“Why,” Andrew asks, turning to her. Jezebel pauses. The man’s blue eyes had called to her, it must have been the pain and terror contained within them. He might be unstable, but that man truly doesn’t want to go into the Pod for one reason or another, and Jezebel trusts him to know what he wants done with his body. Empathy might be a new thing for her, but Waylon has definitely brought that aspect of her personality back out.
“If you do, I’ll go to dinner with you,” Jezebel blurts out. Andrew pauses, and holds up his hand to the guards inside, who stop with Eddie in between them. The patient himself freezes, head turned toward the observation area. Jezebel can’t see his face at this distance, but if she could, she’d see that his blue eyes are full of hope. Jezebel thought that the offer might get through to Andrew- the doctor’s been trying to get her to dine with him for basically her entire career at Murkoff- three long months.
Waylon turns to her in question. “Really,” Andrew asks slowly with a grin, and Jezebel ignores her friend for now.
“Really. All you have to do is let Gluskin go back to his cell,” Jezebel nods. At Andrew’s raised eyebrow when she mentioned Eddie's name, she gestures at the computer screen. “Read his name.”
“And you’ll fix the machine,” Andrew adds.
Jezebel swallows harshly. “I don’t feel comfortable with that,” she meekly says.
“Then no.” Andrew goes to gesture to the men inside.
“I’ll fix the machine,” Waylon jumps in.
Andrew stops and smiles. “Deal.” Andrew steps over to a microphone and turns it on. “Let Mr. Gluskin back in his cell. He gets a reprieve today. Courtesy of his new friends,” Andrew says with a smirk, gesturing to Waylon and Jezebel. Gluskin looks like he sags in relief.
“Thank you, thank you,” Eddie cries as he’s brought back the way he had come, looking at Waylon and Jezebel.
“You’re welcome,” Jezebel says quietly as she watches the man get escorted out.
“-restaurant of my choosing,” Andrew muses, and Jezebel is brought back to the deal she had made.
“Nothing too spicy,” Jezebel sighs.
“Of course not. Thai food?”
“Never had it.”
“You like Chinese?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll like Thai,” Andrew grins. He extends his hand to Jezebel, who goes to shake it. But Andrew holds her hand and brings the back of it up to his lips, where he presses a kiss there. “I’ll come pick you up at six.” The young woman can feel his wet breath puffing over her skin.
“I’ll tell you my address later,” Jezebel manages to speak while repressing the urge to yank her hand back. Andrew holds her for a moment longer before allowing her to gently slip free.
“No need. I know where you live,” Andrew says casually.
Jezebel stiffens. “How?”
“It’s in your file.”
“Why were you looking in my file,” Jezebel questions, as politely as she can manage.
“Blaire and I are friends,” Andrew grins.
Why am I not surprised, Jezebel thinks sarcastically. She nods.
“It’s a date,” Andrew smiles, and Waylon takes the seat and fixes the machine. Jezebel only hangs around for him, even though Andrew seems totally disinterested in the man, instead looking almost exclusively at her.
Waylon finishes the job soon, and the pair make their escape.
As soon as they turn the corner, Jezebel sags against the wall.
“Jesus, Jess, what did you do back there,” Waylon asks of the twenty-one-year-old. Waylon is only four years her senior, but he still acts as a somewhat paternal figure, or maybe more fraternal.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Jezebel shakes her head. “I just- he looked so scared, y’know? And I just couldn’t let him go in there, Waylon, I just couldn’t.”
“I know the feeling.”
Jezebel looks up in surprise. “You do? Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be working here at all, but God, they pay so well, and where else can I get a job that pays well with zero experience,” Jezebel bemoans. “I have bills to pay.”
Waylon gently lays his hand on her shoulder and squeezes.
“And don’t you think it’s weird that we don’t actually know what goes on with the patients here, and all the doctors are so twitchy about what the machine in there actually does, and maybe I can get Andrew to cough something up tonight if I can get him to drink a bit,” Jezebel’s rambling now, so thankful to have someone to bounce ideas off of. Waylon just stands there and nods and looks thoughtful to everything she’s saying, and she can tell he’s thought the same things. “And yeah, the whole women not being welcome in tech fields thing, I get that, but I’m literally the only woman working here and when he interviewed me, Blaire seemed almost completely uninterested until he saw my medical history, and he asked about the hysterectomy,” Jezebel continues.
“You had a hysterectomy,” Waylon stops her, and she takes in a much-needed breath.
“Yeah, when I was a kid, the doctor said something was wrong when I was like, 12, right after I got my first period, and I had a complete hysterectomy,” Jezebel shrugs. “He was my father’s friend,” she pauses slightly before saying ‘my father.’ She doesn’t like to talk about her childhood, and Waylon’s never pushed.
“We shouldn’t talk about this out in the open,” Waylon says quietly, falling silent as a guard walks past. “Come on,” he invites, and Jezebel follows him to a server room. She knows it, she sometimes comes into the dark when she gets a migraine. The blue lights from the servers don’t aggravate the headache like the bright white lights outside do. Waylon freezes so suddenly that Jezebel crashes into his back. She peers around to find Jeremy Blaire lounging in a chair.
“Someone’s been telling stories outside of class,” Blaire says, one half of his face illuminated by a laptop screen. Jezebel doesn’t recognize the device, nor the mug that reads COFFEE on the other side of Blaire, though she kinda wishes she had one for herself, because she likes that sort of thing.
Waylon grabs Jezebel’s arm and the pair turn to go, but they’re shoved back roughly by a security guard, and Jezebel spots a couple more behind him.
“On the floor! Down! Hands where I can see them,” the guard orders, even though the pair are obviously not threatening to him. Jezebel lands hard on the floor next to her co-worker, and she glares at Blaire. Waylon is snatched up and slammed against the wall, where he sits down hard.
“What the fuck, Blaire,” she demands, scurrying over to her friend and holding his hand, checking Waylon’s head for injuries. He seems fine, and she glares at the guards and her boss in turn.
“Manners,” Blaire smiles at her. “Honestly, I’d really rather you weren’t here, but since you are, it seems as if you’ll have to be punished right alongside Mr. Park here.”
“I’m sorry, Jess,” Waylon says.
“Don’t be. We’ll be fine,” Jezebel soothes him.
“I highly doubt that,” Blaire cuts in. “Waylon Park, consulting contract 8208,” Blaire begins, picking up Waylon’s laptop and bringing it close, the glow from the screen illuminating his somewhat severe-looking face. “Software engineer with a level 3 security clearance.” Jezebel mentally nods- same as her, except her contract number is higher because she’d been hired later. “Graduated cum laude from Berkeley-” Go, Waylon, Jezebel praises in her mind. “-but still somehow not smart enough to realize that the last thing a fly ought to do in a spider’s web is wiggle,” Blair smirks. What? He drops the laptop, slightly separating the screen from the keyboard. Waylon jerks his foot back slightly to avoid it being crushed.
“What are you talking about,” Jezebel demands.
Blaire ignores her as he leans over and puts his now-free hands on his knees, attention focused on Waylon. “Somehow dumb enough to think that a borrowed laptop, onion router, and firewall patch would be enough to fool the world’s leading supplier in biometric security.”
Jezebel looks at Waylon- the man looks scared. The process Blaire described would be enough to escape basic detection. “If you had come to me, I could have rerouted it so that it looked like the hack was coming from outside,” Jezebel says to her friend.
“Didn’t want you involved.”
“Well, that didn’t work out, did it,” Jezebel asks, eyebrow raised. Waylon’s mouth quirks up, just a little. “What’d you do?”
“Tried to expose Murkoff,” Waylon replies.
“Good man,” Jezebel smiles.
“Stupid, Mr. Park,” Blaire continues, as if he had never stopped. He taps a finger lightly against his own temple. “More than stupid. In fact, that was crazy.” Jezebel’s blood runs cold at the implication Blaire is driving home, and next to her, Waylon stiffens as well. Blaire finally turns his attention to her. “And you, offering your help when you’re already cornered, are just as crazy,” Blaire remarks.
“Fuck,” Jezebel swears.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have you two committed,” Blaire says, straightening. He doesn’t sound contrite about that fact, even falsely so. “Mr. Park, Ms. Ellis, will you two willingly submit to forced confinement?”
“No,” Waylon and Jezebel proclaim together.
“Did you hear that, agent,” Blaire asks the guard at the forefront behind him.
“They said ‘yes,’ Mr. Blaire,” the guard replies.
“Fuck you,” Jezebel snaps.
“Great. Oh, and did I just hear them volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program,” Blaire questions.
Jezebel and Waylon hold hands tightly.
“That’s what I heard, Mr. Blaire,” the guard says.
“Kiss-ass,” Jezebel spits at him. She gets a kick in the ribs for her trouble.
“That was brave indeed, Jezebel and Waylon. The Murkoff Corporation and the onward march of science both appreciate your bravery and sacrifice. Maybe you could administer them both a light anesthetic,” Blaire suggests.
“Gladly.”
“You’re not getting anywhere close to us with needles,” Jezebel growls. She can fight, she knows she can. She’s stronger than she looks.
“Who said anything about needles,” Blaire asks, and Jezebel is confused for all of a second until two guards step forward and fists fly at their faces. Jezebel and Waylon both put up their arms, but they can’t stop the blows. Jezebel fares better than Waylon, because the man needs two punches and a kick in the face, while she needs three punches and her own weight makes her head bang on the cement floor. But both succumb to unconsciousness.