A short way beneath the sea bed is an empire that lacks common sense. Pockets of civilizations are sometimes connected via tunnels and trains, sometimes disconnected from the rest entirely. Examples of convergent evolution walk on two legs and speak complicated languages, while sporting ancient features of the sea creatures they call their ancestors.
"This needs a new direction," I shake my head, cross my arms, and lean back in my chair. "Call up that guy that freelances for WHITEOUT and see if–."
"Rodger Dapple?"
"Him, yeah, call him up. Doesn't matter what his rates are, get him on board for–, wait, you knew exactly who I was talking about! He's great, isn't he? His editing style will capture the kids for sure," I swell with pride at my assistant. She's a quick learner, just a bit difficult to motivate. "Call him up, get him to make a pilot for this, and make sure you send it to me and Louis before you send it off for revisions."
Before she can add anything to the exchange, her phone rings and she's out the door in a hurry. The name which flashes on screen makes me raise a brow, a gesture which certainly doesn't go unnoticed by her. I'm in the know with everything that goes on here. This is not just my job, but my life. When you're the managing director of your father's media empire, you can't simply coast on your laurels if you want to maintain any level of respect from your peers.
I spin in my chair, my face turning to a grimacing mess as I catch sight of the tower just across the street. WHITEOUT. What originally began as a petty rivalry had, over the course of only three years, blossomed into a media agency unicorn. In their fourth year they opened their doors to public trading and they've been mocking us openly ever since.
Curling my tail over my lap, I take this moment to speculate their next move. The large, glistening blue tower before me represents their cleaner, vibrant vision of the future. Everything about them is fine-tuned to create an expectation of success. White himself is the ideal of a zero-to-hero CEO success story. If only people knew how much of an asshole he was behind closed doors. If only people didn't gobble up the farce of perfection the company put out there. The average person would never see the predatory contracts, the unpaid labor, the catty defamation schemes and chronic perpetuation of behind the scenes rumor mills.
I turn back to my computer, answering a few emails as I rile myself up with hatred. I organize my schedule, keeping it packed to the brim with meetings and private appointments. I try my best to sort through my catalog of employees, referring to my notes on who is working on what and which ones could use a morale boost or a lecture. I respond to angry demands of increased pay, to mental episodes from worn down oldtimers, to advertisers and the people I call 'friends' for the sake of business.
WHITEOUT's facade is nothing but a farce. They're my motivation to push my father's company to greater heights. How is it that they can succeed while doing everything so wrong? I rub my eyes and slip on my heels, making my way out of my office and up to the top floor. Warm smiles greet me as I walk past the dreamers and schemers under my watch. I need air. I need an escape from anger that both motivates and eats away at me. Faster. Faster up and out of here. To the roof. To fresh air.
"Ow!" A man yelps as I slam into him as he exits the elevator I seek to enter.
We both land on the ground with a cacophony of stationary and papers scattering around us. Before I can process any pain from falling on my rump, I'm attempting to sort out the best way to turn this from a future workplace complaint into a positive interaction.
"Oh, I'm so sorry David," I smile feebly, helping to collect his scattered things.
"Davie," he corrects me. "But, close! I'm surprised you remembered at all."
I measure his expression, attempting to discern whether or not he's agitated, nervous, or unbothered entirely. I correct myself audibly and briefly scan his paperwork. I'm not entirely familiar with this man, but I do my best to learn the basics of all the employees I might encounter. Perhaps his documents have something I can connect with him on? I don't want him to be uncomfortable with me.
"I hope you've been having a killer time here at Killer Media! I hope you're not too… erm, strung up!" From what I could glean from his paperwork and my foggy memory, he's new here and works in the costume department.
He stares at me, definitely uncomfortable now.
"Yeah…"
Ah, fuck.
"I-it was nice meeting you, I need to get to my desk now though."
He's gone.
I sigh and stand up, brushing off my pants and heading into the elevator. I hear whispers from onlookers that I can only assume are mocking. When I get to the roof top I dash for the railing and dig my nails into the metal bars. I stomp, stomp, and stomp out the feelings of embarrassment and anger. CRACK! The heel of my shoe pops off and I continue to kick and stomp until it has been flung off the side of the 685 foot tall building.
I rip the shoe off my foot, pull my arm all the way back with a back-breaking lean, and with all my might toss that piece of shit across the gap between Killer Media and WHITEOUT, hoping to dirty their window or kill one of their managers.
Then, I slump. I pull my legs to my chest and press my face into my knees. What am I even crying about? I have a good job, a good life. My father went from a gangster surviving on swiped kelp from street vendors to creating his own media empire. Yet, here I am, trembling on a day where nothing particularly bad has happened and all things are going just the way I planned.
Trulululululu~
My phone's cutesy ringtone breaks the tension I'm building in my own head. I peek down at it and shudder.
Call From: Papa.