Demoted - Null Set Scene, Future Tense

[ultimatenegative]

Sometime in a not so distant future - after his miracle, but before his work reaches wider circulation - Senan Renault is squatting just around the corner from the front entrance of Null Set, enjoying a peaceful moment with a notebook and a cigarette.

Now and then, he scrawls a thought, which leads to an outpouring of further words, until his hand cramps (and not for the first time, he considers recording himself onto his phone.)

Sen has become a fixture in the bar, quietly applying himself to whatever job might present itself as needful of a warm body. Door man, bartender, bouncer - and, possibly on the occasions when Rin has thrown up their hands in theatric frustration, a stand-in for his spouse. A buffer, mediator, a duelist's second. (Only, only, only when Rin seems most to need it. This place is Rin's dream; he only inhabits it.) (Happily. Fucking blissfully.)

He has become known for his easygoing demeanor; he has no horse in the race that is the employment hierarchy of Null Set, and so no reason at all to set a boundary between himself and the employees therein. Thus far, they have all known he doesn't actually work there. That he doesn't have authority. He is, for lack of a better label, a regular. (Or. The bar is in his apartment. The bar's employees are his roommates, leading very different lives outside his bedroom.)

That worked for everyone for a while. Until new employees turned up, who didn't know his Deal. Who assumed that his marriage had anything to do with his role in the bar. (Who assumed that, because he was affable, because he afforded a friendly ear and a relaxed attitude, an accent Hollywood loves to market, and the favor of the owner of the establishment (his Rin, his beautiful Rin), it meant he was a fucking pushover.) (That hadn't much bothered him.

Until today.)

A shadow falls across him and Sen stops writing; lifts his pen, but not his head. The shadow doesn't move; they're waiting for acknowledgement, probably. So he cocks his head to eye them side-long and takes the opportunity to pull a drag from his cigarette. (Rin's going to kill him for smoking.) (Best death.)

It's. One of those J-names. James. John. Jimmy? He couldn't be fucked to remember it, because he had taken an instant disliking to the little shit. Had, in fact, thought you're not going to last long here with that attitude. It's a rarity that he bristles about anyone in particular, but something about Jimmy-John-James grinds his gears.

"Hey, Sen, got a minute?"

(Did he fucking say this kid could call him 'Sen'? He doesn't believe he did. It's a courtesy afforded to the ones who've earned their keep: calling him by his nickname is a sign of familiarity, of belonging, and reaching that point is felt through intuitively. There's a transition from Mr. Renault to Senan, and then to Sen. This dick-fiddler's been here a month.) His smile is more of a grimace, a baring of teeth that comes a heartbeat too late.

"Fifty every hour." The other ten are, as he once told Darius Scarlett, tithed to ogling, admiring, gazing at, and lavishing affection upon Rin.

J-something looks confused and Sen thinks, My god, he's going to correct me. And there it is: "Actually -"

Sen wants to giggle. J-something is one of the Actualies; he hasn't seen one of them in the wild in years. He straightens a little, his hand and lit cigarette curling under his chin. Tell me. Oh my god, tell me how many minutes are in an hour, you sanctimonious little twat-

"- there are sixty minutes in an hour." J-something looks worried that Sen might not know this.

Sen looks as though he's struggling to contain laughter: mouth hard and eyes widened. (Oh my god, he did it.)

"You don't say. Let me write that down."

He does write. He catches his cigarette between his lips to free up his hands and makes the most important note. (TELL RIN HOW MANY MINUTES ARE IN AN HOUR.) And then on the next page, he scrawls large and legible, though he lets the paper fall back, words unrevealed to prying eyes.

Without looking up again, he speaks around the filter. "What can I do for you, Sparky?"

"Oh - ha!" The kid sounds delighted to have earned a nickname, which says something about his reception amongst others, Sen thinks. People must frequently call him by his full name, whatever it might be. (He'd like to interject, Actually, you didn't earn anything. Actually, I just forgot your fucking name because it didn't seem important. Seeing as you're kind of a louse.) "No, I, uh-"

The kid's feigning reservation, and Sen stares dead-eyed at the ground by his feet for a moment. He doesn't like that. The most contrived sort of disingenuousness. J-something is about to stir gossip. He'll bet his every last dime on it.

"I thought I'd ask about the bar job. You know, since Mandy's not handling it great -"

Who the fuck is Mandy? Sen thinks, then realizes the kid means Andi, who handles the bar just fine, better than most he's seen, in fact. (Andi, who asks for help when she's overwhelmed by orders. It's an invaluable habit.) (Andi, who's juggling backing the bar and college and fighting with her insurance to cover her hormone therapy and just who the fuck does this kid think he is to roll in and start judging -)

He's not judging her, Sen reminds himself. He's stirring shit because he wants that (better-paying) (more prestigious) job. Of the three bartenders on staff (not including himself), she is the easy target. (A woman.) (A trans woman.) (Young.) (Struggling, outside of work. Crying in the alley just over there, the other night, and Sen had sat with her on some nasty plastic crates and listened to her pour out her heart and woes until her phone's alarm sounded the end of her break. Until she wiped her eyes, plastered on the best smile he'd ever seen someone muster on short notice. Until she had gone right back to work.)

"I figured it can't hurt to ask." He's still going? Holy shit. Sen would be impressed by the nerve, if he weren't stunned by the audacity of what follows. "Maybe you can put in a good word for me with Rin -"

(It's been a while since he's felt utterly gobsmacked. It's almost refreshing to be floored by the egregiousness of this 'maybe'.)

"In case there's a job opening. I'm a hard worker, you know?" (Was it his imagination, or was there emphasis on that I'm, suggestive that Andi isn't?)

He considers what could be said here. Like the kids and therapists say, there's a lot to unpack here. But his outrage on Andi's behalf is unnecessary; she'll be fine. Her job isn't on the line, and she doesn't need defense against this shitweasel. (Much.)

There's something more insidious and immediate demanding his notice: the kid is speaking to him about this because he wants Sen to appeal to Rin.

(Because he thinks Sen will side with him? Soften Rin up to the idea? Because he thinks...what. That Rin will side with Andi because -

Hm. If he follows that thought, he'll start swinging.)

It doesn't matter why the kid's doing it.

Drawing the cigarette between his first and middle fingers, he ashes between his knees and shakes his head at nothing.

"Badly done, you. Not merely because Andi is an exemplary bartender irrespective of the antics of her shit-for-brains coworkers, but because I -" He jabs his cigarette, indicating the wall over his shoulder. " - don't fucking work here." J-something takes a telltale breath, so he holds it directly vertical, emphatic, like a raised finger. Ominous. Dangerous. Compulsory. "Don't you dare interrupt me. You talked enough. My turn."

"You seem confused about what constitutes 'hard work'. It's five in the afternoon, you're wandering around out here to ask about employment advancement opportunities from me. Like anyone would give you a fucking promotion. Fuck all, like anyone would let me do any sort of employment management if I didn't know you clocked on at four-thirty. The level of displayed entitlement, coupled with the ineptitude you've anticipated here is -"

He gestures with one hand, fingers splaying out to describe an explosion radiating from his forehead. The curl of smoke from his cigarette lends itself to the image.

"Fucking mind-blowing."

He leans a little so he can look up at J-something, his hair swinging away from his head, his eyes narrowed. The kid looks shocked. (They're always shocked, when this happens. When they find out Senan can compartmentalize his sunshine and rainbows and is, in fact, kind of a bona fide asshole. It would be funny if -

No. It's pretty funny.

He'll laugh later.)

"Hey, I didn't mean-"

"You did. That's the problem we are - and indeed, society is - going to have with you. You tried to take the shortcut, but there's no fucking clearance for your distended ego. What's more, you did something underhanded: threw a good girl under the bus, and asked your employer's husband to go to bat for you while you did it. And while I circle that particular cavity of self-conceit: fuck you for asking. That's my spouse. I'm not putting in a good word for someone who tried to dick around with them. What kind of person do you think I am?"

He waves his hand, dismissing any potential answer. "Don't fucking answer that. I can guess."

A beat - and Sen relents, just a little. Hefts a breath and frowns at the kid, then offers somewhat more gently, "Ambition's good, but it's a knife; cutthroat ambition is a dirty one. If you're going to wound yourself for something as mundane as a bartending position, do it so the cut's clean. You know what I mean?"

J-something looks perplexed, but nods anyway, and Sen looks away with the thought that he just wasted empathy on someone who's too young, too self-absorbed, or too stupid to learn.

"Sure you do." He sighs heavily and shakes his head. "You want that job? Work for it. Bust your ass like everyone else in there. Words of wisdom, direct from me to thee."

"...Yeah, okay." A shuffle of feet to his left, and Sen notes J-something is taking one lesson from this: he's going the fuck back to work.

"One more thing, Kid."

He watches the guy draw to a halt and notes the mixture of annoyance, defiance, faint humiliation in his expression. Not quite enough, and not the right humiliation, he thinks. This is a bruised ego's shame, and not someone who's going to learn from the encounter.

Well. Fuck that. He's not the kid's father, and he's definitely not his friend.

"Do you know the word 'prognostication'?" he asks idly. Smokes, squints up at J-something, who shakes his head. "The ignoble art of reading omens and signs. The wheel of stars, the patterns of intestines or bones on an altar, numeric patterns, prophecies uttered from the throes of madness, visions experienced while under the influence of hallucinogenic - fuck all, I'm losing you already? Keep up, Sparky. Tarot cards? Psychics? Yes? Okay, you're back with me, that's good. Prognostication is, simply, foreseeing the future."

He sticks the cigarette back in his mouth and flips to the next page, where he wrote that second note. He holds it up and taps it with one long index finger.

GO FUCKETH THYSELF.

(Words to live by, he'd murmured to Rin about the sign in their office.)

"You ever try to get around Rin by appealing to my better angels again, I'll put you through a wall."