The chime promised fresh coffee. Reconstituted, and pleased to be.
The grog was hair-of-the-dog strong — except there’d been no dog, and no drink. Just the memories, still settling, the way a hangover settles. This wasn’t a rub-your-eyes morning. Ellison sat on the edge of the bed and let the coffee burn his throat into submission anyway, as if the body’s problem were anywhere near the throat.
He put on yesterday’s clothes, scratched his ribs, and tried to shake the memories loose. Both the scheduled and the recurring.
The chime dropped all cheer and turned to chide. Ellison checked his watch. Half past fourteen. Late on the skip again, and his boss was past words now, moving to the file itself.
He made a gesture for the chime’s eye. Late, and logged as such. It had decided his fate beforehand.
Feedback, then office chatter, the voice punching through it.
you’re late ell. again. and it looks like you haven’t done your paperwork on the jacobs write-off.
i came in late from the skip. i’ll get to it.
get to it now, accounting is already breathing down my neck about their assets. and…
The and hung there, unfinished, and Ellison winced into the gap. Then the voice came back.
it looks like recovery went tits up as well. can you remind me what i’m paying you for, ell? burning assets and dropped recoveries? that in your job profile? or did they change it?
Ellison did not reply. It was not on-plan.
get to that paperwork. london office asks about their asset at sixteen, and i need something to tell them. gimme a preview in case they call sooner.
Ellison shrugged for the eye. It was logged. Brook did not care about performative gestures, but it was better to have a shrug on file. The chime rewarded Ellison with a happy ding.
he was an idiot.
Brook waited until Ellison could not wait anymore.
he skipped out of shadow. the target took offense. he died for it.
no one checked for an eye?
Ellison thought about it. And then made it a second time.
we scanned. nil. oldtown, though. there were windows.
It was Brook’s turn to pause.
fuckin’ limeys. all cock, empty cranium. gimme that report, stat.
A last screech of feedback, and the line died. Ellison sat with a punch-list gone long and that dog barking in his head.
So he did the only sensible thing: He lit up.
It was logged.
Note: These “Notice of Discrepancy” titled posts are an attempt to step well outside my comfort zone when it comes to narrative framing. I have strict rules that I’ve established for myself that I follow on these pieces, although it may often seem scattershot. I apologize in advance if something doesn’t work as intended. It is still an interesting experiment, regardless of the ultimate success.
