Vicar and the Corp

Can’t sleep.  Had too much coffee already.  So tired.  Gotta keep the eyes open.  Don’t these assholes ever go home?

Vicar yawned, and rubbed at his exhausted face.  He’d been crammed into a supply closet for the last twenty-three hours, staring at a set of augmented reality windows. They were patched into the security feed of the office he and his crew were waiting to raid.  His job, for the moment, was to keep an eye on the drones working away in the office, and tell his crew when the floor was empty so they could infiltrate.  He’d slipped in shortly before quitting time yesterday, expecting the place to clear out quickly.  Instead, he was stuck waiting while a bunch of corporate wage-slaves worked their assess off all night for a corp that would kick them to the curb the moment they stopped being useful.  Gross.

He yawned again, and slumped his face in his hand.  One eye he kept open, watching the screens.  The floor was starting to clear out again, people grabbing their coats and bags.  

After another hour, there were only a few stragglers remaining.  Two drones having a chat in a cubicle, and one asshat hunched over a terminal.  Don’t you have lives? Vicar stared out at these last peons, squeezing the sides of his head and trying desperately to kill them with his mind.  That wouldn’t help, they’re supposed to ghost this mission.  No witnesses, no bodies, or no pay.  
But damn, would it make him feel better.  

The Chatty Twins grab their coats and head towards the elevator.  Yes!  Go!  Get yourselves something to drink.  Get drunk!  Get alcohol poisoning and die, you corprate stooge bastards!  Don’t come back.  Vicar stretches his neck out and leans back, resting his head against the wall.  Maybe I’m being too harsh.  

He opens his left eye, and stares angrily at baldy.  Last one, asshole.  Go home.  Go hooooooome.  Gooooooooooo hooooooooome.  I’m sure you have a perfectly acceptable corp approved hovel, with some nice soycaf and ramen waiting for you. Go, go you glorious bastard, go home and eat.  

Sigh.

Vicar waits.

He pulls a pair of energy bars from his vest, and for the hundredth time this day debates the qualities of vanilla versus those of peanut butter.  Sigh.  Fuck it.  Peanut butter. He puts the vanilla back, and tears into the peanut butter bar.  Damn that’s tasty.

Shit!  Baldie got up!  Vicar lurched forward, putting his face almost against the intangible AR screen.  Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeave.  Leaveleaveleaveleave.  

Baldie shuffled some papers, and grabbed his coat.  Yes!  Finally!  Aaaaahahahahahaha! Baldie starts shuffling towards the elevators, and Vicar gleefully starts punching up his crew’s contact in the matrix.  Almost go time.  Vicar watches as the wageslave slides his coat on, and shuffles his pages into what he can only hope is the right order.  The guy’s so intent on whatever he’s got on there.  Reading paper like a chump.  Who uses paper?  Corps that have the nuyen to spare, I guess.  Oh, hell no…

Baldie stops in his tracks.  He shuffles a page into a different order, and then turns to the supply closet.  No no no no nonononono.  Go home.  Do it at home.  You don’t need supplies.  You need to sleep.  We both need to sleep.  Damnit you stupid…

Vicar slips the strap off his Ares Predator, and thumbs the safety off.  Damnit, a whole day wasted.  Not even getting paid.  Stupid rules.  Stupid Mr. Johnson.  Stupid bald corp drone.  He levels the pistol at the door, and shuts off his AR windows.  

Baldie opens the door to the closet and flicks on the light without looking.  He’s got his face buried in his papers.  A tortured, confused look on his face.  Vicar’s pistol tracks the guy’s face unerringly.  Baldie’s free hand reaches up, and starts flopping around on the shelf, searching while he reads.  Jesus, what’s this guy’s problem?  His hand passes back and forth over pens, reams of paper, datajacks, you name it.  What does he want?  

Vicar’s face twists with incredulity.  Does this guy seriously not see me?  What the hell?

The drone keeps reading, nodding his head while he scowls.  He re-straightens the sheets of paper, and continues to read.  It dawns on Vicar.

“Stapler?” He asks, grabbing the red swingline stapler on the bottom shelf and handing it to Baldie, his Predator never twitching away from the guy’s head.

“Mmm.” the drone grunts in reply, taking the stapler without looking up.  He staples his papers, places the stapler on the shelf, and shuts off the light as he leaves the closet.

Vicar, alone in the darkness, stares with disbelief at the shut door.  The elevator dings, and he hears Baldie get on and disappear into the night.  

Un-fuckin’-real.

Vicar’s comlink chirps.  It’s Behir.  

“Hey Bee… place is finally empty.  Let’s do this, I want to get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”