SHEETCAKE PARTY #1

[goneawaymod]

SHEET CAKE MEETUP

“Who the fuck is Linda?”

The question pops up every few minutes, a little tack of punctuation above the offensively-inoffensive music being piped in*. The room the hires have been ushered into is clearly just a conference room, with a layout that requires either sitting at awkwardly-spaced intervals around a giant table or milling and scooting around the smaller folding table, where the “big surprise” the corporate officers promised them is on display: a sheet cake.

A sheet cake that that still bears HAPPY BIRTH DAY LINDA in blue icing across the top, although someone has, at least, gone to the effort of writing welcome, to the team new hires in Sharpie on a purple flashcard and used a Popsicle stick and tape to plant it like a dismal flag right in the middle of Linda’s “DAY”. Dedication aside, the cake itself looks pretty suspect too, not as if it were poisoned but more like if it were salvaged. The cake part looks dry, and the frosting seems strangely...sweaty. No one’s eating yet, and yet there’s already a piece missing.

However, there’s no lack of enthusiasm around the room. A projector hooked up to a laptop casts an off-center, warped rectangle of WELCOME TO, THE BEST TEAM. NEW HIRES!! onto a wall. The many paper plates have a festive print, although they all seem to be Christmas themed. The table cloth looks as if it came from both 4th of July and potentially a war, given the scuffs and tears. The shot-glass sized paper cups are inadequate to hold a satisfying amount of sparkling cider, but at least they don’t leak. There are many more plastic knives than forks, which could prompt some hires to give in to their animal instincts and just use their hands, or perhaps start a barter economy for the better utensils.

“I’m so jealous,” a corporate employee keeps saying as she ushers hires into the room. “We haven’t had a good party in this office since Kelly’s baby shower, and that little girl practically has teeth now!”

(An eagle-eyed hire may suspect that the box of donuts next to the sheet cake might have come from said baby shower, on account of the fact that the few stale hunks of donut remaining have Pepto-Bismol pink strawberry icing and that there’s still the paper envelope for a gift card with ITS A GIRL written on it.)

Most of corporate slips out after the hires get set up - this is clearly an event for the hires to do some “team building” and work on “rapport” in addition to filling their bellies with cake that tastes remarkably like sand. There’s a karaoke machine in the corner, but hires are instructed not to touch it because, as an employee points out, last year’s Christmas party demonstrated that karaoke is the worst thing in the entire world for morale (“in any world! even before this one got eaten away by the bombs!”).

There’s an additional big glass jar filled with scraps of paper, which the hires are informed are filled with prompts for ice breakers and activities in case the party needs a pick-me-up. Any hire who investigates will find that most of the ice breaker activities start with three benign questions (“what’s your name?” “where are you from?” “what’s your favorite animal?”) and somehow, always a fourth question that feels a little invasive (“what are your feelings on unions?” “under what circumstances would you kill an innocent person?” “do you use the same passwords for all your accounts?”).

“Please enjoy yourselves and all the desserts Jorgmund has generously supplied you with,” one of the employees says on her way out, “and don’t worry about making a mess, janitorial gets paid too much to sit around as is.”

*All music that can be summarized as ’grocerycore’.

Comments

Mac | OTA

[morebetter]

I. Cake

It doesn't take much to get Mac hyped up, and a bunch of these new employees telling him he's going to get something great definitely do the ticket. Mind filled with gold bathtubs and Ferraris and a two-way ticket back home only he can go through, Mac can't help but be smiling as he's herded into the room, nor can he help the way that smile wilts and fades into a bereft expression comprised of disappointment, resignation and betrayal.

Even Mac knows this cake was for Linda.

He still tries it, because even cake addressed to someone else is probably better than the meatball that literally bounced in the mess hall. He snatches a neon green fork before anyone even gets the chance to look at it and loads it up with Linda's Y, then takes a nibble. It's crap. He knew it was crap, by the weird sugary condensation on the outside to the fact that when he stabbed it with a fork it crumbled like granola. But somehow, just somehow, he had nursed the tiniest iota of hope, and he now has to live with the bitter consequences of that.

He tosses it over his shoulder, and it seems to go out-of-sight, out-of-mind, because he doesn't even seem to recognize when it smashes against the floor or against another person innocently minding their own business ten feet behind him.

II. Karaoke Machine

Since this party is lame as shit, Mac loses interest in anything structured within about forty seconds, and ends up roaming around like a wayward sheep in a field, with the table full of terrible cake as the grazing patch he periodically returns to. When the corporate suits told him there was going to be an exciting surprise, he pictured some Wolf of Wall Street splendor, with money raining from the ceiling and scantily clad people in million dollar bikinis* giving free lapdances to any Tom, Dick and Harry with an employee I.D. This weird sheetcake thing isn't even lame and predictable; this weird sheetcake thing is a blow against Mac's entire faith in American Capitalism.

("We're not in America," a corporate suit says to him the first time he complains, to which he responds "if I don't know where we are my money's on America because this country is so huge, dude".)

Eventually he ends up at the karaoke machine, which, through skimming it, has a large selection of lame music that Mac would pull the plug on (literally) and a small but workable selection of Christian rock. Tons of Switchfoot, which almost makes up for the urban crap. The problem mostly is that there's a sign that says "out of order" and when he tries to play it and get this party going, no sound comes on.

So he knocks it over and kicks it. That usually gets things to work.

*Mac has neither seen Wolf of Wall Street nor purchased a bikini in his life.

III. Champagne

Mac feels like he deserves some kind of commendation for not having a hissyfit when the proffered beverage was knock-off Martinelli's, and yet no one emerged from the shadows to praise him for this magnanimous act of fortitude and temperance. In fact, people aren't really paying much attention to him at all, probably on account of the fact that he's milling around with a giant talking rabbit and other more evidently remarkable beings. Mac's left out in the cold, in his opinion. He has to go be proactive and introduce himself to a bunch of strangers, and it's only now starting to occur to Mac that he hasn't really made any new friends in like, almost thirty years.

The flop sweat is brutal, but it's at least mitigated by the fact that he hacked the hell out of the sleeves on his coveralls and is now blasting bare arms with totally badass tattoos. He can mostly mop that away with napkins, which he does rigorously. The general sense of unease is harder to combat, and he keeps circling around the table with the cake, not eating anything but pushing things around with a fork before tossing them and rearranging paper cups full of brightly-colored plastic knives. At some point, some corporate interns run in to refill the fake Martinelli's, and they leave a bottle of the good stuff; since Mac's lingering, he's the first to see that there's a bottle of real champagne mixed in among all the "sparkling grape" and "effervescent raspberry" pussy ciders. He takes it to examine, and then he takes it to keep.

True, the champagne is meant for everyone but, as the Good Lord says: "sucks to be them". Mac tries with marginal success to slip the bottle of champagne through the armhole of his modified coverall into his clothing for covert transportation.

iii

[passifloraincarnata]

Oh look, a poor child has washed up on Mac's doorstep. Wait, no, it's just Setsuna, in the middle of attempting to wallflower after the debacle with actually trying to eat a slice of cake has resolved itself, eyebrow raised in mild confusion.

"Are you ... stealing our drinks?"

[morebetter]

"That's not how theft works, dummy." Mac has an incredible ability to sound very confident as he's about to spout relative nonsense, and the fact that he's talking to a child adds to that. "This champagne is mine as much as anyone else's, which mean it's really a you snooze, you lose situation for everyone else, including you."

He clicks his teeth and makes a little fingerguns gesture at her, champagne bottle now conspicuously sitting like a terrible-formed pregnancy belly under his clothing.

[passifloraincarnata]

"I don't think that's how 'sharing' works," Setsuna says, as doubtful as it's possible to sound about such things. Which is pretty doubtful, and a little worried about whether this grown man she's talking to is, you know, mentally all right up there.

And then her brain clicks onto an idea that only a kid who's never actually had a real glass of champagne before to realize that's what it is and who doesn't in the slightest understand what comes of the cost of asking Mac to do anything for them would consider having - at least, not with the expectation she has for how this will be taken by him, anyway - and she pivots to saying, "In fact, if you really mean that, you'll pour me some before you drink the rest, at least, right?"

[morebetter]

"Everyone had a shot at it, I just got here first. And "got here first" is how America was built." The grown man she's talking to is not, in fact, mentally all right up there, but nevertheless, he persists, blissfully oblivious to the way normal people live and the value they hold, insulated from the pains of self-awareness with a healthy lack of observational skills and a potent distaste for seeing others as actual human beings in their own right.

He squints at her, not quite sure what her play is, and clutches the champagne to his chest. "Why would I do that?"

[passifloraincarnata]

"I'm not American, do they not teach Americans that that only works if you don't get caught before you can get away with it?" It comes out with a little bit of an edge despite the placid expression of concern on her face, just enough of a warning sign that someone is actually aware that she could, in fact, get Mac in trouble for doing that, if she wanted to.

If she wanted to. Which she actually does not. But she remembers how it felt to want to. And also she worries he's a little like a badly-trained puppy or ... or, to relive some feelings she'd rather not feel about other people again, like she used to feel about Westar and needs a smack in the nose to remember that he should share what he knows with the rest of the class, sometimes. Only with even less of a concept of personal hygiene. No, that's a terrible thought. Maybe he's just like ... a less reliable Kaoru. Yes, that puts her mind more at ease; now if only there were any decent donuts here, to actually test this theory.

She gives him her most sincere smile. (It is, to her credit, fairly sincere, because she is being fairly sincere about it, despite her growing sense of this whole situation as some sort of utterly ridiculous negotiation with someone probably twice her age who should absolutely know better than she does when it comes to this sort of thing.) "Because sharing is caring?"

[morebetter]

"Right, well, you don't have to be American to know that the way Americans do it dictates it for the rest of the world." He points a fingers and moves it through the air, as if he's drawing an invisible line-and-a-half between the heart of America, Moscow, and France. "Point is, I got to the champagne first, so..."

He grimaces and cocks his head to the side momentarily in an expression of not-particularly-apologetic self-effacement. His subsequent smile back at her is fake, not because it masks any malice, but because it's the insincere expression of someone who's already justified doing what they want as the only (cool and therefore) respectable way of doing things, and any contradiction as a woeful social faux pas on the part of the one disagreeing.

"See, the things is, I already shared it with everyone with all the time they could have used to come get it, so at this point they've really more forfeited it than anything?" He squints and tilts his head as if he's appealing to some omniscient figure larger than Setsuna.

III

[becauseimacoward]

"You're not being subtle at all"

Dojima doesn't seem to have realized that's a bottle of genuine champagne -- he's more used to sake, in terms of booze. But he does see a person trying to take a bottle of booze with them, and that's just embarrassing.

"Spare yourself the embarrassment and just take it with you when it's time to leave"

[morebetter]

"But someone might drink it before then."

Mac gives Dojima a suspicious look, as if he thinks Dojima's planning to be one of those shady people who would urge someone to leave a bottle of champagne for later only to fiendishly kipe it. And he continues to shove it through the arm hole of his outfit until it sits there, obvious and painfully bottle-shaped, under the cheap corporate-issued clothing.

"Besides, it's not a matter of not getting caught, you just have to book it before anyone does anything about it."

Spoken like someone who shoplifts most of his groceries and uses someone else's credit card for the rest.

[becauseimacoward]

"If those guys from Jorgmund allow you to take it out"

By all means, take it with you...if that bunch lets you. Dojima is pretty convinced if there's anything they can do to make them feel dependent to them, they will do it. Not letting them have a moment of respite seems like the kind of thing they'd do.

[morebetter]

"That's the point of booking it. You go fast enough, no one catches you. And most places have laws about apprehending thieves before they make it out the door - once they're beyond the first gate, they're like, free as birds." Mac makes a hand gesture like a bird flying away, buoyed by the confidence of someone who's kiped a lot of shit before and has seamlessly justified it to himself.

He gives Dojima an incredibly skeptical look. "Why, you security?"

[becauseimacoward]

"Do I look like security to you?"

He raises an eyebrow. Does he really look like someone who is associated with Jorgmund...willingly?

That's got to be an insult of some sort. He actually feels insulted.

i

[valkywhee]

Nora, her reflexes finely honed by years of survival, Huntress training, and life-or-death combat, snags the flying cake out of the air. Fortunately, the frosting stuck it to the plate, not that having to catch airborne baked goods without something between her hand and the sugar would have slowed her down, mind you.

"Thank you!" she calls out, waving at Mac's back.

[morebetter]

"Whoa!"

Mac whirls around and hey, look, it's that chick he saved from a photocopier. At least, he's pretty sure that's how it went. Now, it seems, he has to save her from an even worse fate.

"Dude, do not eat that, I'm pretty sure it's made of asbestos at this point."

[valkywhee]

Yes. Yes, Mac, that's definitely how that went down.

"Wash ashbeshtosh?" Nora asks around the cake she's already shoved into her mouth.

[morebetter]

Mac's full-body cringe of disgust could likely be seen on the security if not, actually, from space.

"It's what they put in walls to keep them from catching fire, and it gives people cancer. You're not going to swallow that, are you? Because if you spit it out, do not spit it on me."

afaict nobody in rwby ever gets sick except the one time it was a plot point

[valkywhee]

"Wash—" Nora swallows her cake, a somewhat impressive feat in itself, given that any moisture it once possessed has long ago returned to the atmosphere and gone through the air scrubbers, "—cancer?"

[turntex]

Dave is on edge like he hasn't been in a few years now. Even fighting off a bunch of final bosses didn't make him feel this tense, maybe because he knew what to expect and who he could rely on. All this, though? He's surrounded by strangers after going through a good chunk of adolescence entirely isolated with some friends, the people in charge are full of shit and absolutely willing to cause harm to keep people in line...

The point is, he's jumpy and shit and thus dodges the cake suddenly tossed his way like it was a goddamn bullet. The cake hits the ground in a much more crumbly manner than cake really should, scattering more splattering. Stiff, Dave eyes the fallen baked good for a moment before glancing back up at the guy who'd chucked it without even the decency to actually aim at anyone. Fuck, man, if you're gonna start throwing food you might as well good a good old fashioned food fight going and liven this place up some.

So clearly, it's up to Dave to pick up the slack.

"Yo, drop something?" he calls over. Wthout waiting for an answer he scoops some of the mess up, nose wrinkling at the feel of it on his bare hand, and neatly flicks it at the back of the guy's head.

[morebetter]

"Whoa!" It's really only a chunk, and yet Mac levitates about half a foot when it hits the back of his head. Something about the whole, you know, everything of this place has his a little more high-strung than he usually is, and so when Dave comes at him like some kind of cake-pitching hooligan, Mac responds by losing his chill. Just a little*.

"What the fuck was that all about, you little bitch?" Mac swats the mess of cake from the back of of his head and rolls up on a literal teenager, as one does when they're a tough guy over twice said teenager's age. He actually fingerwags, which is bound to do quite a lot for his credibility. "If you're going to be throwing a food fight, it needs to be with food that's actually edible."

And he chucks a handful of stale donut at Dave's chest.

*Mac also enjoys food fights, which serves as an additional impetus.

[turntex]

There's a moment there where he feels a sudden rush of regret. It's the moment where this adult man is suddenly turning on him, entirely without chill, looming over him with what feels like hostile intent, and Dave's normal veneer of unflappability briefly evaporates. It's a surprise blast from the past in a deeply unsettling way. He stiffens, jaw tensing with expectation.

And then he takes a donut to the chest.

...Right. Yeah. Cool.

"If that's the standard then a good fight is a physical impossibility right now." He takes a breath, forcing himself to relax. He's cool. He brushes a crumb off his chest, definitely entirely cool. "Unless you're gonna slaughter one of the furries for their meat. Pretty sure a raw rabbit haunch would be more edible than any of the shit laid out here."

[morebetter]

Mac's pissiness evaporates basically as quickly as it emerged; something about the silliness of smacking someone with inedible food and Dave's refusal to escalate defuses any bomb about to go off. That happens, sometimes, Mac's moods careening around like a car making turns on a rain-slick highway, especially when he's already more keyed up than he realizes by the setting. Realizes or admits to himself, one or the other.

"You think I could?" He raises his eyebrows and looks over his shoulder at the rabbit, the catgirl. He's labrador retriever-levels of distractible from the confrontation to the idea that this rando teenager might think of him as a mighty capable hunter felling a beast to feed the tribe.

II

[monkey_wrench]

They specifically said not to touch the karaoke machine. The karaoke machine they just left in the room.

So of course he was going to touch it.

How could he not? He didn’t even like karaoke but that was practically an invitation to get someone like him to mess with it. The chance that it was just some kind of trap to draw rebellious idiots into doing something that would get them shocked either doesn't cross his mind or he just doesn't care.

But it seems he’s not the first rebellious idiot to have that idea. Someone’s beaten him to it. Literally. The guy's knocked it over and started beating on it.

“Hey! What the hell?!”

[morebetter]

"Ow!" Mac went to kick the karaoke machine near where the cord connects - that's clearly where the power is, thus where the problem is, so it's the place to start beating on first - and it kind of...bites back. By which Mac means he slams his toe, and hops a little, wincing, before looking at the incredibly ginger kid coming up at him all affronted.

"What? This piece of shit's broken." He tentatively puts his foot back down, looks Jack up and down. "Dude, I don't even know you and I don't trust your taste in music."

[monkey_wrench]

Usually, he would have gotten a hoot out of watching someone hurt themselves doing something stupid like trying to 'fix' something by kicking it, but when it was getting between him and the one bit of rebellious entertainment in the room, he was a lot less amused. As the guy gave him a look over he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at him as if he could make himself intimidating, despite his smaller stature, runny eyeliner and the ridiculous clown shoes and shame shirt the company had forced him in to.

"Let me get this straight...You're not going to let me near the karaoke machine because you don't trust my taste in music, despite the fact that it's broken, and you're only breaking it more?"

[morebetter]

He gives Jack an equally skeptical look back, arms folded.

"Yeah, bozo, that's basically it. This shit doesn't work, but even if it did, I'd have reservations about you using it." He pauses and looks at Jack's shirt, and while the words don't mean a ton, they open the door to further mockery, which is all Mac cares about. "Dude, did you already piss off the big guys? It's been like, seventy-two hours."

He does, indeed, point and laugh.