2015-06-26 8:15:44 ¶ ● ⬀ ⬈

cyberarms:

> A quick ‘thank you, sir’ hung on the tip of his tongue. As far as he was concerned, if the words sounded even remotely like a compliment, he ought to just accept that it was the best he’d ever get. You did not meet Handsome Jack in the seat of his power for the sake of being complimented. You wound up in that office because somewhere along the line, your fuck-up reached his ears and piqued his attention enough to warrant a face-to-face meeting. S H I T.

> The patents.

> Oh god, he knew about the patents. At that very moment, all Rhys wanted was to sink through the floor and escape his boss’s simmering wrath. Everything was beginning to look like a threat. Nothing more so than the golf club that Jack was referring to. The one that would soon find a new home in his cranial cavity, if he didn’t talk FAST. “Oh, uh, yeah. About that, you see –”

> How to tell your tyrant of a boss that you plain forgot to acquire the patents, lesson one. Do not, under any circumstances, tell him that you Simply Forgot. Death was certain, in that case. God, Rhys hoped that he wasn’t going to have to cut off his pinky finger to prove his dedication to Hyperion, at this rate. He only had one flesh-and-blood finger left, and the cybernetic one would be too difficult to chop off without making a mess of his circuitry.

> He mumbles: “They pulled the agreement from the paperwork, glossed over it with some fancy wordplay that made it seem like they were still handing the patents over and I missed it. It was a cheap move, and I walked right into it.” There, that’s his story. A common one. A simple one. Probably nothing that would win him brownie points, however sorely he wanted to point out that his follow-up not only landed the patents but would make up the revenue lost within five months.

> Above all, he does not beg. But, Rhys’s eyes do keep flicking to the golf club, and he shifts in his seat as though he’s getting ready to duck the fuck out of the way if it comes swinging at him.

Jack tongues his cheek to keep from laughing too hard. Meetings with employees are always so hilarious. The idiots are always shitting their pants at every little move he makes. It’s gold.

“Yeaaah, so you got played like a fiddle.” He tilts his head and waves a hand in a ‘eeeh’ motion. “You lost a little moooney, but hey. We’ve all been there, right?” Weaving false hope. He hops down from his perch, fingers ghosting over the end of the golf club. “The only thing you’ve got left to do now– is make aaaall that cash up to me.” He stalks towards the seated man, tone going from feigned nonchalance to something low and dark. ”Every. Single. Cent.”

And before Rhys can say another word, Jack winds back an arm and decks him right in the face, the force knocking Rhys from the chair and onto the polished floor. He shakes off the pain from the ring scraping his knuckle, (no doubt it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did on the kid’s face) and keeps talking.
“See, when someone owes me something, I prefer to take it from them myself. I could just sell you off, but I doubt you’d fetch anywhere near enough. But I’m sure we can work– something out.”