"Gay Superheroes" (because I don't have a title yet.)

Riley had worked at the DEJ offices for just over four years now and if you asked anyone in the building, they’d tell you how much of a shock it was when they’d first heard that. Not because he was bad at his job, oh no. But because Riley did not have the crushed spirit of someone who had worked nine to five for the past four years in this concrete prison of an office building. For all the budget cutting companies who try to convince people that windowless office buildings don’t suck the life out of people, Riley Iserwell was their sole piece of evidence.

Now, Riley was well aware of what people said about him. That he was the supervisor you wanted because he let shit slide. That it was a mystical thing how he came in each morning all smiles and bubbling comments. That he was almost too nice. But being too nice is what had kept him his job, what kept fights at bay, what had gotten him all his friends. Acquaintances. Being too nice was the alternative to not talking to anyone all day, locking himself in his apartment, and never seeing the light of day again. He’d tried that. A pretty lonely existence, that is. This was better.

Not to say it was perfect, by any means. He dealt with infuriating people on the daily, worked late hours in the office and at home, and not to mention the traffic of New York, the so-so sandwiches with mysterious ingredients, or the coffee so grainy he’d actually stopped drinking it, no matter how late into the night he worked.

But it paid the bills. It kept him busy, fed, housed, and around enough people to check that daily extroverted check box. He liked his job. He did, truly. But today? Today was not his day.

...

Riley sat at his desk and squinted at the unformatted report on his computer screen. He could tell it was a summary of the research they’d just wrapped up last week, but that might have just been because he’d heard Cole talking about it earlier. The paragraphs ran into each other, the information was completely unorganized, and he couldn’t even tell if it had a conclusion or if it just ended. It did not look like the research Josh’s team was supposed to have been working on for the past two months.

Riley sighed and looked over the cubicle wall at Andrew, who had been the one to turn this in. 'It’s basically done, it just needs some editing. You can do that right Riley? You’re the best at finishing these up, all the guys agree. Thanks, man.' Andrew laughed loudly from where he was conversing near the water fountain, two of his fellow team members there as well. They had other projects, Riley was certain. But he needed to focus on the task at hand right now.

...

At around four o'clock Mr. Tracey came by his desk and knocked on the cubicle wall, briefcase in hand. He looked distracted.

Hey Riley, would you mind doing the rounds for the interns today? I’m headed home early. He glanced at his watch, then over to the clock on the opposite wall.

Aren’t they your interns? I don’t really know–

They’re the company's interns, Riley. You’ve handled interns before, these are no different. I have full faith in you. Thanks, bud. He patted the panel wall and walked away, checking his watch again and hurrying out the door. Riley took a breath and forced a smile. It was alright. His early leave could wait. He saved the report he had been editing, or rewriting rather, and turned off his computer, getting up to do the rounds.

*

*

*

Eric had just about gotten the hang of this whole intern thing. After three weeks in the office he’d managed to memorize the walking patterns of all of his superiors, and taken note of what ticked them off enough to be annoying and entertaining, but not enough to get him into any real trouble. Along with a basic understanding of what the company actually did, of course. But mainly those first two things.

Take Ms. Ginson for example. She always wore these clacky blue high heels, complimenting her black or gray skirt and suit jacket, always a pair. And she always walked with purpose, even if she was just going to socialize with her supervisor, which she probably had a crush on. Eric had learned that from the time you first hear her clicks across the tile floor, or the slight thud of her shoes through the faded carpet, you had about ten seconds to reorganize before she could peek above the dividers into your space.

When she wasn’t flirting with the director, Ms. Ginson spent her free time delighting in catching the interns doing what they weren't supposed to, giving them a little scare for their jobs. Furthermore, it irritated her greatly when she suspected you of slacking off only to find you doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing.

Director Tracey on the other hand, walked through the corridors with a foreboding thump of his shiny dress shoes, which could almost be considered relaxed if taken out of context. Mr. Tracey was the big employer, the man who could take this job away with a snap of his fingers. For him, you had to be much more careful. You did not want to poke the goat. Eric had found that in the 30 seconds you had from the time you first heard him to when he’s stopped in front of your desk, it was best to find the project you’re farthest along in and pretend to the best of your abilities that you have been right at work for the past five hours and you weren’t stopping any time soon.

If you had the time though, better try to avoid him. Honestly just a pain in the ass.

...

Eric currently played tetris on the old company-provided computer after a long day of doing the bare minimum, and he was so close to lining all the little blocks up. Or however one won this stupid game. He just had to get lucky.

Eric wasn’t a superstitious man. He didn’t believe that if you hoped and hoped for something it would just magically happen. There was no scientific proof that if you tried to manifest something with all your heart that you’d get anything more than a headache, but there has been proof that the belief that you can do something influences your ability to actually do that thing. And if he looked at the statistics of how much he’d played this game today and the zero amount of times he’d won, he could make a calculated guess.

With all of this in mind, he knew he was going to win this time. He just had to. He was so close! And…

A throat cleared from behind him. His eyes drifted at the crucial moment, the moment he would’ve secured his victory once and for all. The block reached the top. A tab opened on the foggy computer screen, reading in big letters: you lose, try again.

SHIT! He stared wide eyed at the screen, his fists pounded the desk and he kicked at its metal legs before he processed that someone was there. He froze.

Mister uh, Natson?

He spun his chair around, moving it a bit to cover the lost tetris game on his screen. He cleared his throat.

Yes, that’s my name. He flashed an innocent smile. The man before him stood straight and awkward, fingers tapping the clipboard he held. His blonde hair was styled neatly, his shirt tucked in and ironed, and the company lanyard lay around his neck. His shoes were a similar model to Mr. Tracey’s and Eric wondered how on earth he hadn’t heard him coming. Overall, he was the spitting image of any proper office worker who tried too hard to pretend they were happy sat in a cubicle all day. This would be fun.