Chapter Text
“I'm busy right now,” Rideaux snapped, flicking his GHS shut with an artful twist of the wrist. Agents, always agents badgering him with the most worthless trivial things. Could they not tie their own shoelaces without him guiding them through the motions? They were embarrassing, the whole pack of them, and right now he could not possibly care less about dealing with their problems. If anything urgently required him, Vera would make sure to tell him all about it.
Relieved of whatever idle obligation the agent had been trying to foist on him, Rideaux sat back in his luxurious office chair and resumed the much more important task of... well. That was the problem, wasn't it.
Less than twelve hours after stupidly agreeing to Julius's nonsense quest, Rideaux was already running out of ideas.
“And what else did you expect?” He muttered churlishly to himself, gloved fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the tabletop of his polished desk. What else indeed? He was trying to find a means to neutralise the effects of Chromatus overuse. Fine. Countless others had already tried the very same thing, and each attempt had ended in miserable failure. Julius might have offered up an uncharacteristic amount of optimism, but that didn't mean a great deal without any clues to go along with it. He may as well have asked Rideaux to refill Lake Epsilla by hand. Maybe it could be done, but without some unforeseen breakthrough it was more likely to take centuries than the weeks or days they had available.
It was an impossible task, one he never should have agreed to, and the scope of it had driven him to a fit of melancholy inaction. Rideaux Zek Rugievit was thoroughly stumped.
According to Maxwell, Julius valued his knowledge. It was a charming thought, but a fruitless one — if Julius thought Rideaux knew some detail that he didn't then he was barking up entirely the wrong tree. So what, then? What was it that Julius thought he could do that no one else could...?
The first thing I have to do is limit the field . Rideaux narrowed his eyes in contemplation before reaching to pull a sheet of clean paper from within a desk drawer and grabbing the nearest pen. These he stared at for a few seconds before tossing the idea entirely and instead pulling out the old GHS Julius had been so kind to bestow on him. If he was going to make physical evidence, better to keep it all in one easily disposable place. Rideaux clicked open the notepad app and began typing.
To anyone outside of Spirius, the text would look like some opaque code. To anyone familiar with floor sixty-six, however...
He had just about finished his list when a familiar rap of knuckles sounded against his office door. Satisfied at finally having some forward momentum, as well as this convenient and timely arrival, Rideaux lounged back and called through a lazy admission. He was well aware of who knocked with that particular rhythm, and sure enough, here was Ivar. Even better, here was his midday coffee.
“Close the door,” He ordered when Ivar sidled in. If the command came as a surprise Ivar didn't show it—maybe he was going to be better at this conspiratorial business than Rideaux had given him credit for.
Or maybe not. As soon as he'd placed the coffee down — lukewarm, what a delight — Ivar took a proud stance, setting himself directly in front of Rideaux's desk. “Director Rideaux, sir! I, Ivar, Junior Agent of Spirius, have not told a single soul about what happened yesterday.”
Perhaps it was a good thing the coffee was so poor. Otherwise he might have already taken a sip, and Ivar's stupidity would likely have made him spit it everywhere. As it was Rideaux still sputtered in a moment of unseemly horror, before regaining his wits enough to snap. “What is the matter with you?” Rideaux lowered his voice to a hiss as he continued, paying no mind to the way Ivar physically jumped at his irritation. “Do you have any sense? Do you have a brain at all?”
“I did as you said!” Ivar fired back defensively, arms still raised as if to protect his worthless empty head. When Rideaux continued to glare he finally lowered them, instead jabbing a thumb toward his out-thrust chest. “As former handmaiden to Lady Milla herself, I know a thing or two about keeping secrets. You can count on it!”
“If you could try knowing a thing or two about keeping your voice down, that would be wonderful.” Rideaux finally took a mouthful of ill-sweetened coffee, a perfect complement to the dissatisfaction of having Ivar as an accomplice. How did it come to this? “In fact, my little Junior Agent, why don't you make a project of it? If we're both still alive in two weeks I'll give you a passing grade.”
Ivar was stupid, but not completely oblivious. Rideaux could see the insults sinking in, and beneath that the bubbling stew of questions forming. Questions he didn't particularly feel like answering right now. Sighing, Rideaux stood.
“Listen. All I need from you — the one simple little thing? Is blind obedience. No questions. No comments. Nothing at all unless I say so. Is that clear?”
That wounded him too. Rideaux watched with distant amusement as the emotions rose and then sank in Ivar's eyes. The poor thing. How had he gotten this far in life believing his feelings were actually important to anyone? Even Maxwell had ditched him the first chance she got.
That's life, kid. Get used to it.
“Loud and clear, sir,” came the answer, with only the faintest downtrodden wobble. Good.
“That's the spirit. Now, come on. I have work for you.”
-
The sixty-sixth floor of the main Spirius Corporation headquarters was just about one of Rideaux's least favourite places to be. Sprawlingly vast and miserably drab, the entire floor was dedicated to row upon row of meticulously detailed archives. Scaling ladders and digging through shelves, justifying oneself to the pompous agent-archivists left in charge? Psh. It was all well beneath his station. This was precisely the sort of work he would usually delegate. Under regular circumstances he would have done so today.
Regular circumstances. Hah. Now there was something he never expected to miss.
As it was, Rideaux flicked through the folder in his hands in quick assessment, teetering just slightly from his precarious ladder-topped position. Yes, this looked about right. Not as encouraging as some of the materials he'd found, but certainly worth taking along. With a satisfied hum of approval, he tucked the folder under one arm and slid down the ladder with now practised ease.
“And...” Rideaux paused his announcement, casting a dour eye over the wavering stack of papers Ivar had become. Hm. “Let's just start with these, shall we?”
With a sweet smile he placed File 47B-F1412 delicately atop the pile. At first Ivar had tried to offer hints of his discomfort. After that he'd begun to openly complain. Now it seemed like all he could manage was a dismayed grunt. Rideaux found he much preferred it this way. “Come along, we're heading back.”
With a sad sound that must have been an affirmative, Ivar followed.
Strolling through the steel grey aisles, Rideaux couldn't decide if he was feeling nostalgic or just plain old. There were hundreds of files here — thousands, really — and far too many of them contained his own handwriting. Some were close to fifteen years old, time when someone had decided he and Julius were old enough to write their own documentation instead of simply passing the details off for someone else to organise.
Back then he'd been deeply resentful of Julius's stiff blockish handwriting. His own had barely been legible by contrast, an all-too-obvious sign that he'd begun reading and writing far later than most of those working for Spirius. Not too surprising, really. That was the difference between people like him and those born with silver spoons in their mouths. All I got was a pocketwatch and a world of trouble.
At least typing had come much easier — he'd caught up in that field with only the most basic of tutelage. But back then, when he was cursing and sweating over some written report or another, it had been Julius who...
Hmph. Now he really was being nostalgic, and in all the wrong ways. It didn't matter any more — in fact, it never had.
Even so, when it came time to check themselves out of the archive, Rideaux took pleasure in signing his name with particular flourish. Yet another aspect of his past neatly left to rot. Quickly scribbling a similar note under Ivar's name, Ivar being too laden to do so himself, Rideaux was feeling quite pleased with himself when the inevitable trouble began.
“Director Rideaux, sir. You do realise that you can only check out four reports at any given time. Don't you?”
Oh good. Why couldn't something go right for once?
Rideaux looked first to the man questioning him — an agent-archivist thirty-something with hair already thinning — and then to Ivar, still struggling beneath the weight of what was clearly far too many documents. No, he hadn't realised that. He'd never had reason to do this. Rideaux smiled.
“Actually, this is only some of what I'll be taking today. I'll be back to collect the rest shortly.” Ignoring the groan of dismay Ivar issued from somewhere behind the pile, Rideaux's smile thinned to an edge. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Spirius didn't have many dedicated archivists. Floor sixty-six was loaded with classified information, and that meant only those already involved with the Kresnik Clan would be admitted here in the first place. There were very few exceptions this far up the building. What that unfortunately meant was any injured or otherwise incapacitated field agents found themselves relegated to archive work, a downgrade that tended to make them rather... surly.
The agent-archivist gave them a sour look, looking rather like he was sucking a sea urchin. “With all respect, sir, I'm afraid I can't authorise that.”
Oh, the many-fold privileges of being Director. “And what would happen if I were to, say, simply do it anyway ?”
“That...” The agent-archivist frowned, sweeping his gaze back and forth as though expecting some miraculous assistance to appear at any moment. Rideaux simply waited, smile still in place, quite practised in the art of being at once genial and threatening. Sweat was beginning to bead on the poor archivists brow, but to Rideaux's vast annoyance the man sat up straighter and puffed out his chest with indignant pride. “I'm sorry, sir. If you were to do that I would have to report you.”
And who else could you report to about the Director of the DODA breaching protocol except Bisley himself? Damn it all .
Almost as though he were reading Rideaux's mind, the agent-archivist hurriedly added, “Unless you were to obtain special permissions, of course.”
“Of course.” And what explanation would he offer Bakur when asking for such permissions? Yes, Mr. President, I just need to borrow these documents so I can do some research for Julius. Yes, that's right, wanted terrorist Julius Will Kresnik, the man you set up. The one who, by the way, just stole a Waymarker and scuppered your plans, did you hear about that yet? Sorry for not mentioning all this sooner, I was a little anxious you might murder me.
Wonderful.
“Ivar, we're done here.” Rideaux snapped his fingers, turning away from the agent-archivist and instead back to his swaying assistant. “You can leave those where they are.”
“Right here? I don't have to put them back?” Somehow Ivar managed to peer around the teetering stack, eyes gleaming with kindled hope.
“Right here is just fine,” Rideaux cooed indulgently, brightly ignoring the alarmed protests of their overzealous new friend. Even petty revenge had its merits. Waving a cheerful goodbye Rideaux ushered Ivar around the pile of discarded folders and out of the cavernous room, not the least bit sorry for the bureaucratic headache they'd left in their wake.
Not until they'd crossed the hallway and safely entered the elevator did Rideaux allow himself to vent an infuriated sigh. Ivar edged to the other side of the confined space and, for once, had the sense to keep his mouth shut.
That was a lot of useful knowledge they'd gathered together, and they'd left it all behind. Worse still, that interfering busybody of an archivist might very well decide to notify Bisley anyway, which meant he had to string together some flimsy justification. Yet more work on top of everything else.
Frustrated, Rideaux forced himself to consider the options. First, and most important: he needed that information, and soon. Yes he could obey the rules, book the documentation out four pieces at a time and make individual copies to work from. It might take him a month, perhaps three weeks. And in the mean time little Elle would become some fractured puff of nothingness.
Somehow he couldn't imagine Julius agreeing to that course of action.
So what else. Take pictures, store them on his GHS? Maybe for a few, but it would be a nightmare to work from. He needed hard copies, ones he could highlight and cross-reference and and compile into something tangible, something that would help him figure out an answer.
There was no way around it. He needed those files.
… Or ones very much like them. So.
“Marvellous,” Rideaux muttered, rolled his eyes, and pulled out the GHS.
-
When they reached his office a few minutes later, Vera was standing at the door. Rideaux, spotting her far too late to avoid contact, nonetheless slowed his impatient pace to a more leisurely stroll, buying himself a precious few milliseconds to think and compose himself.
“Director Rideaux.” She turned to face him as he approached, clipboard tucked across her body in a familiar pose. Rideaux came to a gentle halt before her—Ivar, the moron, jolted to an abrupt and terrified halt. Seemingly unperturbed, she continued. “President Bakur would like to see you immediately.”
Vera, Bisley's personal secretary. She didn't seem the sort to report every veiled hint of gossip that passed her by, and that was precisely why Bakur liked her. Mind still racing, Rideaux eased himself into an expression of faux-indolence. That was what she'd expect from him, after all. “Does he now? Tell our Mr. President that I'll be right along.”
“Don't keep him waiting,” She replied in that clipped voice of hers. “It's a matter of some importance.”
With that she turned on one smartly dressed heel and walked away, the professional tap of her shoes beating out the rhythm of her departure. Ivar watched with an expression of deep dismay. “Crap,” He winced, at least keeping his voice low. “Now we're in for it. We shouldn't have left that mess there.” With a hint of reproach he added, “I did warn you, sir.”
“First, don't group me in with you. Second, you did no such thing, boy.” And third, Bisley Bakur had bigger fish to fry, and it was too soon to be related to their little archive adventure anyway. Rideaux wiped one gloved hand over his face and tried very hard not to swear, suddenly extremely reluctant to make a move.
Last night he had agreed to this farce. Today he'd even made some cursory efforts to keep his word. Now, once and for all, he was going to have to commit.
Or not.
“Get in here,” He snapped, motioning Ivar ahead of him and firmly shutting the office door once they were both within. When was the last time he'd had to think so fast? Rideaux brought a hand to his chin, tapping a finger against his cheek as he paced back and forth, a sudden flurry of contemplative motion. Ivar watched, eyes wide with that same dismay from before.
“We are in trouble. I knew it.”
“I already told you, don't group yourself in with me.” You'll have a much better chance of surviving that way. Not that he was about to say such a thing out loud. The last thing he needed was for Ivar to misunderstand and, ugh, think Rideaux actually cared. “Shut up and come here.”
Ivar shuffled closer, clearly assuming the worst. “I'll be back for to collect this later, unless things go poorly for me. Which they very well might. If so...” Rideaux reached into his blazer pocket, pulled out the untraceable GHS and pressed it into Ivar's palm. “Destroy this. Forget you ever saw it.”
“Got it.” Ivar gave a resolute nod before stashing the GHS somewhere in the folds of that ridiculous sash he wore at his waist. It wasn't the most satisfactory means of concealing evidence, but it was all he had available. Rideaux nodded, and was just about to leave when Ivar spoke up again. “How do I know when to ditch it?”
“Destroy it, I said. And use your best judgement.” It can't possibly be any worse than mine. With one last silent curse to whatever unlucky star he was born under, Rideaux stepped through the door and made his way to the office of President Bisley Bakur.