Now these were the days Yellow lived for.
His position as Backrooms Robotics’ Founder hadn’t always been so lofty – in the early days it was nothing but a title to introduce himself by. Those were the times when the office was musty, the work was hard, and the coffee always tasted like shit. His weeks barely felt like weeks in and of themselves, rather blending together into a crunch time soup that spiralled around him like a hug from an evil stepmother.
Well, not any more. Now, Yellow was a king on a throne atop a tower of bureaucracy. Things were smoother, and he felt more present even as his meddling hands were more and more off of the steering wheel. He didn’t need to steer the ship; he controlled the tides that pulled it. People did things for him now, and people listened.
It was 13:25. He worked in tranquillity, nestled in his office. The bustling yet distinctly inhuman streets of Level 11 were far below him as a distant shore. The office smelled like bleach, though he never had to clean it himself. No-one ever touched the walls, so they remained the same mustard shade as they were when he ordered them repainted 2 years ago. Only the ringing of his computer’s CRT provided a soundtrack when he wasn’t clicking or typing away, though he was getting too old to hear it without focusing. He sipped the last of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair knowing that at 13:30, an intern would be coming with a refill. He’d designed the schedule, and as soon as the words left his mouth, it was set in stone. Yellow always seemed at ease, and that’s why people listened.
Yellow didn’t even look up from his email as he heard the no-name worker click-clacking up the stairs and entering his office. He simply slid his cup to the other end of the desk, and waited for the bitter scent to hit his–
That wasn’t coffee. He wasn’t quite sure what he was smelling at first, but soon his olfactory bulb circled back to his prefrontal cortex with the results. The marzipan smell of almonds brushed up against him, but it only served to mask some kind of coppery undertone. Yellow brandished his charismatic smile and leaned out from his computer to get to the bottom of it.
When he saw who it was, he dropped the smile. It was Mike.
Mike was holding a briefcase.