Disclaimer: I don't own the Breakfast Club or any of its characters.
Genre: Suspense/Drama
Rating: T for language, violence and adult situations, including references to sex and drug use.
Summary: AU. Detention never happened, and the Club has grown into adulthood without one another. Then, on a cold April morning in 1991, the five strangers finally come together…under very dangerous circumstances.
A/N: Another story. I know, shoot me already, but this time it's not my fault. This story sprung forth out of the ether, fully formed and without my consent…okay, actually, I just got a huge plot bunny when I read a challenge that TWbasketcase posted in the forums. The challenge is as follows:
"An alternative universe story. Now this can be pretty much anything, but the detention never happened. It can take place in any timeline, and just about anywhere. I always wanted to read something where all five of them met somewhere else besides the detention. They don't even have to be teenagers. If you want to write them as adults magically meeting in the busy streets of Chicago somehow, then you can. The characters still have to be the characters...but just don't have them in the same circumstances as the film."
So, in this story, detention never happened, and none of the characters know one another. The character's lives continued along the same path that they might have if they had never met during detention. Also remember that this story takes place seven years down the road. They aren't teenagers anymore, so they won't be exactly the same as they were in the film.
A/N, part II: DOS was the most common computer operating system of the 80's and early 90's. It used command codes to boot up the computer and open files, and is, in my opinion, a pain in the butt to use. DOS is still used today, but not very often. And for those that don't know much about how the U.S. college system works, here it goes. Most universities offer four year undergraduate programs, which, when completed, earn the student a Bachelor's degree in their field. This is enough for some jobs, but others require additional degrees, which are earned in the graduate programs. Most Master's degrees take an extra year to earn, and the student usually has to write a thesis paper on a subject in their field of study. Doctorates take even longer, requiring anywhere from 3 to 5 years of graduate work.
Crisis
a situation where there is a perception of threat,
heightened anxiety, expectation of possible violence and the
belief that any actions will have far-reaching consequences
Chapter One: Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Tuesday, April 16, 1991
Chicago, Illinois
Claire Standish stepped out of the elevator and into the plush lobby of her luxury apartment building, The Westing Lofts, pausing just long enough to reach down and pull her sunglasses from her purse. Her high heels snapped loudly against the marble floor as she strode across the room, heading for the door. A couple of people nodded politely in her direction as she passed, and she offered them brief nods in return, not wanting to risk getting trapped in a potentially lengthy conversation. She unfolded her sunglasses and slipped them on.
"Good morning, Miss Standish," the doorman greeted her, opening the heavy glass door for her to step through.
"Good morning, Henry."
"Will you be needing a cab this morning?"
Claire nodded. "I'm going to the State Street Bank at the corner of Jackson and State. Afterward, I'll need to be dropped off at the Rosebud Café in the theater district."
Henry nodded and stepped up to the curb to hail her a cab. When one pulled up, he leaned in and gave the driver Claire's instructions, then opened the door to the back seat and helped Claire into the cab.
"Enjoy your breakfast, Miss Standish."
Claire nodded and offered the older man a smile. "Thank you, Henry."
Henry nodded and shut the door to the cab.
As soon as the cab took off, Claire glanced down at her watch. It was 9:45, and she was supposed to meet Jacqueline for breakfast at 10:00, which is exactly when the bank opened. Claire knew that she was going to be late getting to the restaurant, but she didn't really have a choice. Besides, Jacqueline was always late to breakfast on Tuesdays, and it wouldn't hurt her to have to wait on Claire just this once.
Claire and Jacqueline had met in college, when they were both freshman at the University of Chicago. Their fathers were old friends, and they had set them up as roommates, knowing that neither of the girls wanted to go potluck and risk getting the roommate from hell. Fortunately, the girls had a lot in common and complimented one another in the way that only best friends can. Jacqueline was disorganized and messy, whereas Claire preferred neatness and structure. Jacqueline loved cooking, and Claire couldn't boil a pot of water if her life depended on it. It was a match made in heaven.
Which is why they were still friends, nearly six years later. They lived on opposite sides of the city, but the girls remained close and still met up once a week to dish about their love lives (or lack thereof) over a plate of crepes at the Rosebud Café, their favorite restaurant. Afterward, they usually went downtown to do some shopping, which was one activity that they could always agree on, no matter what was going on in their personal lives. There was something about finding a really great pair of heels in your exact favorite shade of blue that made any situation seem more manageable.
Claire frowned and looked out the window. Spending money was the last thing that she needed to being doing right about then, especially under the circumstances, but somehow that didn't matter. Shopping was the only thing that was guaranteed to make her feel good, if only for a little while, and in the middle of what Claire might call the worst year of her life, a little bit of pleasure and comfort didn't seem like too much to ask for.
As the shops flew by, Claire settled back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap, wondering idly what her father would say if he was sitting there next to her right then. It was something that she'd thought about fairly often in the three years since his death, and Claire couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't guilt that made her crave his posthumous approval. Guilt over what had happened between him and her mother, guilt that she had taken him for granted while he was still alive, and, worst of all, guilt that she had let him down in the years since he'd died. Guilt that she had taken everything that he'd given her and thrown it all away.
"Miss?"
Claire looked up, startled by the sudden noise. "Yes?"
The cab driver was looking at her in his rear view mirror. "State Street Bank?"
Claire glanced out the window to see that they were parked along the curb at the corner of State and Jackson, not fifteen feet away from the front doors of the State Street Bank. Inside, she could see the bank employees moving around, preparing to open for business.
"Wait for me here," she told the cab driver. "I'll be right back."
Brian Johnson arrived at the State Street Bank just after 9:50, less than ten minutes before the bank opened. The doors were locked, so he knocked softly on the glass panes to get the bank manager's attention. When the older man saw him standing there, he rushed over to the door and unlocked it for him.
"Good morning, Brian."
Brian nodded. "Good morning, Mr. Weisman."
The manager locked the door behind him. "We're in a bit of a pinch this morning," he informed him, pocketing the keys and walking back across the room. Brian trailed behind him. "Marjorie is stuck in traffic, and she won't be here for at least another thirty minutes."
"Oh." Marjorie Williams was the president of the bank, and Brian didn't remember a time when she wasn't present at the time that the bank opened. "What are we going to do?"
"Open without her." Mr. Weisman reached up to straighten his tie. "I've done it before. We'll be alright."
Brian nodded. "Yeah, sure."
Mr. Weisman took a deep breath. "There's some fresh coffee in the break room if you want some."
Brian nodded. "Thank you."
Mr. Weisman offered Brian a distracted nod and walked back behind the register to check the till.
On the way back to the break room, Brian ran into the janitor, who was pulling trash bags out of a box in the supply closet. "Morning, Brian."
Brian nodded politely. "Hi, Carl."
"You still havin' trouble sleepin'?" the older man asked.
Brian reached up to rub his eyes, swollen from lack of sleep. "A little," he admitted.
Carl nodded. "You take care of yourself. Don't want to burn out."
Too late for that, thought Brian. But he didn't say the words out loud. "Thanks, I'll try."
Carl gave him a friendly smile and turned back to the supply closet.
In the break room, all of the other employees were standing around, talking. Two of the accountants, Richard and Amanda, were having a conversation with a couple of the loan officers about some television show, while Lewis, one of the other tellers, stood next to the coffee pot, taking small sips from a chipped yellow mug with the bank's logo on the front. When Brian walked in, he looked up and nodded. "Hey."
Brian nodded. "Hey." He glanced over at Richard and Amanda, then back at Lewis. "Where's James?"
Lewis swallowed another sip of coffee. "He went over to the deli for bagels. He should be back in a minute."
"Oh." Brian opened the refrigerator door and slipped his lunch sack into a space between a brown and white thermos and a plastic container filled with soup. He closed the door and looked up to see Lewis watching him.
"Are you okay?"
Brian paused uncertainly. "Why?"
Lewis shrugged. "I don't know. You look really beat."
Brian shrugged, doing his best to act nonchalant. "I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately."
Lewis nodded. "More school stuff?"
Brian's stomach tightened at the mention of the word 'school', but he just nodded. "Yeah, just school stuff."
Lewis nodded again and took another sip of his coffee, and Brian released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Lewis was his friend, and Brian trusted him, but he didn't want to talk about what had happened. Not now, not ever. He knew he would have to tell people sooner or later, but he was too tired to do it just then.
Over the years, Brian had gotten used to being tired, and he'd gradually come to accept it as his normal condition. During high school, he would stay up late to study for an exam or finish writing an essay, only to feel it the next morning when he had trouble staying awake during his classes. He expected that he would have more time to study when he got to college since he would spend far less time in class than he had in high school, but he soon found out that he was greatly mistaken. College was not anything that Brian was prepared for, emotionally or physically. He had graduated fifth in his class of over four hundred people, but that meant very little at Northwestern, where everyone could boast about stellar grades and above-average test scores.
The first couple of years were a struggle, but Brian got through them without screwing up too badly. His third year was better, and his fourth year even better than the last. He graduated with a solid 3.5 GPA and was accepted to the graduate program at Northwestern's Chicago campus, where he pursued his Master's degree in American History.
And then everything started falling apart.
He'd thought that the undergraduate program at Northwestern was tough, but it was nothing compared to the graduate program. The students were rabid about studying, and the professors weren't interested in excuses or mediocrity. Brian quickly found himself falling behind on his work, struggling to complete tasks that seemed to require very little effort from his peers in the history department. The stress ate away at his energy and motivation, leaving him tired and distracted. He tried his best to catch up, but pretty soon he realized that his best wasn't good enough. He was screwed.
"Brian."
Brian glanced up, startled. "Yeah?"
Lewis was watching him, eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Brian swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to nod. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Lewis nodded, but Brian could tell that he didn't believe him. Before he could ask anymore questions, Brian said, "I guess we should get out there."
Lewis glanced up at the clock, which read 9:59. "Yeah, I guess so."
The two of them walked back out to the lobby, where Mr. Weisman was changing the date on the small plaque on counter in front of Brian's station. April 16, 1991.
Suddenly, Brian heard a knocking sound coming from the front of the room. He turned to see a woman standing just outside of the door, peering into the bank. She looked at Mr. Weisman and tapped her watch, which looked quite expensive from where Brian was standing.
Mr. Weisman glanced up at the clock and sighed. "I guess we're open, aren't we?"
It was ten o'clock on the dot.
The manager took his keys from his trouser pocket and walked over to the door to unlock it. "Good morning," he said cheerily.
The woman, a redhead wearing a light blue silk shirt and a pair of cream colored trousers, brushed past him. "Thank you," she said, making a beeline for the counters. She walked straight up to Lewis's booth and pulled out her wallet.
Brian looked back at Mr. Weisman, who had closed the door and was walking back to his desk. He shot Brian an encouraging smile, then sat down and picked up his coffee mug.
Less than a minute later, the front door opened again, and a man in a grey business suit walked in, glancing quickly around the room. When he noticed Mr. Weisman, he walked straight over to the bank manager's desk.
"Are you sure that's all that's left?"
Brian looked back to his left, where the redheaded woman was standing, looking up at Lewis with a worried expression on her face. Lewis nodded and wrote a few notes on a piece of paper, which he passed across the counter. The woman looked down at the paper, and Brian watched as her face crumpled slightly. He glanced over at Lewis, who looked uncomfortable, but not entirely sympathetic.
"Excuse me."
Brian looked up to see an older man--maybe 50 or 55--standing at the counter in front of him. He was wearing a grey trench coat over a white button-down shirt, along with a matching grey hat. Judging by the pinched, irritated expression on his face, he wasn't going to be any easier to deal with than the redhead.
"Can I help you, sir?"
The man nodded and pushed a deposit slip across the counter. "I sure hope so."
Andrew Clark glared at the computer screen in front of him, wondering what he could possibly be doing wrong this time. He was trying to access a client database to finish a report that he was working on, but the database wasn't loading. He knew that he wasn't very good with computers, but sometimes he had to wonder if it wasn't the computer's fault that he kept getting those error messages.
"Come on," he muttered. "Just fucking work already."
In response, the computer started beeping loudly and wouldn't stop.
Andy didn't know what to do, so he reached back around and flipped the power switch. The screen went blank, and the beeping stopped. Andy waited for a few seconds before he turned it back on.
"Load DOS," he whispered under his breath as he typed in the command to restart the computer.
Bad command or file name
"Fuck!" Andy stood up and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, then walked out into the hall. His friend Doug was standing next to the fax machine, waiting for confirmation that his fax had gone through.
"I need your help."
Doug looked up from the fax machine. "Oh, hey, man."
"The computer's screwed up again, and I can't get DOS to load."
Doug frowned. "What happened?"
Andy rolled his eyes. "If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here, would I?"
Doug sighed. "I'll take a look at it."
"Thanks." Andy glanced up at the clock on the wall above Doug's head, which read 9:53. "I'm gonna head down to the bank. I have to finish signing some papers."
Doug lifted his eyebrows. "Is this about the ring?"
Andy nodded.
Doug grinned. "When are you going to pick it up?"
"This afternoon, I hope. Mr. Jorgensen said I can pick it up whenever I pay."
"Do you think she knows?"
Andy shrugged. "I don't know. She hasn't said anything."
Doug laughed. "They always know. It's in the training manual. 'How to Tell if a Guy's Going to Propose, Chapter Nine'."
Andy rolled his eyes. "And you wonder why you don't have a girlfriend." Before Doug could respond, he hit him lightly on the shoulder and started walking toward the staircase. "Don't forget about my computer."
Doug offered him a halfhearted salute and went back to his fax.
Andy took the stairs down to the lobby, despite the fact that he wanted to hurry and get back before his boss realized he was gone. With Andy, it was a matter of principle--and probably habit--that he not take any shortcuts when it came to maintaining his strength. He hadn't wrestled since college, but he still made it a point to go to the gym three or four times a week, and he always took the stairs up to his fifth floor office. As a result, he was still in pretty good shape, and he hadn't gained more than a couple of pounds in the three years since he graduated…which didn't hurt him any when it came to women.
Andy allowed himself a small smile as he pushed open the door leading out to the street. He'd met Holly on a blind date set up by one of the guys at his office. Andy had never been on a blind date before, mostly because he'd done pretty well getting his own dates, and the idea just reeked of desperation. But the guy had assured Andy that the girl wasn't a dud, that she just didn't have time to date since her job as a stewardess kept her away from home for days at a time. Andy wasn't sure about the whole arrangement, but his doubts vanished the moment he met her. Not only was she gorgeous, but she was also a nice person. She told him about all of the places she'd been, what the beaches were like in Cozumel, what the food was like in Tokyo. She laughed at his jokes, even the dumb ones, and when he told her about his wrestling days, her eyes didn't glaze over like those of so many women he'd dated in the past. She listened to him and asked questions and took an active interest. In short, she was perfect.
Andy totally didn't deserve her.
But Holly didn't know that, and Andy certainly wasn't going to tell her. So, there he was, almost two years after their first date, running down to the bank to sign the papers for a loan that would pay for a one-carat emerald-cut diamond solitaire with a yellow gold band. A good choice, the jeweler told him. A beautiful ring for a beautiful girl.
Andy pulled open the glass doors of the State Street Bank and stepped inside. There were two tellers at the counter, a short guy with messy dark hair and a taller guy with short blonde hair. A woman was standing at the counter in front of the shorter guy, looking slightly exasperated. Andy glanced over at the manager's desk, where an older man wearing wire-rimmed glasses was sitting at his desk drinking from a coffee mug that read 'World's Greatest Dad'.
"Mr. Weisman?"
The older man looked up. "Yes, sir?" He stood from his chair. "How can I help you?"
"My name is Andrew Clark. I'm here to finish signing the paperwork for a loan I was approved for last week."
Mr. Weisman smiled. "Of course. Mr. Clark. I remember you. Have a seat and I'll be right back with those papers."
Andy nodded and took a seat in the leather chair in front of the manager's desk, which was cluttered with photos. There was one of Mr. Weisman and a little boy that looked to be about six years old, and another one of the two of them standing with a woman that Andy assumed was Mr. Weisman's wife. They looked happy, he decided. The way a family was supposed to look.
The front doors opened again, and Andy looked up to see an older man wearing a dark grey trench coat and a matching hat walking toward the counter in the middle of the lobby. He grabbed a deposit slip and filled it out very quickly, then marched up to the counter where the blonde bank teller was standing.
A few seconds later, the door opened again, and a girl walked in. She was young, probably about his age, and she was wearing a white button down shirt and a pair of black trousers. Andy would have bet a million dollars that it was a uniform of some kind, probably from a restaurant or deli. She took her place behind the white line and stuffed one hand into her pocket.
Andy glanced down at his watch. 10:03. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long to sign the papers, and he could get back to the office by 10:20 or so. That would give Doug at least twenty minutes to figure out what the hell was wrong with his computer so that Andy could get his report done in time for lunch and he wouldn't have to stay behind while the other guys went to the deli in the lobby downstairs.
Andy sighed and settled back into his chair. He was already hungry.
Allison Reynolds pushed open the door to Hank's Diner and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She paused in the doorway for a few seconds so that she could remove her apron, which she stuffed into the knapsack slung over her shoulder. Then she jammed her hand into the pocket of her black trousers and closed her hand over the wad of one dollar bills, just to make sure they were still there. Satisfied, she adjusted her knapsack and started walking down the street.
The Diner was about ten blocks from her apartment, but Allison didn't mind walking. When she'd first moved to Chicago right after she graduated from high school, it took her a long time to get used to the throngs of people lining the sidewalks and crowding onto street corners as they waited for the light to change so they could cross. The people made her nervous, especially when they bumped into her or walked behind her, giving Allison the distinct feeling that she was being followed. She hated being jostled by the crowd…almost worse than she hated being followed.
But after a while, Allison got used to being jostled and followed. In fact, living in Chicago had helped her get used to a lot of things, like surviving on pork and beans for weeks at a time and creeping up the staircase to get to her apartment so that the landlord wouldn't realize she was home and come out into the hallway, demanding his money. It had been a while since she'd been that poor and desperate, but not long enough that she didn't remember what it felt like.
But she did know what it felt like to be tired. Allison worked almost sixty hours a week at Hank's Diner, a greasy spoon restaurant in the middle of downtown. She worked the night shift usually, arriving at ten o'clock at night and leaving sometime between nine and ten o'clock in the morning. She hated her job, but she kept going, knowing that it would be worth it someday…someday very soon.
Suddenly, Allison felt herself being pushed aside, so hard that the force knocked her right into the side of the building that she was walking next to. Rubbing her arm, she looked up to see who had pushed her. It was a young guy about her age, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. He didn't stop to help her up, just muttered something under his breath and kept walking.
Allison huffed loudly and readjusted the strap to her knapsack, pulling the bag tighter against her body. The guy continued walking in the direction that she was heading, and within a few seconds he was swallowed up by the crowd. Allison kept her bag pressed firmly against hip as she started walking again.
The State Street Bank was only a few blocks from Hank's Diner, and within about ten minutes of leaving the restaurant, she was already pulling open the heavy glass doors. The bank wasn't crowded, but there was a guy in a suit sitting at the manager's desk, and both tellers were busy helping other customers. One of them, a redhead with an expensive looking bag dangling from one arm, seemed to be quite agitated over something the guy across the counter was telling her, but Allison couldn't tell what it was about. She slid up to the front of the line and glanced up at the clock on the wall. 10:03. In fifteen minutes, she could be back at her apartment, where her bed was waiting for her, soft and warm.
But a lot can happen in fifteen minutes.
John Bender stood at the corner of Randolph and State Street, waiting for the light to change. There were people all around him, pressing themselves against one another to stand as close to the edge of the curb as possible. John, who was standing at the very edge of the curb with his combat boots hanging over the edge, flicked his eyes back and forth between the crosswalk sign and the lanes of oncoming traffic. There were a couple of cabs heading in his direction, but they were pretty far off down the street. Even though the light hadn't changed, he stepped out onto the street anyway, taking a chance.
SCREECH!
John glanced over at the cab, which had come to a dead stop about six inches from his left kneecap. "What, are you crazy?" the driver yelled out of his window.
John responded with a friendly hand gesture and continued crossing the street.
As he walked, his mind sifted through the tasks he needed to accomplish that day. He had to be at work at the pawn shop by eleven, which gave him a little over an hour to meet Eli and give him some of the cash that he still owed him. The grand sum of his debt was close to a thousand dollars, but of course John didn't have that much on him. He'd been paying Eli bits and pieces of it for the past two months, but it seemed like every time he turned around, Eli was tacking on an extra fifty for "interest" or "late fees", like he was some fucking bank and John was his errant customer. But in a world where people kept their money under the mattress instead of in a savings account, he figured it was probably pretty close to the truth.
John had borrowed the money about three months previous, when he was in deep with a big-time dealer in his neighborhood. Eli had spotted him the cash on the condition that John would give him a hundred bucks a week until it was paid off, interest and all. He was usually pretty easy about it if John needed an extra day or so, but John knew that Eli wasn't his friend. This was a business, and if it took breaking John's legs into half a dozen pieces to get all of his money back, then Eli wouldn't hesitate to do so. John could only hope that it wouldn't come to that.
When he'd first moved to Chicago back in the fall of 1985, John hadn't planned on getting involved in the nighttime dealings that went on in the alleyways behind his apartment building. He played it straight, found a job, did his best to pay the rent on time. But unsurprisingly, his job at the pawn shop didn't pay very well, and after a while he started to explore other business opportunities. Compared to most of the guys in his neighborhood, he was pretty small-time, providing mostly weed, mushrooms and pills, sometimes acid or ecstasy if he could get his hands on some. It wasn't nearly as profitable as he once believed it was (back in high school when he was the buyer, not the seller), but it did help him out a little when his paycheck took care of the rent, but not much else.
John glanced down at his watch. 9:57. That meant that he had more than an hour to--
Suddenly, John felt his shoulder slam into something soft, and he looked up from his watch just in time to see the person that he'd run into crash into the wall to their right. Knowing that he would just get yelled at if he tried to help, he muttered a stiff apology under his breath and continued walking down the street.
When he got to the corner of State and Jackson, he realized that he really needed to pee. He glanced across the street, where Goldberg's Deli was located. He knew the deli had public restrooms, but he also knew that the owner, Ted, was still pissed at him for starting a fist fight with one of his best customers when the guy cut in front of him in line. John was pretty sure that Ted would just as soon flush his head down the toilet than let him take a piss.
John looked to the other side of the street, where the glass doors of the State Street Bank were gleaming in the sunlight. Banks had restrooms, didn't they? Surely they wouldn't make their employees go back out into the alley behind the building like George did with the guys at the pawn shop. John crossed the street and headed straight for the bank's front entrance.
Inside, the air was warm and clean, and it smelled like leather and air freshener. There were a few customers scattered around the lobby. A man in a trench coat and a redhead in a snug-fitting blouse were standing at the counter, talking to the tellers. Another girl was standing in line, and a young businessman was sitting at the bank manager's desk, staring out over the room. John looked around until he spotted the manager standing at a file cabinet a few feet away from his desk.
"Excuse me, do you have a restroom?"
The bank manager glanced up, surprised. John watched his eyes flicker over his worn leather jacket and faded black t-shirt, and instinctively he knew what the man's response would be.
"I'm sorry, but our restrooms are for employees only," the manager told him. "They're not for public use." To his credit, he did sound apologetic.
"It'll only take a minute," John assured him. "I don't even need to use any of your toilet paper."
The man frowned. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you back there. It's the bank's policy, not mine."
John sighed. "Come on, man, it'll just take a second. I just have to--"
"GIVE IT TO ME!"
John's heart skipped a beat, and he turned around to see that the older man with the trench coat was standing at the counter across from a very nervous looking bank teller. He had a gun in his hand, and it was aimed at the younger man's forehead.
"Just give me the fucking money!" he shouted.
Oh, shit.
A/N: Definition of 'crisis' from wikipedia.
Please review and let me know what you think of this first chapter. Thanks!