Winners and Losers
by Bryony
Part One
Trowa Barton had to admit that he hadn't exactly been quite certain what he was expecting when he first walked through the doors of the Winner Enterprises Corporation. He'd heard stories galore, of plush red carpeting and chandeliers, and of Spartan white-washed walls and broken elevators. Either extreme tended to send shivers up and down his spine, and it was therefore with more than just a little trepidation that he shoved his way through the revolving glass doors and into the lobby.
He knew what to expect there. He'd never actually been inside before, but there were windows, and as he had eyes and passed by the great multi-story office-building at least once a day, he was fairly well accustomed to seeing the great bustling of people. The noise was something else, though.
People were shouting at each other as if there would be no tomorrow, and much of it was in languages other than English, meaning Trowa understood not a word. It took a few moments for his eardrums to adjust, and when they had he strolled slowly over to the row of receptionists situated along the far wall, doing his best to appear casual.
He chose the least harassed-seeming one and stepped up to her, newspaper clipping in hand. "Um, excuse me," he began, only to be interrupted as the young woman sprang up from her seat and shrieked at him in a very harassed-seeming voice,
"What is it!" The headset perched atop her frazzled mousy-blonde curls slipped off and clattered to the floor. Trowa took a startled step backwards and warily lifted up the newspaper clipping.
"I'm here to apply -- for the job."
The young woman's hand was trembling. Trowa stared at it as she curled it into a fist and carefully thrust it behind her back. "I see," she said, taking a deep, shuddery breath. "Which one?"
"Uh…independent architect. I'm here to see Mr. Winner." The receptionist remained silent. Trowa glanced around to see if anyone else was noticing her strange behavior. No one seemed to. "Could you…possibly tell me where to find his office?"
"Thirteenth floor. Inquire at the desk there for further direction." There was no further response from the young woman and she lowered herself to the floor to retrieve her headset.
"Thank you," Trowa mumbled, and turned away, feeling very disconcerted by the experience. Lord, I hope not all employees are like that one, or I'm in for it. Maybe I should just go…
Then the picture of his pigsty apartment flashed up in his mind, and in particular the increasingly large pile of overdue bills sitting on his kitchen table.
…Or not.
Fresh from grad school, Trowa had had ideas about what he wanted to do with his life. He was going to accomplish great things; become famous; save the world from its own troubled existence. No, he wasn't going to be stuck doing lame circus tricks like his mother and father and sister -- he was going to make something of his life. He was an idealist, a dreamer.
Disaster struck.
Disaster by the nasty name of Unemployment.
Job interviews all over the board and not a single offer. Not one. Not even temporarily. He'd tried every damn architecture firm in the city, no one was hiring. So he decided to try making his own firm, but it turned out you needed money to do that. And money was not something that Trowa had a plentiful amount of.
But there was no way -- no way -- he was going to tell his parents that. After all, he'd begged and pleaded, argued and whined, cajoled and wheedled until his parents had finally agreed to help put him through college and grad school. They'd gone just about bust in the process, and he simply couldn't tell them that now they'd actually agreed to turn him loose on the world that he just couldn't handle it.
The elevator dinged and the door whooshed open. Trowa stepped inside and pushed the 13 button. The door whooshed shut.
For six months now, Trowa had been living on his own, mooching off friends and his sister Catherine for cash. He was determined that this was going to be the end of it. Quatre Winner was damn well going to offer him this job. If he didn't…Trowa didn't know what he'd do, but he was certain it would pretty terrible. Bad enough to get him into the papers, anyway. Maybe even the local news. (Maybe then he'd get some publicity…maybe even a job.)
Dinky elevator music played softly, the same three notes repeating themselves over and over again in different patterns. It was both nerve-grinding and strangely soothing at the same time. Trowa felt himself getting drowsy, and yawned.
The elevator slowed and the door slid open to reveal an empty hallway. Trowa stepped out into it, and the elevator closed behind him. It was eerily silent after the jarring experiences downstairs and the annoying electronic keyboard of the ride up. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner. Trowa didn't see any reception desk where he could get directions. Wouldn't be surprised if there isn't one and that lady just told me there was to blow me off.
Grumbling to himself, Trowa set off down the hallway, determined to find Mr. Winner's office without any help. It felt strangely like a hotel hallway, with doors lining either side of it and standard-issue ratty blue carpet. He jiggled the knob of one such door. Locked, and no sounds from inside. Very weird. Kind of creepy.
I'm not nervous; I'm not nervous, Trowa told himself repeatedly, as he continued down the passage. He came to an intersection, and just as he reached it, there was a crash from down the left branch. Trowa jumped at the sudden sound ripping through the silence.
Notnervousnotnerousnotnervous, he continued, nervously, in his mind, and turned down the left fork. It was the first sign of life in the place, and it was better than getting lost at any rate. The one floor alone was probably big enough to keep him wandering inside for years, and he'd starve after a few weeks, or die of dehydration after a few days. It might be that no one would even find his body in this maze of a corporation headquarters.
That really wasn't a comforting thought.
I am so totally calm right now, Trowa thought. I'm not nervous at all!
There was another crash, this one closer than the last had been, and it was all Trowa could do to save face and keep from giving a little nervous screech. Yep, my nerves are totally under control.
Trowa kept walking, and before long, he could hear faint strains of music wafting towards him. The song finished, and a radio announcer's voice could be heard listing the name and album of the artist.
There was a moment of silence as the station was apparently being changed, and then more music. A hideous hip-hoppy sort of thing, and the volume was suddenly turned way up and a voice started to sing along.
Now this was something that Trowa was more accustomed to from his previous interviews. This he could understand and cope with. With much more courage, he continued to the corner, and turning it realized it opened up into an office waiting-area. There in a corner sat a large desk that looked rather as though it had been made out of recycled plastic. A PC sat atop it, as did a small portable radio and a stack of paperwork. A petite blonde woman sat behind it, humming along in time with the radio as well-manicured fingernails tapped at the computer's keyboard.
"Uh, excuse me, miss," Trowa said, walking boldly up to the desk. "Could you point me in the direction of Mr. Winner's office, please?"
The young woman paid him no mind, responding automatically and without any real inflection, "I'm sorry Mr. Winner's in a meeting right now. You'll have to wait." Another resounding crash sounded throughout the tiny space, from behind a heavy door located just a few feet away. Trowa jumped, but the secretary didn't seem to notice, and just continued typing.
"Is this Mr. Winner's office?" Trowa asked, trying to pretend like he hadn't been affected by the noise either.
"Uh-huh."
Trowa glanced around. There were chairs scattered around a coffee-table in the middle of the room. A magazine rack sat inconspicuously in the corner. Trowa headed towards it, but there wasn't much to choose from, just a three-month old edition of some teen magazine and an up-to-date issue of some parenthood rag. Trowa settled for a somewhat ancient issue of Time, settled himself, and waited.
Once he got used to hearing the periodic sound of things breaking from behind the thick wooden door, he was actually pretty comfortable. He read about the latest genetic breakthroughs in his magazine and listened to corny music on the radio, and was actually quite disappointed when the door finally opened.
A man clad in gray slacks and blazer accompanied by a navy-blue tie walked out, red-faced and with briefcase and several other props. A Suit. Trowa hated Suits. Buggering annoying people, them. But -- he supposed -- he'd have to get used to them if he was going to be working for one as planned. The man glanced over in his direction and muttered, "Here for the job? Good luck; you'll regret it." Trowa's case of nerves returned full-force.
He took a deep, soothing breath, and was about to get up and enter Mr. Winner's office when Mr. Winner himself came out. Or at least, Trowa assumed it was Mr. Winner, as the previous man had seemed to be alone. The man was surprisingly young, surprisingly handsome, and surprisingly blond. Normally, big-shot office-types had slicked-back jet-black hair or comb-overs. Trowa prepared to get up and introduce himself, but the secretary beat him to it.
"Man here to see you," she said. Not even an encounter with her employer could bring her to raise her eyes from the computer screen.
"Another one?" Mr. Winner turned and caught his eye. "I suppose you're it."
"Uh, yes actually. I'm here about the position in the newspaper. Independent architect." Trowa held out his clipping again, as though it had the power to speak and win the job for him. "I, um, have some…" He stopped talking. No, he didn't. He didn't have any sketches or preparations to show. He'd forgotten his damn briefcase.
Shit.
He blinked a few times, trying to think of something to say and coming up with nothing. Mr. Winner was giving him a cool perusal, up and down, from his untucked Oxford shirt to his untied brown loafers. Trowa suddenly realized all of his clothes were wrinkled. "Nice jeans," Mr. Winner said. "You've got the job."
The young, handsome, blond president of the most successful company of the world had just hired him, Trowa Barton, young, inexperienced, and unprofessional, to design the newest branch of office buildings the Winner Enterprises Corporation was constructing.
Wow.
Then the president turned around and walked back into his office, closing the door behind him with a loud bang.
"Wait!" Trowa called suddenly, uselessly. "I…um…huh?"
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is not mine. Nor are Time and The National Enquirer. This story is not for profit -- please don't sue.
Warnings: AU, OOC, shonen-ai (3+4), highly unrealistic situations and silliness on the part of the writer...
Also, please forgive the formatting - I just can't for the life of me get accustomed to this new system FFN's got...and if that doesn't make me an old fart, I don't know what does (sigh).
Also, also, I hope you're willing to engage in a suspension of disbelief. I try to keep things operating somewhat rationally, but in the end I always end up deciding to screw realism and just tell the storyI want to tell - and if that makes me a bad writer, so be it! I will gladly take criticism however, so toss whatever you've got my way, harsh or not. That is how writers grow, and I think you can even see some of that in this fic, as it's actually taken me something like three years to finish this thing. Because I'm slow. Very very slow. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it; I definitely had fun writing it. :)