The clickety clack from the keyboard filled the room as Ciema's bored eyes watched the words appear on the screen. She didn't flinch when more paper got slapped on her desk. Only looking up with a bored eyebrow.
"The Boss wants these done by tomorrow," the secretary said, applying more pink lipstick. "But these—" Ciema tapped the other stack on her desk. "Are also for tomorrow."
The secretary rolled her eyes. "I don't care, just get it done," she sighed as she flipped her hair. Ciema watched the woman sashays down the hallway.
Sighing, she adjusted her brown camouflage frames and got back to work, taking a sheet from the new stack.
"Ahem?" A scared male voice made her look up. A man wearing a white collared shirt with short sleeves, ugly brown trousers and straight up sandals because he stubbed his toe, and brown hair too damp. He stood there nervously, fidgeting his fingers.
"Yes Matthew?" She sighed, resuming to type.
"I know we haven't talked since you've been working here for the past five years but—"
"Get to the point, Matthew," she interrupted, turning to him once more.
"Could you...Uh...you handle these for me?" He said, offering some paper, which was crumpled and smelled of orange juice.
She eyed then and crossed her arms. "What do you have a degree in?" She asked.
"Oh. I have a degree in psychology," he admitted, looking around. She nodded.
She sighed, a wave of frustration hitting her as she leaned back in her chair. "I have a degree in biochemistry, a PhD in science. Won the National Spelling Bee twelve times—don't' ask why— and every girl hated me because I was the best gymnast in my high school but I never signed up for the Olympics because my Dad wanted me to get a "career". Yet I'm here, working a nine-to-five—"
A ping interrupted her, signifying to got an email.
She opened the email and her eyes scanned it swiftly. "And someone just got promoted and it wasn't me," she sighed.
She turned back to him. "We're too qualified for this and the day I get fired...." she stared off into the distance before looking back at Matthew. "I don't know what I'll do," she whispered.
"So, it's a no?" He cringed.
"No. Give it," she extended her hand. He hands it to her and she quickly flips through it. Sighing, she look up at him.
"You couldn't manage fifty pages?"
"I didn't get a degree in English," he grinned.
"Clearly, she muttered, adding the messy stack to her already precarious tall pile. He gave her thumbs up before scurrying away to hos own depressing work desk.
As night came, everyone began leaving for home, except Ciema who was still staring at the desk. her second, and first pile of paperwork having decreased by twenty pages. A black haired girl bid everyone good night and paused at Ciema's desk.
"You're still here?" She scoffed.
"Yes Natalie," she said as she continued typing, not looking up. "Some of actually work for a paycheck—not rely on "mouth skills" so we don't get fired."
Natalie's face burned and she opens her mouth to say something but closes it. She turns on her heels and storms off, her expensive hand bag swinging in the wind. A small smile comes to her face as she continues to work.
At morning, Ciema stretches and sit up, fixing her glasses. "Morning," the janitor, Mr. T as he was called, said, placing down some croissants and coffee. "How....How long was I out?" She asked, lifting her spectacles and rubbing her eyes.
"Enough that it's six 'o clock," the old man replied, shooting her a small smile. She looked and saw the last few pages on her desk from the small stack. "Oh shoot—thank you but I don't need it," she hurriedly as she booted up her computer and dove into her work.
"Young lady. Keep that up and you'll work yourself to death," he warned. "Better than getting fired," she muttered as she rushed through it.
"Ms. Fredrick!" Mr. Daniels voice boomed as he marched up to her. Mr. T hobbled as away as she finished.
She sighed and reclined back in her chair. "I didn't know this place was a spa!" He shouted, making her sit up at attention.
"My work?" He asked, crossing his arms. He was a tall man, dwarfing everyone else. His hair slicked back and wrist adored with a Rolex. She blinked slowly, exhaustion blurring the edges of her vision.
"My work!" He barked again.
"Here," she said, pushing the stack towards him. A rare smile spread across his stern face. "Excellent work my dear," he patted her shoulder. "You are now my new secretary," his words made her gasp.
"You're fired!" He shouted to the blonde. The old secretary broke down and sobbed, running before falling to the ground.
Matthew suddenly stood up, fist raised in the air. "Give it up for Ciema!"
Everyone in the office stood up, chanting, "Ciema! Ciema! Ciema!"
Her parents suddenly walk, clapping and smiling from ear to ear. Her father spat out his cigar aside with a proud grin.
"That's my daughter right there."
Her brother and sister carried a chocolate cake and written in frosting was, "Ms. Fredrick. Ms. Fredrick, Ms. Fredrick."
She tilted her head, smiling but confused. "That's not my name...." she muttered.
"Ms. Fredrick!" his voice made her snap back to reality. "My work!"
"Uh....Done sir," she nodded, with a small smile.
"How lovely. Pack your things, you're fired," he replied.
Ciema's smile fell. "What?"
"You heard me. Pack your things, you're done," he threw his thumb, gesturing to the door. Ciema stood up and without thinking, smacked her hand across his face.
Everyone gasped at the action. Mr. Daniels looked at her, his gaze unreadable, a flicker of surprise being identified. "I just want to know why," she asked, trying to control her anger.
"Ms. Fredrick, you've just ensured you'll never get another job again," he chuckled. "Ms. M!" He shouts.
Natalie and the secretary rushed over, skidding to a stop, and huffing hard.
"Not you," he said to Natalie. Natalie crossed her arms and the secretary smirked, stepping forward.
"Yes, Mr. Daniels—" she began in a sultry tone.
"Write up a blacklist now!" he barked, making her whip out a pen and notebook and scurried to write.
Ciema glanced at the secretary and scoffed. "Go on and add that Mr. Daniels is an insufferable, god-forsaken, womanizing, son of a bastard I've ever worked for!" She shouted, her statement echoing in the silent office.
The secretary stared, mouth open and Ciema took her coffee and croissants from her desk. She turned on her heels and headed for the door. Natalie scoffed and she turned around. "Don't laugh. You two are next. If he didn't hesitate to fire me, what makes you think he wouldn't fire you?" Her eyes shimmered, but she held her ground. She smiled, her voice cracking.
As she turns away, the two women turn to their boss. "You won't fire us right?" Natalie asks as the secretary twirled her blonde curls shyly. "Hmm?" Mr. Daniels turned to them, clearly distracted. "Oh yeah. Get back to work!"
"Yes sir," the two women scurried away immediately.
Passing by Matthew's desk, she murmured, "Congratulations on your promotion."
Matthew stared at her in shock. "Really? I got—" He scoffed. "Thanks!"
She waved her coffee holding hand as she pushed past George. She pauses, her hand tightening on the coffee cup before entering the elevator. Her glare falters as the doors close, sealing her off from the only world she's known for five years.
Outside, chaos filled the streets. The cars honked and drove past, the loud milling of feet of people in suits strolling past, chatting on their phones. They all ignored the lone woman sitting on the bench, her head buried in her hands as sobbed bitterly.
Her body shook as she cried but no-one stopped to inquire if she was okay.
No-one cared.
Wiping her eyes, she sniffed as she took out her phone. She scrolled the three contacts she had left: "Jared", "Emma" and "Parents"
Hitting "Parents", she pressed the phone icon and waited patiently for an answer.
"Hello?" Her mother's thick New Yorker accent came through the other line.
"Hi Mom," she replied, sighing.
"Oh honey. What's wrong?" Her mother asked. Ciema laughed a bit before answering. "I got fired."
"Who's that on the phone?" Her father's equally thick New Yorker accent asked faintly in the background. "It's Ciema dear," the mother replied.
There was scuffling of feet then silence. "Hello?" The dad snapped.
"I got fired, Dad," Ciema lowered the phone on her lap.
His laugh echoed and Ciema blankly stared ahead. "That's good. You've been working at that company for what—five years? And now the discard you like garbage?"
His laughed again as she wiped her nose.
"This is great. Maybe if you got a job as a Biochemist, you wouldn't be outside, balling your eyes out. Your brother's started a business and is raking in cash. Your sister's selling art online. And you? You're jobless!"
He laughed again only to cry out when her mother hit him.
"....Enough Harold!" She spoke, clearly having regained the device.
"No...No. Mom, he's right. I'll call you later."
Her mother's voice cracked. "What? Honey, please. We haven't heard from you in a while—"
She didn't want to cry again.
Her thumb hovered over the red button.
Then—
Click.
Silence.
As she bowed her head, she reached up and pulled out her tie, letting her brown hair cascade down to her shoulders.
"Rough day?" A British voice made her look up. A man dressed in a bulky trench coat, black trousers and brown shoes smiled a comforting smile. She nodded, blinking away tears, running her fingers through her hair
"I don't mean to be rude but are you British? You sound like it," she asked him.
"Correct you are. May I?" He asked. She scooted over and he sat down, letting out a sigh of relief.
"I was just laid off. Harshly, and my parents—well my dad—wasn't....you know," she sighed. He nodded and smiled at her once more. She couldn't help but notice the creases on his face.
"Being cast out of machine is difficult. My boss knows the feeling. He was thrown out of the machine many years ago," he explained, catching her attention. "What did he do?" She asked, intrigued. He turned to her. "He left."
"And then what?" She inquired, brushing her hair aside.
"He made his own," he smiled, a hint of pride of his voice. Fishing in his pocket, he produced a small golden card and hands it to her. Taking it, she picked up her glasses, slipped them on, and read the words words in golden italics on the card: "Maximoff Inc."
She glances at the man. "I've never heard of it," she said, her voice laced with suspicion.
His smile widened and he stood up.
"Name?' He asked.
"Ciema Fredrick," she replied, watching him. "Please contact us, Ms. Fredrick," he advised. Bowing, he turned and walked away.
Ciema turned the card on the back. There was words inscribed that said, "Welcome to the Amazons."
"Amazons? What is that?" she wondered briefly. "Doesn't look fake," she muttered.
She reached over and took a croissant, taking a bite as she turned it over again. "Maximoff Inc." she murmured. It feel right but then again nothing did. As her father would say, "An Opportunity arrives. Take it."
So she would consider it.
The man stepped into the sleek black limo parked across the street and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and waited as it rang. A click indicated he answered.
"Yes?" A more tired British voice replied.
"Sir, that's two down. Now one to go," the old man said, checking his note book.
He ended the call and beckoned the driver to go.
She looked up in time to see the limo drive into the traffic, it soon disappeared into the mass of cars, its taillights blending into many. She turned away and got up, taking her coffee and croissant with her.
It's been a long day. She needs to go home.