Chapter Text
Brett exited the theater feeling emotionally renewed. He had laughed and cried and smiled and frowned. The foyer was a little crowded, so he decided to exit the building from one of the doors on the side.
Brett could finally breathe in the slight chill of the air outside. Leaning against the building and watching others go by, he felt his phone buzz.
His lock screen displayed a text from Reagan in reply to his previous message.
rr: alright, im omw dude
Before he could reply, he heard something behind him—reminiscent of a pop. He couldn’t fully turn around before he felt a sting in his neck and his world going dark.
Reagan reluctantly drove home after a line of cars a block long queued behind her. Brett was always punctual, if not early. She went inside the house and sat on the couch hastily, startling Regular Bud, who was using his opposable thumbs to play with the loose threads on the cushions.
Reagan whipped out her phone anxiously and shakily opened Gigi’s contact.
“Hey, Reagan. You need somethi—“ “Have you seen Brett?” Reagan wheezed out nervously. She could tell she was bordering on hysterical. “What? Nah, not since work. Why?” “I took him to see Hamilton and he said the musical was over so I went to pick him up and he never came outside or replied and he left me on delivered which he never does and—“ “Slow down,” Gigi interrupted her.
“Maybe he got lost or hitched an Uber. And maybe his phone died.” Gigi offered soothingly. Reagan breathed deeply. “Maybe, but… this isn’t like him.” “Try calling him, and then call me back when you’re done.”
Reagan followed Gigi’s instructions. Carefully, Reagan opened Brett’s phone contact and called. “Heyo! You’ve reached Brett Hand! I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll be sure to say hi!”
Reagan paled. She called Gigi. “Gigi. He-he wasn’t there; he didn’t pick up. He should’ve been home by now. Why isn’t he home?” “Traffic?”
Reagan ran hysteric hands through her frazzled hair. “Listen, Reagan. You need to stop jumping to conclusions. Things happen, and he’s probably fine. If he’s not at work tomorrow, we can worry then. For now, calm down and relax. You seriously need it before you develop any heart problems.” Gigi hung up. She neglected to realize Reagan already had heart problems from her stress (kidding!… mostly).
Reagan called Brett five or ten more times after that, not bothering to leave voicemails. At one point, his outgoing message stopped playing and the phone hung up after one ring. Maybe he was ignoring her because he was mad about when she hurt his feelings. Yeah. Maybe.
Reagan laid down in her bed with Regular Bud sleeping soundly at her feet. She did not sleep that night.
Brett was not at work the next day. Reagan sat in the conference room, hoping he would show even fashionably late, but her hope dwindled with each minute that ticked by. It was eleven minutes past seven, and each minute accounted for another heart attack Reagan was about to have. “Okay, I see why you’re panicking,” Gigi admitted.
“Hey, where’s that ambiguously Mormon kid?” Myc asked, slamming the door open. “Yeugh! Jesus, Reagan. You look horrible. More than normal.”
“Brett is missing.”
Andre choked on his bong rip while Glenn spit out his coffee. “What?!” they shouted at the same time. “He never left the theater to meet me in my car last night when he saw Hamilton. I went to pick him up and he never showed. I texted him, called him, no answer.” Reagan was stressing now. “And, we still have that fucking whistleblower issue!”
Gigi put a comforting hand on Reagan’s back while she put her hands to her face and screamed with her mouth closed.
Brett’s field of vision was blurry as he opened his eyes. He could hear… his phone ringing? He could also hear someone angrily shouting and hanging it up quickly. Who was calling him? Who had his phone?
Straining, he tried to sit up, before realizing he was in a chair. Maybe he fell asleep at work?
That thought seemed less and less likely as he felt a coarse material around his wrists, which were stuck behind him, and took in the blindingly dark walls of the room he was in, which were unlike most of the rooms at Cognito. Cognito’s rooms were at least colorful. This room was just as dark grey as it could be.
Brett felt someone smack him on the back of the head, which woke him up fully. “W-whoa, whoa, I’m up!” he scrambled. He grunted, trying to move his arms because the position was putting a strain on his shoulders.
“It’s no use, Brett,” a thickly-accented voice spoke. Brett looked over to the source of the voice, which was in the corner. A greying man emerged from the shadows with nothing less than a confident gait. “Dietrich Kluge?” Brett questioned, “You were at Bohemian Grove, right?”
The man smiled. “So you do remember me. Perhaps you’re not as moronic as I thought,” Kluge spoke, mostly to himself. “Uh…” “Shut up!” a much more familiar, nasally voice spat in his ear. Brett turned to lay his eyes on the writer of Hamilton himself. “Lin-Manuel Miranda? Oh my God, it’s such an honor! I saw you perform… last night? Today?” Oh yeah, he had no idea what day it was. “Um… well, I saw you!”
Lin scoffed. “I know. I performed last night to get one of you here. Unfortunately, your coworker is smarter than we expected her to be, so she sent you in her place.” Before Lin could go on, Brett perked up. “Oh, you mean Reagan? Yeah, I know! She said she thought you just wanted to pull her aside and interrogate her but we both agreed that I would go instead!” He smiled up at the two Illuminati employees. They shared a grimace.
“You’re in an… awfully good mood for someone who has been, uh, taken,” Dietrich murmured. “I always try to look on the bright side! For instance, Reagan could be here instead of me! She hates missing work. I don’t mind doing this for her!”
Lin turned and mumbled, “This guy has some serious issues,” into Dietrich’s ear. Brett frowned.
“How did you know? About Ron, I mean…” Brett asked carefully. This caught the other two’s attention. “First of all, we ask the questions here. Second, let’s just say we have an… inside source,” Dietrich hissed. Brett gulped. “S-someone… sold Reagan out—?” He was cut off with a harsh slap to the face from Kluge. “We will ask the questions!”
The ginger looked up at them both, more timidly than before. “W-was that… an Office refere—“ He was hit again. This time, it was a punch to the face. Lin-Manuel’s bony hands were not pleasant punchers. Something slid from his nose down his face and over his lips. He could taste the blood on his face. “S-sorry…”
Dietrich smiled down at him. “Good.” He put his arms behind his back and walked near the door, back facing Brett. “You know, we may not have Reagan, but we do have the next best thing.”
When Brett saw the older man’s face, all he could make out was a cruel smile pulling at his wrinkles. Lin hummed approvingly from next to him. “Our inside source told us a lot about you too, you know. We were told that you’re Reagan’s best friend… she tells you everything.” The German man turned on his heel, then approached Brett, leaning down to loom only a few inches over him. “Is that true, Brett?”
The man in question swallowed thickly. If he didn’t answer or if he lied, they might go after Reagan. If he kept this up, he would probably be hurt, but Reagan would be okay since he’d have taken the brunt.
He sighed. “Yes… that is true,” he mumbled.
Kluge stood to full height. “Good. We only have a few more questions to ask you.”
When Reagan’s lunch break came, she was so panicked she felt like she’d throw up. She accessed security tapes from cameras overseeing the front of the Ford theater. No sign of Brett leaving when he had texted her. No sign of him leaving when she had arrived, as she could see her own car pull up. No sign of him period.
“Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck!” Reagan yelled, slamming distressed fists down onto the desk, sending her keyboard flying. Regular Bud caught it in his mouth behind her. She exhaled deeply and gave him a gentle pet on the head. “Thanks, buddy,” she murmured. “R’ou’re r’elcome!” Regular Bud barked. Reagan would have pissed her pants hearing a dog with opposable thumbs start talking, but she was too worried about Brett to notice or care.
She heard knocking on her lab door. “What?!” she shouted. Andre slowly entered the room, a concerned expression painted on his face. “Uh, Reagan… it’s closing time.” Reagan choked on her own saliva. “Wh-huh?” She looked at the little digital clock on her computer. It was 7:30 pm. “Fuck,” she cursed. “C’mon, Reagan. Even Myc’s worried about you,” Andre said. A distant “no I’m not!” was heard beyond the door. Andre frowned. Reagan shook her head and stood, listening for Regular Bud behind her. She left when she was sure he was following her and got into her car. She peeled out of the parking lot and sped home, ready to launch another full-scale independent investigation on Brett’s disappearance.
If he was to be honest, Dietrich Kluge hated Brett Hand. Who the hell is that optimistic when they’ve been kidnapped? And he was such a people-pleaser. His desperation was nothing short of pathetic, but he seemed to feel no shame because of it.
It was terrible.
One full day he had been there and Dietrich just wanted Beyoncé to go in and shoot him or something. Unfortunately, they needed him alive for answers.
He reentered the holding cell where they kept Brett, who (happily?) stayed glued to his chair. “Hi!” he greeted Dietrich, a small smile appearing on his face. “Don’t smile at me. I’m your captor. Are you an idiot?”
Brett seemed to become timid at that. “I came to ask you some questions about Ron Staedtler.” Immediately, Brett’s dismayed demeanor was gone and replaced with his usual in an instant. “What d’you wanna know?” he asked.
Dietrich frowned. “Stop acting so happy. It’s weird.” “S-sorry, it’s just… nice not being alone!”
This gave him an idea. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, a certain item in hand, Brett was whistling a song from a musical about a traveling con artist who loved music. He had to admit that it was a classic. Dietrich shook his head; he needed to stay focused. He entered the room fully, making the item visible.
“What’s that?” Brett inquired, still maintaining a positive demeanor. Kluge could feel excitement bubbling within himself. “Have you ever heard of Ivan Pavlov, Brett?” Brett seemed to mull over the question. “Uh, I think so, but I don’t see what that has to do with R—“
“Pavlov was an experimental neurologist who conducted a famous experiment known as ‘Pavlov’s dogs,’” Dietrich continued in spite of the Cognito employee’s confusion, “where he had a dinner bell. Every time he rang this bell, he would provide the dogs with dinner, hence the name.”
The graying man approached the captive, readying the device in his hand. “This conditioned the dogs to associate the sound of the bell with dinner.”
He leaned over and heard it click into place around Brett’s neck.
“The dogs began salivating every time the bell had rung, because it meant food was on the way.”
He pulled a button from his pocket.
“When he stopped providing the food alongside the bell, do you know what the dogs did at the sound?”
Brett thought it over.
“Bark?”
“No,” said Dietrich, holding a finger over the button, “they salivated.”
The electric collar sent screams of anguish echoing throughout the entire building.