Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Junk, junk, junk, garbage, garbage, garbage… huh.”

Reagan absently scrolled through her emails, finding it easier than all of the actual work she had to do.

She paused on an email from “Av’rajj, Joe,” which was the Illuminati’s online pseudonym (made to avoid suspicion from regular citizens), and read the subject line. Congratulations!, it read. Jesus Christ, even the timing is conspicuous, she thought. Reagan opened the email.

Congratulations on the promotion, Doctor Ridley!

As a gift, we are granting you a free ticket to Hamilton in Ford’s Theater, tonight at 8 o’clock sharp! Lin-Manuel Miranda himself will be there to star tonight and tonight only!

We hope to see you there!

Best wishes,

Joe & friends

She shook her head. She knew it was probably some ploy to pull her aside and interrogate her about Ron. Reagan didn’t want the ticket to go to waste, though. She pulled out her phone, contemplating her options.

rr: hey brett. pal. buddy

brett!!: HI REAGAN!!!!!! :)))

rr: sooo i was given a free ticket to see hamilton in ford’s theater tonight but i think the illuminati only gave it to me to interrogate me about ron

brett!!: ofc i’ll go !!

rr: can y

rr:

rr: how did you know i was. going to ask.

brett!!: brett prepares for anything and everything dawg! also ur my bestie i would do anything for you :))))

brett!!: hand’s the man, as they say!!!

rr: who’s “they”

brett!!:

brett!!: alr BYE REAGAN I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!

Reagan sighed. Brett’s overzealous tendencies were endearing, but still a bit much at times.

The inventor left her lab and entered the main office, where her coworkers were doing anything but their jobs. Andre and Myc were passing a bong back and forth, Gigi was taking a numerous amount of selfies, and Glenn was chowing down on a plate of ambiguously simple fish. Brett wasn’t even in the room. “God, guys! We have a fucking job to do! Just because my shitty dad’s not in charge doesn’t mean you don’t have a boss!” Reagan shouted.

Everyone looked up. “Man, now I wish Brett stayed our boss. He was less mean but his white man powers made him intimidating,” Myc remarked. “Okay, Myc’s blatant racism and misogyny aside yet again, I think it’s time to discuss our next mission,” she frowned, whispering the next part, “which you would have known about if you’d paid attention.”

Reagan stormed to the front of the room and slammed her palms down on the table. “Rumor has it that there’s an employee in this building exposing some of our business practices on Reddit. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem because we could track the IP down to the computer; however, this whistleblower is experienced in tech, because they’ve made it seem like they have no prior existence on the planet.” Everyone in the room looked bored of her voice at that point.

“Now, which department this could be from, I have no idea, but I need you all to find them and have them brought to my office as soon as you do.”

Various replies of “yes, ma’am,” and “whatever” were thrown her way. “Gigi, wait,” Reagan called, holding up a hand to stop her. The woman in question looked at her with an exasperated face. “I want you to do damage control. Get all of our information off of wherever it can be found.”

Gigi gave her a thumbs-up and left.

Reagan left the room, heading towards Brett’s office. When she walked in, she found him playing with the dog he had kept—the one he called “Regular Bud.” Whatever. The animal made Brett happy, so she had no qualms with the dog being there. “Hey, Brett! I was wondering where you were,” she remarked, leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed leniently.

Brett whipped his head around to look at her. “Oh, hey, Reagan!” he greeted, and his ever-present smile seemed brighter than usual. “I was tryin’ to spend time with Regular Bud, because he was probably getting lonely being alone too long and was beginning to question his self-worth and his standing with all of his friends because of his abandonment issues!” Brett grabbed either side of Regular Bud’s face, squishing it and touching noses. “Isn’t that wight, lil dude?” he asked in a babying voice.

Reagan cleared her throat, pushing past his clear projection of his issues onto a dog, and brought herself back to why she came. “I, uhh, actually came to say that I’d be happy to drive you to the theater after work. The drive is a bit long and you probably won’t have time to stop at home. I can watch Air B- sorry, Regular Bud for the night.”

Her best friend shot up, arms splayed happily. “That’d be great, Reags! Man, you’re the best!” He ran over and hugged her tightly, lifting her off the ground an inch or two before setting her down. “Dude, a free ticket to a musical and a car ride with my best friend? Gosh, I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday!” Reagan shook her head, amused. “See you later, then?” she asked. Brett nodded cheerfully, giving her two thumbs-up before returning to playing with his opposably-thumbed animal companion.

Reagan headed downstairs to find Glenn angrily interrogating a water tank—wait, no, it was just Steve. “You’re gonna tell me what you did, or you’re a liberal and a terrorist!” he screamed at the deformed being, jabbing an accusing finger into the water jug. “L-look, man, if I knew, I’d tell you!” Steve whimpered. “Don’t think I haven’t seen that confounded ‘Reddit’ hoodie, traitor!” Glenn exclaimed, using air quotes around “Reddit.” Reagan just sighed. She walked down another hall to find Myc strangling a man from accounting, yelping about “misinformation” and “calling Joe Rogan on your ass” and other stupid shit.

The brunette turned on a dime and walked away. She did not want to deal with that bullshit.

She made her way to Andre’s lab, where Andre seemed to be getting hooked on truth serum, instead of using it on potential rumormongers like she had hoped.

Gigi was the only one doing anything productive, as she was running news stories about conspiracies about Atlantis (those assholes have had it too good for too long) and corporatized news manufactured specifically to distract the general public. “How’s it lookin’, Reagan?” she asked. Reagan frowned. “You’re the only one getting anything done, so… not good. Keep up the good work, though!” She gave her coworker an awkward, crooked smile before leaving the room.

The end of the day couldn’t approach fast enough. No one had caught the snitch, and Reagan’s patience was running thin.

A soft knock on the office door startled her from her thoughts. “Hey, Reags,” Brett said cheerfully, opening the door with Regular Bud in tow. “I do not want that dog in the office.” “Ah, sorry… I was just seein’ if you were ready to head out? It’s seven, so…” He pulled at the collar of his button-up anxiously. “Give me a minute to finish some work, okay?” Reagan tiredly leaned forward, hand on her forehead keeping her upright. “Okay, well… I’ll just… wait for you.” She sighed, frustrated. “Okay!”

The door clicked shut, and the office was empty sans Reagan. Sighing, she scrolled through her computer, double- and triple-checking to see if the whistleblower had given away any information about themself. She had no luck.

When she left the office, she found Brett leaning anxiously against the wall across from her door with Regular Bud loyally at his heel. He seemed to be stressing himself into a fit, religiously combing through his hair with his fingers and breathing louder than normal. “Uh, Brett, I’m all done here. We can head out,” Reagan tried, softly. Brett gave her a strained smile. “Yeah yeah yeah yeah totally,” he said, words coming out fast enough to blend together.

When they entered the elevator, Reagan looked at Brett’s face since he was standing closer. He was pale and sweaty. “Brett, I’m… not mad at you,” she started, grimacing at the way he flinched, “I promise. You did nothing wrong. I just had a long day today and, like, zero sleep last night. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” Brett’s head snapped towards her hopefully. “You mean it?” “Of course I do, you doof. Now come on, I gotta get you to your show.” She playfully punched him on the shoulder as the elevator hit the main level.

They left the building, Regular Bud in tow. Brett opened the backdoor of Reagan’s car to let the canine hop in before getting into the passenger seat himself.

“You excited?” Reagan asked while she started the car. Brett pumped his fists, yelling “Heck yeah!” The driver laughed and shook her head. Out of her peripherals, she saw Brett plug his phone into the aux and turning on “Accidentally in Love.” “What is your deal with this song?” Reagan laughed. Brett smiled as a passionate look grew onto his face. Dramatically wiping away a tear, he stated, “Shrek 2 is the best, most artistically cinematic piece of media I have ever consumed. It’s not just a movie, it’s a film.” Regular Bud barked approvingly from the backseat.

Brett turned around to pet his dog. “Yeah, you have good taste in movies, huh?” he cooed.

After a few runs of “Accidentally in Love,” followed by Pitbull songs to fill the background behind Brett and Reagan’s mirthful conversation, the two pulled into the street by the theater. “Well, this is where you get off. Give me a text when it’s over, okay?” Reagan called as Brett got out of the car. “You got it, Reags!” He winked and pointed a finger gun at her before turning around and walking away, pulling up the ticket’s QR code on his phone.

Reagan watched him walk for a minute before she drove away, taking Regular Bud home for the night.

Brett was directed towards his seat: an aisle chair not far from the front of the stage. “Sick!” he whispered to himself, pumping an enthusiastic fist. He picked up popcorn from the lobby and sat down in his seat, anxiously awaiting the beginning of the show.

Reagan’s phone vibrated, waking Regular Bud from her lap while she tiredly watched Interstellar with him.

brett!!: hey reags the show is over im just waiting to get out!

rr: alright, im omw dude

Reagan hopped in the car, leaving Regular Bud inside to sleep.

She arrived after around twenty minutes. People were filing in and out of the building.

Reagan pulled out her phone.

rr: i’m here dude

She waited. Five minutes passed.

rr: you there? im outside

Five or six more minutes. Maybe he was in the bathroom?

rr: brett?????

rr: hello!???

rr: dude i am here

He never answered.

Brett never came.

Reagan bit her lip anxiously, looking at the receipts.

Delivered, 10:26.

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.

Chapter Text

Two days passed and Brett hadn’t given Dietrich any clear answers on Ron’s whereabouts.

“Do you know his status with Reagan?” he had demanded.

“Yeesh! Sensitive subje-“ ZZZAP! “They…” pant “… parted ways…”

The shock collar had seemed to get him on-track.

“Do you know Ron’s status with the company?”

“… Reagan said he quit.”

Ron had never told his bosses that. Instead, he had grabbed a memory gun, which was a very, very confidential tool, and stole it before running away and never speaking to the company again.

“… and where is he now?”

“…”

“Where… is… he?”

“…”

ZZZAP!

Brett panted because his voice was too hoarse to scream, and he had reverted to tensing every muscle in his body and holding his breath.

Dietrich rolled his eyes. Brett was a drama queen.

“Where is he?” he had demanded once more.

“… A-away…” Brett had wheezed. Dietrich knew he wouldn’t get anymore answers tonight. He turned on his heel and slammed the door shut, leaving Brett’s lights on for the night.

Brett hadn’t slept. He hoped Reagan was doing better than he was. He was still content with being here, because he couldn’t imagine what would’ve happened to her had she been taken. Her body was much more frail and small than his; it wouldn’t be able to take all of this. Brett was so glad she wasn’t here.

Then again… he wondered what he was doing for them at home. Were they even being helped by his torture?

A cruel voice in his head told him they were doing greater with him not being there; it told him he didn’t ever belong there anyways. He sighed, grounding himself in reality.

The two metal prongs of the shock collar dug into Brett’s neck. He could breathe, but he felt like he was choking.

He knew why Dietrich used the Pavlov analogy now.

The man used the effects of the torture device at every opportunity—every time Brett looked excited to have company; every time Brett said something Dietrich didn’t like; every time Brett smiled; every time Brett laughed nervously out of habit; every time Brett talked too long.

Even every time Dietrich himself walked into the room.

Brett had heard him outside the room telling someone that it was “conditioning him to be afraid,” which he was coming to accept as true.

He heard footsteps and quickly braced himself. He was, as expected, literally shocked when Kluge walked in. It was an unpleasant sort of pain—the vibrations carried on throughout his whole body, his bones seemed to rattle, and his muscles felt like they crackled. Brett could hear the pops and hisses in his ear as the prongs in the collar jolted his head. Finally, though it was only zapping him for barely two seconds, it felt like it had gone on forever.

“Good morning, Brett. Day three, and no clear answers about Ron. You’ve only told us that he and Reagan are no longer together and that he ran away, but I know you know more,” Dietrich snarled. Brett was too exhausted to respond. His body ached. “I will get that story out of you… one way or another.” Brett shivered. He was hungry and his mouth was dry.

Dietrich hummed to himself in thought. “How about this: every time you give me a good answer, you get a drink of water?” Brett slowly lifted his head, hopefully. “That… sounds… great,” he croaked. “Good. There is a catch, though,” Dietrich stopped him, “if you lie, refuse to respond, or give me a bad answer, I’ll use the shock collar. Deal?” Brett nodded hastily.

Dietrich typed something out on his phone and watched the door. Shortly after, Shakira walked in. “Her hips are the most accurate polygraph we have,” the German explained. The singer walked by Brett’s chair and laid a hand on his shoulder, clearly disinterested. “My hips do not lie,” she whispered to him. Dietrich cleared his throat.

“Alright, Brett. Question 1.”

Reagan was about to lose her mind. Three days and Brett was still nowhere to be found. The entire office was anxious, afraid they would be next. Reagan’s team was back to their old selves: low morale, no motivation, terrible work ethic. Reagan herself was working to the bone.

What the fuck happened to Brett?

She asked herself that stupid question a million times a day.

They needed him more than she had ever truly thought. She absentmindedly scratched Regular Bud behind the ears, quadruple-checking for Brett’s phone location. Of course the deep state had had it disabled and of course it couldn’t miraculously work now. She slammed her fists on her desk.

Reagan sighed, standing up to grab a coffee from the machine in her office. She peered at her coworkers through the security cameras her dad had installed. One of them was broken. That’d be a good distraction.

She popped the screen out, but found that a key piece was missing from the board inside. “Fuck.”

Reagan had to call her father.

One of the screens glided towards her, crackling open to a view of a prison cell. “Hello, father,” Reagan greeted dryly. JR looked at her from his bed while Rand got up to face the camera. “Hey, Jellybean. What can I do for ya?”

Reagan grimaced. Her dad was in terrible shape. She swore it was for the better and moved on. Before she could answer, JR cut in. “Christ, Reagan, you look terrible. When’s the last time you slept?” Reagan smacked her face with her hand. “I haven’t slept in days and Brett has been missing and the office is doing nothing. So don’t ask me anything. I’m just calling to—“ “Brett’s missing?” Rand asked.

Reagan felt her face heat up alongside the anger bubbling in her stomach. “Yes, dipshit. That’s what I just said. Why?” She crossed her arms, “It’s not like you care anyway.” Rand’s face was unreadable. “Just curious,” he responded in an uneasy tone. Reagan was too furious to ask why he sounded so odd answering that.

“Whatever. What the fuck is the missing piece for this screen?”

Brett had never lied once and yet Dietrich was no closer to knowing Ron’s location than he had been previously. He shocked Brett five times during the interrogation because of his lack of willingness to comply. He paid Shakira for her help then turned to Brett. “You bastard!” Kluge shouted, socking Brett in the face. It felt good to take out his anger on the captive. He saw Brett spit blood onto the floor from his busted lip.

Angrily, Dietrich snatched Brett by the collar of his shirt, jerking him forward so he was just a few inches from his own face. “If you don’t start talking soon, hell will rain down on you.”

He threw Brett onto the floor, feeling calmer now. The ginger merely grunted when he hit the ground.

Dietrich stood to his full height and mulled over his options. How would he make him talk? Then he remembered: Brett practically lived off of approval. He smiled evilly.

“You know, the Shadow Board tells us things the way they tell your company things.”

He heard the younger man shifting and trying to look at him. “T-they do?” he asked, though his voice was small.

Dietrich turned and brought Brett’s chair back up. “Yes. We’re the Illuminati—of course they do. For your sake, I asked about your friends to see how they were doing. It’s a consideration thing we businesses do sometimes when hard times hit. Like maybe… a missing coworker.”

Brett perked up for real now. “Really? A-are they okay?”

Dietrich paused to give Brett a sense of suspense and tension. “Actually, they’re better than okay. They’re great!”

Brett smiled. That was good! His friends were okay!

“… in fact, they’re better off now that you’re gone. Reagan had a hard time at first, but she realized she got work done much quicker without you around.”

“B-but JR said that I-“

“Uhp, uhp, uhp, uhp!”

The head of the Illuminati put a hushing finger over Brett’s mouth before wiping the blood of his lip on the robe he wore. “While it was true you increased morale for a day or two, JR realized you were bringing them down. Rand considered firing you and was fine when you faked your own death to drop the race for senator.”

Now that Brett was thinking about it, Rand had seemed disinterested in the fact that he was actually alive and not dead. And he had never gotten the “attaboy” from JR he’d been promised.

Things were clicking into place too fast and too easily for Brett’s liking.

“You’re a liability.”

Reagan screamed. She had spent hours recreating the missing piece to the security screen per her dad’s instructions and found that it was just one of the ones that spied on the women’s bathrooms downstairs. “God fucking damnit!”

She punched the screen, feeling slight satisfaction when it cracked and went dark. “Fucking whatever,” Reagan spat.

“Stupid thing was a liability anyways.”

Chapter Text

Reagan was on her last legs. No new info about the mole, no new finds on Brett.

Five days.

It had been five days.

Who knew where he was?

She walked into work looking worse and worse everyday.

Her coworkers noticed this, because they had never seen her in such poor condition before.

“Jesus Christ, Reagan. You look worse than when you broke up with Ron,” Myc stated nonchalantly. “Wow. Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” Reagan rolled her tired eyes. Glenn, Andre, and Gigi, however, exchanged concerned glances as an idea hit. “Maybe the whistleblower had somethin’ to do with it,” Glenn suggested.

To his surprise, Reagan seemed invested in his words and gestured for him to continue. “Maybe the Robes saw the whistleblower’s comments and took Brett in for questioning because they know that boy can’t say ‘no’ to a damned thing!” Gigi and Andre nodded, fervently agreeing. “Oh my God, you might be right! Someone give Glenn a star sticker!” Reagan shouted as she ran out of the room to her office. Andre handed Glenn a poorly drawn star sticker with the words “your done it” written over it in Comic Sans. “I’ll take it!” Glenn exclaimed.

Reagan burst into her office, newfound determination bathing her in energy and confidence. “Reagan,” a deep voice spoke to her, exactly as planned, “we assume you’ve found the whistleblower?” The scientist frowned at the robes. “No, but I think they have something to do with our missing employee.” Some of the robes looked at each other quietly. “Oh, Brett?” one asked. “Yeah, that’s the kid who brought bagels on his second day,” a second answered. “Oh, yeah. I like that guy.” Each of the robes began making various sounds of agreement before Reagan cleared her throat. “Do you know where he is?” The robes were quiet again, uncomfortably. “We cannot reveal that information since it’s technically a business matter.” The genius groaned and hung up.

“Heyyyy Reagan. We couldn’t help but, uh, listen in.” Myc said sheepishly as he opened the door to let his coworkers in. “I don’t care,” the CEO mumbled, burying her head in her arms. “Wait, Reagan. This is a good thing!” Gigi placated. Glenn agreed but Reagan could tell he had no idea what was going on. “If it’s a business matter that won’t let them talk about it, that means one of the other shadow boards knows!” Andre piped in. Reagan was so excited she jumped up and hugged Andre tightly in an uncharacteristic display of vigor.

She ripped a piece of paper from a notebook and wrote in black marker the names of each company in the shadow government. In red, she put a thick X over “COGNITO INC”. “Alright, process of elimination.”

Brett felt a familiar shock as Dietrich walked into the room with a confident gait.

The man walked around the back of his chair and unbound Brett’s wrists. “Where are we going?” Brett asked out of instinct. “We’re trying something new,” Kluge said ominously.

As the two walked down the seemingly endless white and grey halls of the Illuminati building, one think became abundantly clear: Brett was not getting out of here without a rescue mission. That, or he would never leave at all. Not alive. Sure, he was glad he was here instead of Reagan and that his body had a capacity for enduring far more than hers, but he still had a limit.

Dietrich led him into a relatively empty room where there was nothing but a thick, gently sloped table. Oh no, Brett thought grimly. He was shoved onto the surface, where he was then tied down and forced to look directly into the light on the ceiling. A washcloth covered his face, and he sat there anticipating it.

“Since you won’t tell us where Ron is, we’ll work you until you break. You’ll be worn down, like a car tire, slowly being rendered ineffective as it moves along, unaware of its fate.”

Brett closed his eyes and felt the water dripping onto the cloth. “Tell us where Ron is and we can avoid this pain.”

Brett would much sooner put his life in danger than Reagan’s or Ron’s. He shook his head.

The drip became a flood.

“Ok, so it’s not the Juggalos.” Reagan murmured. “Those guys are way too pussy to try anything. Huge pacifists,” Myc commented. Glenn grunted. “I don’t think it’s the Atlantians either. Bein’ a dolphin, I’m on good terms with most sea life. No matter how much we make fun’a them, they won’t do anything to hurt our company.” He ended with a quick salute and wiped a tear from his eye. “Nothin’ more honorable than a people who stick to their principles,” he sniffed dramatically.

Reagan crossed out the “ICP” and “ATLANTIS” in red.

“What about the Illuminati? They’re not exactly our best friends,” Andre said. Reagan considered this. “I don’t know. I think they would know that that would fuck their company over. I don’t wanna cross them out, though.”

The team continued to look over the list as marker bled through the paper and stained Reagan’s desk. “Maybe Brett’s office could have some clues? Like a search history?” Gigi offered. “Oh, you mean like how we found Illuminati applications in your office? Go to hell, bitch.” Gigi glared at Myc’s response. “No, no, she’s right. Even if there’s nothing, I want to find everything and anything I can that will help. Gigi, Andre, I want you to check his office. Glenn and Myc, you’re here with me.”

Brett’s office was… something. Eerily clean, the office showed no sign of an odd occurrence. “Where d’you think it could be?” Andre asked quietly, poking his fingers together absentmindedly.

“Where what could be?” “I don’t know… evidence? A clue?”

Gigi frowned, lost in thought. “Why don’t we check his browser history?” The biochemist raised an eyebrow. “That feels invasive…” he smiled mischievously, “… I love it.”

He giggled as he and Gigi rounded the corner of the desk and met Brett’s computer. Gigi typed in his password, because everyone knew it because Brett was kind of an idiot, and opened his browser history. His last search had been the last day he was seen, five days ago, at 5:36 pm, where he was probably mindlessly scrolling a company spreadsheet.

The spreadsheet was about the influence and response to different morale boosters. It was made entirely by Brett, and the last timestamp on it was 6:50 pm, five minutes before he left with Reagan. His list was long and expansive, covering each Gang members’ individual responses as well as group responses. It was… weirdly endearing.

“Let’s see if there’s anything else,” Gigi said, more to herself than anything. She opened the browser history and found a list of searches from the earlier parts of the same day.

11:30 am

fun activities with friends

activities with friends

activities with people you consider friends but who probably dont reciprocate that

morale boost for coworkers

Andre and Gigi grimaced, sharing a look.

2:09 pm

watch breakgn bad

where to watch breaking bad

why do jessie and walter make meth

what is meth

Gigi giggled. “Seems he was productive that day.”

4:17 pm

how to tell if you are being emotionally gaslit by all of your friends

shrek 2 soundtrack

shrek soundtrack

crash into me dave matthews band

how to make friends naturally

the growing years full series

how to make your friends like you more

Gigi and Andre frowned. “Uh… that didn’t bring us anywhere.” Gigi hummed in agreement.

“That’s pretty much the last of it, Andre. I, uh… think we’re good to go.”

For once, both of them were left simultaneously speechless as they left the office quietly.

Dietrich was growing impatient. How strong-willed do have to be to go through nearly a week of literal torture and still keep your mouth shut?

“God… fuck!” he shouted, kicking a nearby chair over. Brett, from where he lay on the table, flinched. His hair was horribly messy from getting wet and dried and wet and dried again.

“Nothing! Nothing from you! It’s been a week and you’ve given me jack shit!” Kluge screamed, accent coming in thicker. Brett winced at his volume. “What do you have to say for yourself?!” He pointed a finger right towards Brett’s face. Doing the best he could while strapped to a table, Brett shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Dietrich. It’s not my business to tell,” he smiled, voice hoarse. Dietrich snarled at him. “You think you’re so smart and cute, huh? You don’t think I know how you’re connected to everything? Hm?”

The younger man gave him a confused look. “Wh-?” “You know, when you’re at the top, word trickles down. You hear things. Higher-ups talk. And they talk a lot.”

Brett swallowed thickly. “Uh… w-what about?” Dietrich turned to look at him, consideration in his eyes. “I know how high up you are in Cognito. There’s a man the Robes hear from that loves to shit all over you because of it. Your simplicity, your lack of brains, your incessant need to cling to those better than you… it’s all he talks about. To the Robes, at least.”

Dietrich grabbed the damp old washcloth from earlier in the day and rung it out over Brett’s head, watching it drip down into his hair, trickling down over his face. “If you don’t start talking, you’re not the only one who’ll suffer.”

After undoing the straps and dragging Brett out of the room, Dietrich threw him into the first room he had been kept in. “You want to stay quiet? Fine. Stay quiet. Your friends will feel the brunt of the consequences.”

“Wha— what?”

Dietrich smiled. Now he would get somewhere. He crossed his arms and turned his head. “You think the punishment is limited to you?” Brett bit his lip anxiously. “W-well, I was under the impression that that was the case here, yes…”

Dietrich grinned mischievously. Brett was intent on putting others before himself, so to have them threatened…

He was going to break.

“You’d be very, very wrong.”