ANOTHER WEEK IN HELL by CATHRL RATED FRC

Thanks to Sandy (SkyWench) for permission to write a follow-up to her story A Week In Hell written for the 2007 TIWF Fish Out Of Water Challenge.

This story won the Tracy Island Writers Forum's 2007 Sequel Challenge as voted by TIWF members.

Day Six

Home free! Pure, simple bliss. No more office. No more plastic cups and even more plastic coffee. No more co-workers who wouldn't know a Steinway from Thunderbird Two. No more four foot six lack-of-privacy miniwall.

No, this is more my style. My desk is Thunderbird Two's console, and my paperwork is the list I make of what I have to fix or replace after a rescue. And living in the city? No, thank you. I hadn't realised how used I was to the quiet here, at night especially. Every siren in the street outside my window woke me up, all week, and even with thick blinds it was never properly dark.

And there are people everywhere, all the time. I used to be good with people. I still am, when I need to be. But there, I needed to interact all the time, and with total strangers who had nothing in common with me. I sometimes get asked if it isn't lonely living on an island with only my family and a few friends. Not half as lonely as living on your own in a big city, I'll tell you.

I am so glad I won't be back there Monday. Though I pity whoever has to fix that document shredder. The thing has a mind of its own.

Day Seven

Gordon was asking about who I got to know last week. He seems surprised that I hadn't really talked to everyone. I couldn't see the point – I mean, I was only there for a week. Much more important that they got to know the new guy, the one who was staying. What was his name again? I can't remember.

Still, some of these people Gordon met sounded great. I wonder if anyone in my office is half that eccentric in private? I can't imagine anyone I met skydiving or playing in a rock band, or writing, what did he call it, fanfiction?

I wonder what they thought of me? Boring Virgil, dozing in his cubicle while everyone else gathers round the water cooler to discuss the latest office gossip. If only they knew.

Day Eight

Excerpt from informal appraisal of temporary personnel.

Tracy, Virgil.

The guy's got brains, but could I get him to use them? Didn't want to be here. Shame. I never needed to explain anything twice, but the guy doesn't seem to understand urgency.

The doodles in the margins were impressive. Not appropriate for official documents, though. Maybe the design department can use him.

Well, that was embarrassing. Father didn't look too impressed, either. Probably why he read it out at breakfast. Scott and Gordon had a good laugh at it. I knew this was going to happen.

How can he not have figured out who I really am, though? I mean, come on, Bryan! The surname's Tracy. Did you sleep through every news article about Father, ever? There's not one that doesn't go into nauseating detail on the naming convention for his sons. And if that wasn't enough, why did you think you were reporting on a temporary assistant direct to Jeff Tracy himself? Talk about not using your brains.

The worst of it is, Gordon even has the moral high ground. It seems that, while my brothers may joke about desk jobs, they take their weeks in various departments of Tracy Enterprises a little more seriously than I did. Scott would, of course. But Gordon…I thought he was joking. I was sure he was joking. Until he showed me his own report. From the same damn office I was in, no less. The skydiver and the amateur author and the drummer – they're people I worked with? No way! And funky-cubicle guy is a mad keen rock climber in his free time, apparently. Well, that explains about ten per cent of the photos. I didn't notice the ones Gordon gave him, but I guess they were on the wall among all the rest. They got on real well, it seems. Though he didn't much take to my cubicle-mate, either. Apparently it was Danish pastries everywhere, that week.

Gordon's report? Helpful, enthusiastic, efficient, hard-working, friendly… What did I get again? Doodling daydreamer. Okay, it's not like I wanted the job. But that sucks.

Day Nine

Father comes into breakfast this morning grumbling about personnel issues. Seems he has a standing order that certain short-term vacancies are forwarded to his office, so he can decide if he wants to assign one of us for some experience. Thank heavens I've done my stint, I think, and then he drops the bombshell.

It's the job I was doing last week. Turns out the guy's going to be off sick for a while, and they need another week's cover while they get someone more permanent in. They'd especially like the redheaded guy back. I don't even get a mention.

You could have knocked me down with a feather. I mean, I was doing that job last week. I didn't do that badly. Did I?

Gordon shakes his head cheerfully, he's got some important maintenance to do on Thunderbird Four, and Father looks at Alan. Okay, that's it. Because I know Alan did his stint recently too, over in the New Zealand office, the week before I did mine.

"I'll do it."

Even Scott stops eating.

"Virgil," Father says. "You hated it there. You don't have to do this. I've looked at those designs – would you prefer a week in the architects' office?"

Well, of course I would. But Gordon's expression says it all. He thinks I quit on the assignment, even if I did sit in the chair for all five days. And I don't quit on anything, ever.

"I'll do it, Dad. Tell them I'll be there tomorrow morning, first thing." That ought to surprise them, for a start. I don't think I made it in before ten last week.

This time, they're going to remember me a lot more fondly. This time it won't all be slapdash and coffee. I'll fix that document shredder properly. I'll find out their names and go to lunch with them. And hey, if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, maybe I won't get looked at sideways if I suggest something different. If I'm competent, maybe they'll even figure out who I really am. And the island will still be here for me to come home to at the end of the week.

Now why do I have a nagging suspicion that Father knew full well that this was going to happen?