Alpha Incorporated

I - iii A THIRSTY EVIL

 Lucy Lumalabas's idea of going out for drinks after work didn't involve the official reception at the Fairmont. Especially after that shit show of a CEO introduction. What was with that anyway? Who is this Angelo, and, more importantly, who the hell does he think is with that 'year of the wolf' bullshit?

So, instead, she is here at a downtown bar with the underlings, the common folk of the Alpha Empire. The backend: the technicians, the coders, the engineers, the sales teams, the administrators. And Lucy Lumalabas, floating somewhere in the corporate limbo of upper-middle management, yet capable of inhabiting either world—and she does. She feels like the token successful Filipino-American woman whose presence is necessary, now and then, at functions where the optics of proportional representation are key. It's not like she doesn't deserve to be up there: her sharp wit and likeable disposition make her the centre of attention, even among the executive class. But, when she has the choice, she prefers to be laughing at them, not with them.

The guy at the table next to her nods, like he is reading Lucy's mind. Randall, she thinks his name is. Or is it Gandalf? His head bobs up and down as he stirs his Old Fashioned. Maybe he can't read her mind. Maybe he's got some kind of bobbing condition. Fucking coders, too much gaming. She picks up her Manhattan, winks to Gandalf and gives and exaggerated nod, like DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street.

"Here's to our new boss," she toasts.

Glasses raise. There are laughs around the table. The gang who cut out from the company's event ended up here, packed into Mistress Overdone's, a popular after work watering hole. Sure, the big wigs from Alpha can wine and dine tonight up at the Fairmont, but Lucy wouldn't be caught dead there, even if it is expected of her. But she knows she'll get away with it. Everybody loves Lucy. She'll get all loud and ethnic on them, people will laugh and say you kill me, and life goes on. It's great to be the clown.

Gandalf and his pal Frodo (she believes he called himself that, but that could be his last name) are discussing the assets of a particular individual in sales named Grace, and Lucy, not to miss an opportunity to stick in a few well-timed puns, enters when the conversation moves to the topic of disease transmission.

"You guys catch that? Here comes Madame Done-her." Lucy points to the approaching woman. Smart girl, Lucy thinks: she coordinates her ensemble to be media-casual for the afternoon theatre event, then, with the removal of scarf and a few blouse buttons undone, it's all business-sexual. Tall, blond, fit and busty, she demands attention, and gets it. The guys all know that she sleeps her way through the rank and file of the Mountain View office, hoping to land in the bed of the man who will promote her to the next rung in her ladder, but the guys don't seem to mind. They'll take the eye candy while it lasts. It's not like these coding geeks get much to look at—in real life anyway.

Grace Donor passes their table, a highball cocktail glass spurting flowers in her hand. She can swing her hips without spilling her drink. Impressive, Lucy thinks. She must have been a server before she became the servant she is now, handmaiden to the middle-aged, overworked corporate married men in head office.

"Hey Grace, want to join us?" a man at their table shouts.

Grace smiles and looks around the semi-circle booth. Someone must have tipped the time-benefit quotient because she agrees. "Just for a minute. I am meeting somebody later." Her reply is a giggle mixed with a sigh.

The man (Lucy is calling him Pippin but thinks its Pompey, or something) slides over to make room for Grace on the bench beside him.

"Please, grace us with your presence," Lucy can't help but throw in. She was going to say something about a coup de grace, but thought better of it.