aldnoah corporate au || mazuurek+slaine, first meeting

Despite spending an inordinate amount of time on his knees, Slaine has learned a fair amount about the company business, which is why, when Vlad’s group starts cracking down on a new exploit, Slaine is sent into the coding bullpens in the lower levels to hunt down a hard copy of a similar bug that the company had found a few years back. Even lower-level employees are as rude as ever, but Slaine manages to wheedle out who worked on the old project, and who supervised the project, and who might know where the physical files were stored, and he’s pulled the right drive from the basement library before lunch.

To his surprise, the elevator stops at the lobby floor on his ride back up to Vlad’s office, and a bewildered looking young man steps in, a visitor’s pass stuck prominently to his chest. He’s tall, and so pale that he looks almost washed out against his charcoal suit, as though someone has filled in his unruly curls and long face with watercolors. He glances at the overcomplicated lift controls – one of the infinite small ways Vers bristles against outsiders – and then, with a rueful smile at Slaine. “I’m sorry to do this,” he says, and there really is genuine apology in his voice, “but I’m supposed to be meeting someone on the thirty-third floor…”

Slaine gives him a blinking up-and-down, taking in his deliberately squared shoulders, the garish visitor badge, the all-done-up buttons, the rumpled suit, the slightly scuffed shoes. <i>More like you’re going to be eaten alive on the thirty-third floor</i>, Slaine thinks. Barouhcruz and Marylcian are running the Marinaros project out of the thirty-third floor, and they’re some of the most vocally nasty about outside help. “Of course,” he says, keeping his face and tone politely neutral, and keys in the code – Aldnoah based, naturally – for the Marinaros team’s home base.

The man’s tense shoulders slump in relief as the elevator starts to move. “Thank you,” he says, his long face brightening into a smile, and he extends a hand. “I’m Mazuurek.”

“Slaine Troyard,” he says, bracing for the smile to disappear, for a sneer – but it never comes. <i>He has no idea who I am.</i> It’s a funny feeling. He smiles back, hesitantly, and offers his hand.

Mazuurek doesn’t seem to mind that the gesture comes a moment too late, or how tentative Slaine’s hand is; he shakes enthusiastically, almost messily. “It’s a pleasure.”

When Mazuurek releases his hand, Slaine slips the drive under his arm and leans forward. Mazuurek has treated him like a human being; the least Slaine can do is make him look like a little less of an obvious outsider before sending him to Marylcian’s shark pit. “Please hold still a moment, Mr. Mazuurek,” he says. He peels the visitor pass off Mazuurek’s coat, straightens his tie, and undoes the bottom button of his coat. There’s nothing he can do about wrinkles or the scuffed shoes, but it’s a start.

“Thank you,” he repeats, as genuine as the first time, and looks himself over a bit self-deprecatingly. “I know I’m a bit of a mess. I just got off a flight from Dubai…”

Slaine stiffens and steps back, as quick as though Mazuurek had burned him. He knows who this is, by reputation if not by name – the child of one of the founding employees, and an executive in his own right. He’s been managing licensing in the Middle East since before Slaine started here, but Barouhcruz and Marylcian asked him back to run some part of the Marinaros project because they were… what was it, school friends? Yes, school friends, from dear old Gilzeria Memorial.

Stupid, careless. He should have seen the perfect tailoring under those wrinkles, or recognized the soft fabric of that shirt. This man might be a bit travel-worn, but he’s still one of the Versian elite.

“… are you alright?” Mazuurek leans down slightly, his round blue-gray eyes wide with obvious concern.

“Yes, sir,” Slaine says, crumpling the visitor’s sticker in his palm and dropping his hands to his sides. What a waste, to be concerned about Marylcian and a man like this. He was just another Versian. He’d be looking down his nose at Slaine and shouting at his support staff soon enough.  “We’ll be arriving at your floor shortly, sir.”

“Really?” Mazuurek glances at the display, and Slaine takes advantage of his distraction to step back toward the control panel and recompose his face into his usual mask – polite, attentive, steeled against disappointment.  When the elevator door opens a moment later, he bows his head solicitously to avoid making eye contact. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mazuurek looking vaguely confused by the shift. “Thank you again for your help…”

“Of course, sir,” Slaine says tonelessly, and jabs the door-close button with the edge of the disk behind his back, where Mazuurek can’t see.

Mazuurek has to skitter awkwardly off the elevator to avoid being trapped for another few floors. Slaine hears him calling, sounding a little lost again, “I hope I’ll – ”

The door closes, cutting off the rest of Mazuurek’s words. Slaine crumples the piece of paper in his hand a little more tightly.


*

Mazuurek stares at his palm, still feeling a little lost. That boy had been so warm, and then so abruptly, miserably cold. And that gentle way he'd leaned to straighten his suit...

“Mazuurek!” Barouhcruz calls, snapping Mazuurek out of his contemplation. Barouhcruz hurries down the hall and claps a hand on Mazuurek’s shoulder, takes him by the hand and shakes, the same firm, self-assured grasp Mazuurek remembers from school. It should be comforting after all these years out of the country, and yet, the familar gesture just makes Mazuurek a little wistful for the shy handshake of a few minutes ago.

<i>Slaine Troyard. I hope I’ll see you again.</i>