Chapter Text
“Patrick. Patrick, get up.”
“What’s wrong with it? Is it dead?”
“Moira, I don’t think HR would agree with you referring to our adult employees as ‘it’.”
“Well, whatever shall I do instead? We’re live in T-minus five minutes!”
“Give him a shake.”
“Patrick!”
“Woah!”
In a start, Patrick wakes. He shields his eyes from the hot studio lights glaring into his face from above, then a moment later he has no need.
Moira Rose, Elmdale County News’ head reporter, is towering over him, the huge, pointed shoulders of her black dress blocking out the glaring light. Only the rarest exasperation, the one that she seems to reserve for Patrick, is etched deep into her face.
“Please move, child! The news starts at nine in the morning every day, and if you insist on suffering from some maladious chronic fatigue, then I insist you do it on someone else’s time!”
Patrick grunts, finally pushing himself up onto his elbows. He looks around. Cameramen and interns and technicians alike have their eyes trained on him, and he burns with embarrassment. It’s far from the first time he’s fallen asleep in the middle of the studio.
“Moira, I’m sorry, I was just – I got here early, I wanted to help out with…stuff…sorry, I’ll go.”
“Retire the explanation for another day,” Moira snaps.
“Um, hey, can you please stop bullying the staff and get in place?”
Having wobbled to his feet and brushed himself off, Patrick turns around to see Alexis, the studio manager, glancing down at a clipboard. She hooks a finger behind a lock of golden hair and flips it over her shoulder. “We’re filming in five.”
“I know, sweet Alexis, that was why I was trying to get him to move!”
“Well, the set is behind us, so I actually think you’re the one who needs to move, Mother,” Alexis says.
Moira gives Patrick another once-over without acknowledging her mistake, then stalks back to where she came from.
Patrick throws Alexis what he hopes is a grateful smile, but given the red mark pressed into his face from his awkward sleeping position and the hair plastered to his forehead, he probably just looks a little punch-drunk.
“Hey, um…thanks for stepping in.”
Alexis purses her lips and blinks at Patrick, like he’s cute or something. “You’re fine. Between you and me, my mom just likes picking fights. Don’t let her get to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should probably go and make sure the air around her is at the correct concentration for optimum speech delivery or something.”
Alexis flounces away, leaving Patrick stood on the steps, bristling with the familiar twin sensations of irritation and humiliation that come free with every Rose family interaction. Moira had actually called him child, like a cold medieval countess talking to her frightened daughter-in-law.
Patrick sheepishly wanders back to the writer’s desks, digging a caffeine pill out of his pocket and popping one out the blister pack. He fills a cup of water from the cooler and swallows it down, trying to pretend to himself that he’d just got here like everyone else and not tried too hard to make an impression early in the morning by coming here to set up…what was he even trying to do? Honestly, he had no idea. But he came into work this morning with two goals, and the first was a disaster. Patrick drains his water and looks up at the second mezzanine floor of the news building, where all the offices are. Time for the second goal.
“Oh my God, you were just talking to Alexis Rose!”
Patrick startles. Behind him, Twyla Sands is standing in line, a closed laptop wedged under her arm.
“Well, kind of,” he shrugs. “She was getting Moira ready for her broadcast.”
Judging by the familiar shrill start to the day that was ringing through the studio (“Wilkommen, bienvenue and welcome, exalted citizens of northeast On-ta-ri-o!”), Alexis seemed to have done her job.
Without looking up from her document, Stevie snorts as she taps away at the screen. “Patrick, come on. Half the office has a crush on her, and she just paid actual attention to you for, like, a full five seconds. You can piss yourself if you want.”
“I mean – we barely even talked! It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Uh, it is!” Stevie says. “I’ve worked here for three years and she’s never talked to me, let alone stood up for me in front of her own mother!”
“I heard she backpacks across Europe once a year. Or was it that she’s in other people’s backpacks? Who knows. And she cooks!” Twyla adds.
“I’ve seen her reading for pleasure in the park outside the studio.”
Patrick looks over at Alexis, only a bobbing golden head from this distance. She’s teetering up onto her obscenely high, purple crocodile print heels to observe the broadcast. He admires her, but he’s never felt that particular buzz that every other female-attracted person in the office seems to note after she graces them all with her presence.
“Well, I think the office would probably be about forty percent more productive if people weren’t fangirling over her all the time,” Patrick says. It’s not like he’s calculated it, or anything. He definitely doesn’t have a spreadsheet of suggested improvements for Rose Media stowed away on his laptop.
Okay, a folder of spreadsheets.
“Anyway, I have bigger things to think about today,” Patrick continues, eager to change the subject. “I’m going to ask Ronnie for a promotion as reporter.”
Twyla gasps in delight. Stevie splutters on her coffee, and Patrick pretends it’s out of the same happy shock than the shit-eating laughter he knows it to be.
“I’m so happy for you! You’ve been talking about this for years!” Twyla says.
“Exactly. Why put it off any longer? This is me taking initiative,” Patrick says, glaring hard at Stevie in reference to a conversation of theirs a couple weeks back. She may or may not have given him the kick up the ass that inspired him to embark on several backfiring mornings making random reporter’s coffees and sorting out their prompts on the table.
Even if Stevie was going more along the lines of “quit your job and become an Alaskan hermit, Patrick,” he didn’t want to leave Rose Media. As much as Moira made him want to tear his hair out sometimes, and despite the fact that sitting in front of his boss, Ronnie Lee, and asking for a promotion made him want to throw up, he’d been sailing through the past few weeks with an unshakeable feeling that things were finally starting to go his way.
“Well, good luck,” Stevie says. “As your friend, know that my tissue box will be your territory afterwards. You know, when Ronnie stamps on your dreams and cites your lack of experience and leaves you feeling hopeless and doomed –”
“Yes thanks, Stevie.”
Patrick sighs, smooths the sleeves of his grey suit – still crinkled from his impromptu nap – and heads towards the elevator.
When he reaches Ronnie’s office, he steels himself and saunters in without knocking. She looks up, her face twisted in confusion and disdain.
“Uh, what the hell is this? I told Mutt I’m not taking meetings this morning.”
“Patrick Brewer, writing staff,” he says, sticking out a hand. Ronnie doesn’t take it.
“I know who you are.”
“Listen, Ms. Lee, I’ll get straight to it. I want to be a reporter.”
Ronnie stares at him in stunned silence for a moment before she breaks into loud, caustic laughter, banging her fist against the desk. Patrick watches her cackle and try to compose herself, feeling like someone has taken a pin to each of his organs. You know, if organs could deflate slowly.
“You – you wanna be a newsreader? You’re killing me here, kid.”
“It’s not a joke! I’ve worked here for over two years, and I think I’m more than –”
Ronnie cuts him off with another wheeze. Patrick crosses his arms.
“I’m serious. I’m here to ask for a promotion,” he says firmly.
Ronnie leans back, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Okay, okay, I’ll hear you out. But whew, thanks for that. I haven’t laughed that hard since my ex-wife tried to sue me for custody of our cat. So what makes you think you’re cut out to be a reporter for Elmdale County News?”
“I’m passionate. Being a reporter has been my dream for nearly my whole life, and…”
Ronnie waves him away with a hand. “Yeah, cool, great. Lots of people want to do lots of things, but that doesn’t mean they’re good at them. It’s not about whether you want the job, it’s about if you can actually do it. I want you to prove you have what it takes. Interview me.”
“Interview…you?”
Ronnie nods. “Yup.”
“But what am I even interviewing you about?”
“Figure it out, Katie Couric.”
“Okay, um…”
Patrick stalls. He feels hot under the collar. He looks at the clock. Is it only half past nine? How is it only half past nine? This is already the longest day of his life.
“Kid, if you’re not gonna give me anything, you might as well –”
“Who got the cat, in the end?”
Ronnie blinks. “What?”
“In your court case. With your ex-wife. Who got the cat?”
For a split second, Ronnie actually looks taken aback. “Oh. I did,” she says triumphantly. “I’d say it was a good deal, since I was the one cleaning up after it for ten years.”
“You mention things like that often, or so I’ve heard. About being the only one around here who does anything. Do you feel like the responsibilities in your personal life translate into your work often, or do you like to keep things separate?”
Ronnie raises a pen to her mouth, smiling. “So you do pay attention. Nice segue there, too. Kid, I’ll tell you what.” She leans forward again, tapping a hand down onto the table. “You bring that same finesse to the next ten stories you produce and put a copy of each one on my desk, and maybe then I’ll consider your offer.”
Patrick feels his organs reflate, but only a little. Ten stories is, what, three weeks? A month? Patrick thinks about it. He can surely hold on until then without emigrating to Australia or running off with the circus.
He stands up, offering her another handshake. Nope, still not quite at handshake level.
“One word of advice – your eye contact is sloppy,” Ronnie says. “You need to be in control. You need to get inside their head.”
Patrick nods. “Noted. Thanks, Ms. Lee.”
She grunts in response. Just before Patrick opens the door to leave, something like a small electric shock pings him. Ronnie’s voice stops him again, but she sounds…different.
(…needs to stop trying so hard if he wants to…)
“What did you just say?” Patrick says suddenly.
Ronnie stares at him blankly. “About getting inside their head? You heard me.”
“No, after that – no, never mind. I’m hearing things.”
“Close the door properly on your way out, Brewer.”
Patrick does so, not wanting to risk another moment on Ronnie’s bad side now that he’s fairly certain he just nudged his way into the ‘meh’ section for the first time in his life. He hurries down the hall, ready to sink his teeth back into the stack of report prompts on his desk, when he runs into a tall, blond figure at the end of it.
“Patrick!” Ted says, opening his arms wide. “Good to see you! You’re looking unusually happy.”
Was that a compliment? Patrick couldn’t tell.
They step into the elevator together.
“Well, for the first time ever, I didn’t make an idiot of myself in front of one of the most important women in the company,” Patrick says. “Of course, that doesn’t mean to say I didn’t do so in front of the most important woman in the company half an hour ago.”
Ted winces. “Oh, did you fall asleep again? I told you, there’s no need to try so hard on a morning! I don’t care what people say, I still swear by a glass of milk and ten hours of sleep every single night.”
Patrick smiles. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, that he and Ted had the exact same job yet Ted seemed so much happier with his life. He was the goofy brains behind all the best news story taglines. He was running a few by Patrick now, brandishing a load of cue cards and scraps of paper.
“So, you know that story that came out the other day about the man who tried to break into NASA, claiming that the government was hiding information about how the moon was made of cheese? How about – how about Close Encounters of the Curd Kind?”
“Puns and movie references? You’re a man after many hearts, Ted.”
It isn’t the first time Patrick wishes he knew what Ted was thinking, maybe so he could nab a few ideas for himself. Patrick tugs at his cufflinks, and another electric shock pings through him.
(…wonder what kind of movies Alexis…)
“Huh? What about Alexis?”
Ted stares at him. “What?”
“You said something about – never mind.”
Ted narrows his eyes. “Huh. Uh, um…speaking of the Roses, did you hear that David Rose has stepped in to run against Sebastien Raine as governor?”
Ted shudders, and Patrick isn’t entirely sure who he’s shuddering at. In all his time in Elmdale County, he was never one to keep up with the local politics – or, for that matter, the Roses, who seem to have an overwhelming monopoly over the area’s dealings. The story of their son David breaking away from the Rose Media empire to pursue politics was one of the first that Patrick ever got to edit.
“And…that’s a good…? A bad thing? Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“I’d say it’s a very good thing. Sebastien’s definitely going to win now!”
So Sebastien is the goodie here, apparently. Patrick starts to try and keep up.
“Yeah, David Rose and politics are about as compatible as chalk and cheese, or so they say,” Ted continues. The lift dings and the doors creak open. “I guess you could say he never really…rose to the occasion.”
Patrick chuckles weakly. “Heh. You should put that one in your next title, Ted.”
“Oh, no need, I already have one!” Ted calls, hopping out of the elevator and jogging his way down the hall. “Alien vs. Senator!”
The lift closes again, and the sunlight flooding from the windows on the second floor is shut out with it. Patrick stares into the dingy elevator bulbs and sighs. He’s never met David Rose, but Patrick can relate to him already. He’s not cut out for this.
****
After three limp hours procrastinating on his next report, Patrick decides to stretch his legs and get away from his desk for lunch. Elmdale County’s news station is situated in the center of the smattering of local towns, the largest of which being Elmdale itself. Some claim it’s big enough to be a city, but in Patrick’s eyes he’s content enough to keep it humble. He sets off in a meditative pace towards the nearest Subway, walking more slowly past the park and the fountain. Just like every lunchtime, he digs a coin from his pocket and flicks it into the fountain, watching it plop and drift to the bottom with every other stunted wish. And, just like every lunchtime, he wonders the collective net worth of every fountain around the world and whether it would be worth it to try and scoop out every coin. He’ll work it out one day.
As usual, the spotty, pale-haired server at Subway doesn’t heat up his sandwich as requested, so Patrick uses the second half of his lunch break to dash by his apartment and heat it up. He enters his apartment to find his roommate, Ray, sitting on the couch reading a book.
“Patrick! How did it go? Am I looking at Elmdale County’s newest reporter?”
He sinks into the couch beside Ray, whose smile drops when he sees Patrick’s expression.
“Unfortunately, Ronnie isn’t gonna let me get away that easily. I have to impress her across the board with ten different stories before she’ll even consider it.”
Ray tuts sympathetically.
“No one there thinks I have what it takes! No matter what I do, I’m just gonna get shut down at every turn.”
Ray sets down his book and turns towards Patrick, a curiously cheerful look once again plastered on his face as though he’d come to some revelation about Patrick’s career that he was desperate to share.
“Patrick, just because you’re struggling doesn’t mean you’re not still capable! Maybe news reporting just isn’t the right place for you.”
“Uh…I’m pretty sure this is the part where you tell me not to give up, Ray.”
Ray chuckles like the idea is ridiculous. “Believe me, I know how it feels to try and move ahead with your career but just end up banging your head against a wall day in, day out! Quite literally, in my case. It turns out tool-free handyman services aren’t as fun to execute as they sound.”
Patrick sits back and sighs, wishing – not for the first time – that his parents were here with him. They started making recordings of every story Patrick wrote for the county news, listening to his words even if he wasn’t the one speaking them. He would kill for that kind of appreciation round here.
The fact that his sandwich comes out the microwave soggy is the last straw. At this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if he walked outside to find a raincloud permanently stuck over his head.
He manages to make it all the way back to the studio parking lot before the wet sandwich becomes the second to last straw.
“A raincloud. A literal raincloud. Are you kidding me?”
Patrick watches the sky darken as he rounds the final corner to the news station, a tight knot of dread forming in his stomach. More and more black clouds gather overhead, and raindrops start to patter against his face. Even the grain of hope he was left with after the meeting with Ronnie melts away at the sight of the office doors.
He crumples the sandwich wrapper in his hand, resigning himself to the pathetic fallacy of it all. In the same way he ends up sitting down in the shower every other night, maybe Patrick needed a little time to stand in the rain. And, you know, maybe mull over all the reasons why he doesn’t have what it takes to be a reporter.
A frigid wind whips around him as the raindrops start to fall thicker and faster. Maybe he’ll throw in some thoughts about being so far away from home, and Ray straight-up telling him to give up his career. Or how he can’t even talk work with Ted without being reminded how much better everyone is at Patrick’s job than he is.
Thunder rumbles overhead, bright flickers dancing across the dark sky. It makes Patrick want to growl and shout along with it.
“I just wish I knew what people wanted from me!”
BOOM.
Out of nowhere, Patrick finds himself blinded by a white-hot flash. A current surges through his body, the intense light and heat ripping through him in ways humans probably aren’t meant to withstand, and the last thought he has is about average human body temperatures before the world goes black.
****
Patrick is floating dreamily through darkness, unaware of how much time is passing. A dull ache throbs inside his skull.
Finally, he drifts towards consciousness, slowly opening his eyes to a bright, white light…
What is that?
Am I still inside it?
Is it still happening?
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
When Patrick’s sore eyes adjust to the light, he realizes he’s in a hospital bed. A woman in a white coat is scribbling on a clipboard. Patrick hears the sound as though it’s a millimeter away from his ear and not five feet.
“How are you feeling?” she says.
As soon as the initial confusion passes, so does the pain. Patrick stretches his head, his fingers, his toes, half expecting to find a charred stump where half of him should lay, but everything feels normal.
“I…I feel…fine, I guess. Just a bit of a headache. What happened?”
“To be honest, Mr. Brewer, the fact that you’re sitting here talking to me is nothing short of a miracle. You were struck dead-on by a bolt of lightning this afternoon. The ground was singed around you for ten square feet. By all accounts, you should probably be dead.”
“Wait – what? Then how did I survive?”
The doctor shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. But your vitals are all fine, there’s no burning or scarring, and as far as we can see there’s no lasting damage.”
(Other than your bank account. Let’s see if that shitty insurance of yours will cover the ambulance ride.)
Patrick stares at the doctor. He could have sworn he just heard her speak, but her lips weren’t moving.
“Uh…yeah. Work hasn’t been great recently and I’m kind of broke right now. Thanks for the reminder,” he responds.
The doctor looks like a deer caught in the headlights.
“What…? How did you – maybe we should run a few more tests.”
“But you just said everything is okay!”
“It might be good to do a CAT scan and check your brain isn’t showing any signs of trauma.”
She scans her clipboard and arches an eyebrow.
(Dear God, is that his deductible?)
Patrick stares in silence until she looks up searchingly.
“You know what? I feel fine,” he says, feeling absolutely not fine at all. No outside booboos today, but still plenty of inside ones. “I’ll just…leave? Can I do that?”
“Sure, we have no reason to keep you. But I want you to check in with general every couple of days for the next two weeks and call us straight away if you have any lingering symptoms.”
(And maybe look into a new insurance plan while you’re at it.)
The doctor strides out the door, leaving Patrick in absolute shock for a moment. What the hell was that? As he sits for a few seconds longer, mulling over the snarky voice he’d heard that sounded just like the doctor’s, Patrick’s ears tune into what sounds like TV static, breezing and rushing round him in a loop, sometimes intensifying with the steps outside the hospital ward’s door, sometimes almost sounding like words but never quite getting there.
He lowers two unsteady feet to the ground and regains his balance for a moment before picking up his coat that someone slung over the nearest chair and walking slowly towards the exit.
In the waiting room on the way out, nurses, doctors, patients and visitors mill around, and the static gets louder than ever. Suddenly, a nurse bumps into Patrick as she rushes by.
“Oh, sorry, sweetie!” she says with a bright, apologetic smile. “I almost bruised that handsome face of yours there.”
Patrick lets her by, but not before something just like her voice causes him to stop in his tracks.
(Should watch where he’s going. Dude looks like a thumb, as well.)
“Hey! That’s not –”
But the nurse has already disappeared around the corner. Patrick turns back to the waiting area, where a couple of people sit in chairs. Though no one seems to be saying anything, he can hear crystal clear voices spinning around the room:
(That’s the last time I wear a rubber dress to cut electrical wires.)
(I told Roland he wouldn’t be able to handle that extra spicy pad thai. He’d better pay to clean my car.)
(Ha, that dude looks like a thumb.)
Patrick cuts his way through the waiting room to sit down away from everyone, rubbing his temples. His head is pounding, but this time it’s from the sheer weight of everyone’s inner voices. Which he can hear.
That thought alone is just starting to sink in.
Oh, fuck. You can hear people’s thoughts.
You can hear every single one of their thoughts.