Ah

Desmond didn’t mean to get fired.

It kind of happened in a blur.

He’d been halfway through his shift at Bad Weather—a moody, brick walled bar downtown where the cocktails were overpriced and the lights were too low—when he spotted the guy. Mid-thirties. Designer jacket. Confident smile. The type that watched people a little too closely and tipped just a little too much to be normal. Not too unusual—not unexpected—but what was was the move he did when his hand hovered over a girl’s drink as she looked away.

Quick. Practiced. Something small and clear dropped into the glass of a drink—his signature drink—and the moment it registered, instincts kicked in before his brain caught up. The punch landed clean across the guy’s jaw. The sound was satisfying. The guy hit the floor. The bar went dead quiet.

The girl cried. The cops came.

The guy claimed Desmond misunderstood. The girl couldn’t stop crying. Management said it was a ‘PR issue.’

The next morning, Desmond was out of a job.

That was six months ago.

Now, he was twenty-four, unemployed, broke, and lying on a sun warmed mattress in his studio apartment, watching dust float through a shaft of light.

He spent the first week of unemployment scrolling job boards like they owed him something. The second week, he gave up and scrolled online forums instead. The third, he shaved and updated his resume.

He applied for everything. Any bar that had openings. Bookstore clerk. Front desk at a gym. Data entry for a moving company. An assistant mailroom position at a tax office that ghosted him after a second interview. Unfortunately, it seemed like the economy must have gone to shit because out of the thirty one jobs he applied for, he got three interviews. One was a pyramid scheme. One wanted him to relocate to Oregon. The last said he was ‘overqualified’ and ‘seemed too independent minded for the team culture.’

Desmond had stared at that email for a full minute before replying, “Thanks for the feedback. I'll try to be dumber next time.”

What saved him—if you could call it that—was that he’d started taking online business courses a year before he got fired. His previous manager at Bad Weather had pulled him aside and pretty much kickstarted him into it.

“You’ve got decent instincts, Francisco.” She’d said and even after eight years of using the fake alias, he still couldn’t get used to it. “But instincts won’t carry a business. If you want to run your own place one day, you need to know the numbers. Think ahead.”

So he did. 

Two weeks later, he signed up for online classes—Intro to Business, Financial Accounting I, and a random management course he promptly ignored and unenrolled out of midway through the semester. He didn’t plan to get a degree—he wasn’t trying to become a CPA or anything like that, but he figured he’d take just enough to not get screwed if the opportunity ever came along. Besides, if he ever ran his own bar, he should know how to balance a ledger without crying. Or at least learn how to use QuickBooks.

He’d liked it more than he expected.

Accounting wasn’t exciting. He didn’t fully grasp the theory and couldn't explain what compound interest was or how to calculate materiality without cheating to save his life, but the numbers made sense in that weird intuitive way, like catching someone in a lie. If the totals didn’t add up, it meant someone made a mistake—or lied. That part he understood.

And Desmond was good at spotting lies.

He was halfway through the Accounting for Beginners (5th Edition) textbook again, legs sprawled across his mattress, when a job listing popped up in his inbox.

Abstergo Entertainment – Accounting Internship (Spring Term)Entry-level, flexible hours, possible long-term offer. Must sign NDA.

Compensation: Competitive.

Requirements: Coursework in accounting or finance. Self-motivated. Discreet.

Discreet was a weird requirement.

So was the sender name—just ‘J_.’ No full name. And the email had no footer. No unsubscribe button. No contact information.

Honestly, it looked like a phishing attempt, but the link checked out, and the listing was real.

Still, it beat unemployment.

Desmond clicked Apply.

Thus was how he ended up standing in front of Abstergo Entertainment a month later, holding a laminated visitor badge and wondering if he was accidentally participating in a social experiment.

Technically, Abstergo Entertainment’s HQ was in Quebec. This was just a New York satellite office—probably for accounting, PR, or whatever vague nonsense they didn’t want cluttering the actual work. Desmond figured if you had enough money, you could slap your logo on a downtown skyscraper and call it a branch. Seemed legit enough.

The building was sleek—glass and steel and way too many security guards for an accounting internship. The lobby was quiet, temperature controlled, and smelled faintly like printer toner and lies. There was a small cafe to the side of the lobby, past the security checkpoint. 

There were over twenty floors, but the building directory only listed one name: Abstergo. No shared offices, no law firms, no dentists or startups—just Abstergo Entertainment, in crisp sans serif font, like they’d eaten the entire building and were still hungry.

Desmond frowned at that. Most companies, even the big ones, rented. Shared. Leased space like normal people. But Abstergo apparently just bought skyscrapers like they were Starbucks gift cards. Rich people were weird.

He checked in at the front desk, got his picture taken, and was directed to the 16th floor. “Intern Orientation.” The woman said with a practiced smile. “Don’t stray from the green line.”

There was, in fact, a literal green line on the floor.

He followed it to a bland conference room already half filled with nervous looking twenty-somethings. Some were dressed like it was a casual startup. Others wore full suits. Desmond had settled on jeans, a button-down, and the lingering aura of someone who hadn’t had a real job in seven months.

He grabbed a seat near the wall, dropped his notebook onto the table, and was so glad he had decided to grab a cheap coffee from the cafe. Having a 12 oz latte made him feel like he belonged.

When the room finally filled, that was when the presentation began. Orientation was standard corporate fare. Rules, nondisclosure agreements, company history. Some guy in a polo said something about ‘organizational synergy’ and ‘data transparency’ with a straight face. 

Desmond was already regretting this and zoned out somewhere between the sixth and seventh slide about ‘industry alignment’ and ‘core competencies.’ 

When the presentation finally wrapped and Desmond had the chance to stretch his legs, everyone was herded toward the second conference room for icebreakers.

Desmond stared at the sign taped to the glass door. "Get to Know Your Intern Team!" Under it, in smaller font: Mandatory Attendance.

He considered walking into traffic.

The room had been rearranged—circle of chairs, catering trays in the corner with sad muffins and fruit that looked suspiciously dehydrated. There was an intern packet waiting on each seat, complete with a name badge, department assignment, and a branded stress ball in the shape of a pyramid.

Desmond found his badge on a chair near the back and when he settled down, turned the stress toy over in his hands. It was soft, cheap foam. The company logo was printed across the base as Abstergo Industries—which was weird. What was that, the parent company? Of all the logos they chose, why did it have to be a pyramid? Was this some subliminal messaging? Was this all a pyramid scheme? Illuminati? 

Desmond grimaced. God, he was sounding like his parents. 

The triangle shape was probably just branding.

Probably.

Around him, conversation buzzed.

“So I’m a junior at Columbia, but I just transferred out of pre-law.” One girl was saying. “Accounting resonated with me more, you know?”

“I’m double majoring in finance and international business.” Said another guy. “I want to work in public. Maybe regulatory compliance if I’m feeling crazy.”

Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.

He was twenty-four. Not old by any real measure, but sitting among a sea of nineteen and twenty-some-year-olds, all chirping about master’s programs and networking opportunities, made him feel like a cryptid someone accidentally let into the building.

Someone to his right leaned over and offered a wide smile. “Hey! What school are you from?”

“Uh…” Desmond tried not to sink into his seat. “Not in school right now.”

“Oh! Like… gap year?”

“More like a gap lifestyle.” He deadpanned.

The guy laughed politely, unsure if it was a joke.

Desmond was saved from filling in the silence when the coordinator clapped her hands for a group activity. They were instructed to go around the circle and introduce themselves. Name, school, something fun.

Fuck.

When it was his turn, Desmond winged it. “Francisco Randez. No school. Took some online classes. I—” He hesitated, and thought fuck it. “—once got detained for climbing a museum exhibit because it looked like a staircase.”

A few people laughed nervously.

He gave them a pleasant smile and passed the metaphorical mic to the next intern.

The orientation dragged. The HR coordinator was all buzzwords and strained optimism. Synergy. Collaboration. Brand alignment. Desmond spaced out halfway through, watching the second hand tick on the wall clock and mentally calculated how long he could stretch his meager finances if this didn’t work out just to stay awake.

By the time lunch rolled around, he was starving, underslept, and ready to question every life decision that had brought him to this glass paneled hellhole. The Company had a lunchroom, outfitted with kitchens from various vendors that you could order at kiosks. Desmond took one look at the prices and walked out. 

He stepped outside, walking past the lobby security and immediately regretted it. The spring air was too fresh—like the world was mocking him with sunlight and competence.

He ducked around the corner of the building, pulled out his phone, and opened his banking app. The number on the screen made his soul leave his body for a full three seconds.

He had enough for groceries or rent.

Not both. 

He pulled out the granola bar he’d stolen from orientation snacks from his bag and chewed it bitterly, watching pigeons fight over a discarded panini with more dignity than he currently had.

Then, his phone buzzed.

Shaun:

how's the first day?

Desmond sent a gif of a dumpster fire. 

Shaun:

oh good, you're settling in.

Desmond:

watching two pigeons fight over a sandwich

one of them won

it was not me

i’m eating a granola bar i stole from orientation snacks.

lunch prices are criminal.

Shaun:

i warned you

that building is a temple to late stage capitalism and soft cult vibes.

Desmond:

it smells like printer toner and regret.

the receptionist has dead eyes.

Shaun:

told you

something’s off about that place

Desmond:

yeah well

off is paying better than broke

Shaun:

hm.

i have an idea.

Desmond stared at the screen, then typed slowly.

Desmond:

i don’t like it when you say that.

Shaun:

you’ll love this one

i applied to the cafe in the lobby

Desmond:

wait what

Shaun:

barista job. i start next week.

figured i’d keep an eye on you

make sure the capitalist death cult doesn’t eat you whole

Desmond:

i’m fine

you don’t need to go undercover

Shaun:

too late

call it espionage adjacent moral support

Desmond stared at the screen, watching the message linger like a slow loading virus, and shook his head.

Shaun was crazy.

Not dangerous crazy, but definitely ‘might build a hidden server farm in a storage unit just to expose corporate tax fraud’ crazy.

Desmond hadn’t looked that deep into Abstergo before applying. Technically, Abstergo Entertainment didn’t exist. Not officially. Not publicly. The website was half-built, the branding was inconsistent, and even the job listing had felt like a phishing attempt. He’d Googled it once—got a corporate landing page and a PDF press release that might’ve been made in Microsoft Publisher.

Supposedly, it was a “pilot division.” Something to do with interactive media. A new branch of Abstergo’s tech empire focused on storytelling and “memory-based experiences.” Whatever that meant.

Desmond figured it was probably just some exec’s passion project with too much funding and no oversight. Which would explain the stress muffins, the biometric elevators, and the eerie sense that the walls were watching.

Abstergo Entertainment was just another subsidiary of Abstergo Industries, which supposedly did medical tech, biotech, and some research stuff too. Something about ‘memory science.’ He’d skimmed the corporate site long enough to copy buzzwords into his cover letter, then stopped caring. As long as he got experience and a paycheck, he could ignore the sterile lobby and pyramid logos.

Shaun, on the other hand, cared.

Too much.

Desmond didn’t know how the guy found half the things he did—old court filings, shuttered LLCs, redacted patents—but he had a talent for digging. If there were skeletons in the closet, Shaun would find them. Probably label them. Possibly send them a polite email.

Still, Desmond had to wonder. Was this whole barista thing really about some undercover scheme?

Or was Shaun just being… Shaun?

The guy did have a weird habit of showing up when Desmond looked like he might spiral. Maybe this was less about Abstergo and more about moral support disguised as espionage.

He didn’t ask. He just shook his head again, stuffed his phone into his pocket, and went back inside.

——

By the time Desmond returned, the room had been rearranged again. Chairs in rows now, not circles. Everyone had settled in like they were preparing for a final exam.

The HR coordinator was already standing at the front of the room with a new slide on the screen.

“Welcome to your official rotation schedule!” She chirped, like this was exciting news.

Desmond slid into an empty seat near the back, sipping the last of his coffee like it was all that tethered him to this dimension.

“You’ve all been accepted into a ten week internship program.” She continued. “Every week, you’ll rotate through a different department in our Finance Division. That means new mentors, new challenges, and lots of opportunities to learn!”

There were some murmurs of excitement. Desmond resisted the urge to die.

“You’ll be in groups of three for each rotation. These groups will stay the same across all ten weeks, so please lean on each other. Support your team. Build those connections!”

She winked, too exaggerated to be normal.

Oh god, it was a group project. For a corporate summer camp.

“Each rotation will introduce you to a key department in Abstergo’s financial operations.” She said, clicking to the next slide. “These include, but are not limited to—” The slide flashed, bullet pointing the departments against corporate approved background: 

Accounts Payable

Accounts Receivable

Payroll

Financial Reporting

Internal Audit

Cost Accounting

Capital Expenditure Management

Budgeting & Forecasting

Inventory Management

Compliance & Risk Management

“Don’t worry if some of these sound intimidating. Your mentors are here to help. Just show up, ask questions, and take notes!”

Desmond nodded along, mostly to pretend he was listening. Ten weeks. Ten departments. Two interns glued to his side the whole time.

‘Guess I’d better hope they’re not insufferable.’ He thought. Or worse—motivated.

As the coordinator read off group assignments, Desmond barely registered his name until—

“Group 4: Francisco Randez, Caleb Larson, and Andrea Lin.”

He blinked. That was him.

A guy two rows ahead shot up like someone had just called him up to the Price is Right stage.

“That’s me!” He said brightly, like a labrador in a business casual button-down. He had blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the energy of someone who unironically said things like—‘Let’s crush it today!’

Desmond raised a hand halfway in acknowledgment. The guy immediately made his way over.

“Hey! Francisco, right? I’m Caleb.” He beamed. “Stoked to be on your team, man.”

“Yeah.” Desmond said and tried to sound more excited than he felt. “Can’t wait.”

From the side, a girl slid into the third chair with all the grace of a housecat hopping onto a sunlit windowsill. Sleek black hair, winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, and an expression that said she’d already decided how much effort this internship was worth—which was not much.

“Andrea.” She said, voice smooth but flat. “Don’t expect morning conversation.”

“Got it.” Desmond replied, respecting the vibe.

Caleb didn’t get it.

“That’s cool! We all bring something to the table.” He said, completely unbothered. “I’m just excited to get started, you know? Learn everything. Meet people. Network.”

“Gross.” Andrea muttered, already scrolling on her phone.

Desmond leaned back slightly and looked at the two of them. One radiated sunshine. The other looked like she’d bite him if he breathed wrong.

‘I’m going to die.’ He thought. ‘I’m going to die in a corporate sandbox with a human golden retriever and a feral alley cat.’

The coordinator clapped again.

“Group lists are final!” She named the groups and their assigned department before turning to Desmond’s group. “Group 4, you’ll be heading to your first rotation in Accounts Payable after the break. Your mentor will meet you there. Don’t be late!”

Caleb gave a thumbs up like this was a motivational retreat. “Awesome! That’s where the magic starts, right? Payments, invoices—money in motion?”

Desmond looked at him, personally offended by the phrase ‘money in motion.’

Andrea didn’t look up from her phone.

The coordinator continued. “You’ll report to Janet from 9am to 1pm each day. She’ll walk you through the basics—vendor tracking, payment logs, invoice reconciliation, and so on. At 1pm, all interns will head back to the 16th floor for the daily group session. After that, you may return to your departments at 2pm before being released at 5pm. Pretty straightforward.”

Desmond just sighed.

Only ten weeks, he reminded himself. How bad could it be?

(Spoiler: it would be very bad.)

------

IDK if I'm even capable of continuing this cause I have my main wip, but like imagine William’s reaction. Imagine Desmond's reaction when he finds out about the mind control and human experimentation and is like, oh no I've accidentally joined another cult and he's like SHIT.

Cue:

Office spy!Desmond

Feral Tsundere!Daniel defecting to be with bae

Desmond stealing a POE

?????

Corporate espionage that ends with Desmond nuking Abstergo servers using Clippy as the virus--("Hi! It looks like you’re trying to commit genocide. Would you like help with that?")