Chapter Text
Tyrell sees him on the subway. He feels his body crush like an aluminum can. The world falls into silence, the only noise a ringing buzz akin to the flapping of a fly’s wings in close proximity. He’s on the A train, coming from a contemporary furniture store in Brooklyn. He’s on the hunt for a Gae Aulenti lounge chair.
He hasn’t rode the subway in years. His driver was sick, something that Tyrell would never compromise on. He refuses to fall ill, hasn’t even sniffled since he graduated college. He could have taken a taxi, but he had felt drawn to the subway entrance, calling him like a siren. It was right outside of the furniture store.
Tyrell realizes, with great awe, that every moment in his life has led up to him getting on this very subway line, on this very day and time.
He is standing near the door, hunched against the metal rail of a subway seat. His headphone wires lay tangled at the center of his chest. He’s wearing a hoodie, and he looks a bit different, Tyrell notices. His eyes are tired, deep shadows of missed sleep crescent into the skin. He’s smaller, the hoodie unable to mark any identifiable aspects of his body, hanging over him hollow and limp.
Tyrell wants to run towards him, grab him by his arms and kiss him. He knows that he can’t. He settles for flexing his fingers into his palms.
The robotic announcer calls: next stop, 14th street.
This is Tyrell’s stop. He can catch a cab from here to Chelsea. He watches to see what the man will do. If he stays, Tyrell will follow.
Tyrell watches him shift, tug out an earbud and turn his gaze upwards to the rectangular digital display. He flips his body towards the door, grabbing onto the metal he was leaning against to steady himself as the train comes to a slow stop. Tyrell’s heart is beating fast. He has to do something, has to get his attention. Tyrell walks towards the subway doors just as they open. There’s a mass of bodies entering and exiting and he strains his eyes to keep up with the black hoodie.
He shoulders past everyone. The man is fast, his gait long and jittery, almost as if running away. Tyrell speeds up—but, he still doesn’t know what to do. He can’t just follow him forever. An idea pops into his head. Keeping a watcheful eye as the man walks up the stairs, Tyrell close behind, he digs in his pocket, opens his wallet and pulls out a crisp twenty. Running up the stairs until he’s nearly at the other’s heel he musters up the courage and shouts “wait!”
He doesn’t turn around. Shit. They’re at the exit now, walking out into the cool autumn air.
Tyrell reaches out with a clammy hand and taps him on the shoulder. The man jerks away, spins on his heel and looks at Tyrell with paranoid eyes. His fingers are clenched around the straps of his backpack.
Tyrell holds up the $20 bill, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry to spook you,” he starts, hoping for a bit of warmth in return but the man keeps staring at him with an icy hesitance. “I think you dropped this.”
He looks at the cash in Tyrell’s hand, shaking his head.
“Nah, man,” he starts and Tyrell nearly bursts at the way his voice sounds, a deep, unhurried drawl. “I’m broke as fuck. Thanks, though.” He starts to turn away, placing the earbud back in that he tore out after being summoned to attention. Tyrell’s chest aches, anxiety populating his bloodstream. No, he thinks. This can’t be it.
“Well—" he starts, almost yelling, and the man turns back, looking a bit exasperated at his continued interruption. “Take it, then. If you’re broke.” Tyrell smiles wide, showing his teeth. He holds out the bill, waving it a bit in the air between them.
The fingers curled around his backpack clench, twitch, then relax minutely. He looks Tyrell up and down, and Tyrell feels warm under the attention, suddenly straightening up and pushing his hair back.
“Don’t need it. Just give it to a homeless person,” the man replies and he’s walking away again and Tyrell can’t stand it. This is not how it’s supposed to go, he wants to sob and stomp his feet like a child.
“Stop—" The man looks at him with open annoyance. “I just…I saw you on the subway and…well,” he’s babbling. He never babbles. He’s cool, calm and collected. A businessman with rivals, subordinates. People want to be him, people are scared of him. He’s powerful. At this moment, however, he feels small as a flea.
He sighs, squares his shoulder and decides to start over. He reaches out a hand, smiling again.
“Hi, Tyrell Wellick. Nice to meet you...?”
Tyrell has been waiting for this moment to come to fruition since he was twenty-nine. Fresh out of college, he climbed the ranks at E Corp. At 29, (right before his current promotion) he began to have vivid dreams. They didn’t feel like dreams, more like a memory, or prophecy. He always had trouble discerning if this was the future or past he was experiencing. The dreams were focused around the very face in front of him.
He never got his name, in the dreams. They already knew each other, every aspect of one another, involved so deeply it became hard at times to determine where Tyrell ended and the other began. The dreams varied.
The first dream, Tyrell sat perched on a boulder, overlooking the Catskills Mountain from his hideout. He’s nervous, knees drawn up. He picks at the fraying hem of his jeans. He has a distinct knowledge that he is waiting for someone.
Tyrell hears a branch crack in the distance and his breath stops short. A figure walks out from the throng of trees, dressed in a black hoodie and black jeans. Tyrell first notices his eyes. They are so large, it looks as though they might tumble from their sockets, too heavy to maintain balance. Tyrell wishes to hold them in his hands. They’re beautiful, pupils blown to the very edges of blue. His jawline is sharp, cheekbones high, and Tyrell has the immediate impression that this is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
“Have you been waiting long?” The man asks as he makes it through the branches and leaves.
“I’m not sure,” Tyrell replies, watching as he walks towards him.
“Why didn’t you look at your watch?” The man asks, pointing to a watch on Tyrell’s wrist. The face of it is comically large, the band a bright red. He didn’t know he had a watch.
“I’m sorry,” Tyrell replies. He doesn’t want to upset him.
The man has made his way over and sits down on the boulder next to Tyrell. Their knees are touching and it makes Tyrell’s stomach flip.
“It’s okay. I would have been here sooner, but I thought you were going to find me first.”
A bird calls in the distance, shrill and needy. Another calls back.
“I didn’t know,” Tyrell says, and his voice sounds desperate. He’s suddenly crying, tears streaming down with inhuman force, flowing in long sprays like a kitchen faucet.
He looks down at his feet and the scene has changed. They’re sitting on a raft in the middle of the ocean, the salty air whips his hair around with violence.
“Shhh, it should be time now,” the man looks at Tyrell with urgency. Tyrell is about to question when suddenly an alarm blares, cutting through the air with a shriek. He realizes his watch is making the nose and he tries to shut it off.
The man leans in and grabs Tyrell’s hand.
“Come on,” he says, pulling. Tyrell is still trying to turn off the alarm, the noise sending shocks of panic throughout him. Before he can say anything else, he’s being pulled into the cold water. He gasps and inhales a cup full of salt water, choking on it. He looks around, sees the man swimming beneath the surface. He can’t breathe. He needs help. He feels compelled to follow, but his ankles feel heavy and when he looks down he sees piles of hands grabbing at his ankles, pulling him down.
After the first dream, he waited each night to dream of him again, trying to reprint the image in his mind. Though the dream lacked substance, and turned into the beginnings of a nightmare, Tyrell felt a deep ache in his body when he woke up, like a part of him remained in the dream. Something missed. The second time, he wrote it down and dated it, and soon the pattern was clearly visible. Every other Friday, he dreams of the man. Tyrell looks forward to bed. He doesn’t take sleeping pills, in case his mind is too fuzzy to produce what it needs to, so he waits in pure agony to finally drift away.
The dreams are sometimes surreal, and sometimes mundane. His favorites are the mundane. He dreamt recently of walking through Coney Island with him, riding the Ferris Wheel; sky overcast, air chilled and windy. Rarely, he dreams of having sex with him, they roll around in ecstasy in Tyrell’s bed. The man looks good on his sheets.
Despite the intimacy of the dreams, the man has never once told Tyrell his name. Each time Tyrell asks--which is nearly every dream--the man either mouths a muted word, or an incredible noise takes over, drowning him out.
And now, Tyrell was about to know his name. He waits with baited breath, and the man just stares at the outstretched hand. It’s obvious he doesn’t plan to shake it, so Tyrell drops it to his side.
“…Ollie.” He says after a beat. Tyrell nearly deflates in his disappointment. Ollie? It doesn’t fit the man he meets 26 times a year. And it certainly doesn’t fit his human form.
Ollie looks at Tyrell with suspicion, his body turned halfway as if ready to bolt. It hurts Tyrell’s heart—finally seeing the man he knew was real. He has been waiting four years for this moment, and nothing is going how it should.
“Nice to meet you, Ollie.” The name sits awkwardly on his tongue.
“Yeah, you too..” He replies before turning on his heel. Tyrell can’t get the words out of his throat to ask him to stop. He wants to yell, fling himself across the concrete until he’s resting at his feet, grabbing at his ankles.
Tyrell watches him disappear into the crowd, and his chest aches with the sharpness of jagged glass.
He knows he will meet him again.
❈
It’s Friday and Tyrell hasn’t dreamed of the man for two months, still. He’s laying in bed next to a woman he picked up from the bar. He went straight after work, wearing his expensive suit. He could have his pick of anyone, but he chose at random, a woman with dark hair and blue eyes. Good enough, he thought.
They had sex and now she was sleeping next to him. It’s a little annoying, he was hoping she might be gone by the time he got out of the shower.
Tyrell sighs and settles back, shutting off his phone.
The woman next to him breathes a small snore. Tyrell resigns himself to sleep.
Tyrell realizes he’s in a dream immediately. He recognizes this place, too. He and the man had come here before. It’s a cemetery with overgrown graves. Forgotten people.
He doesn’t like it here. Hates the dreams that feature it. But he’s so happy to be back. He knows that the man will be walking over the hill soon, coming down to join Tyrell where he sits on the grass.
As soon as he thinks it, the man appears. The sun is shining behind his head, illuminating him in a wide halo.
Tyrell stands up, coming to meet him halfway.
“Where did you go?” Tyrell asks, cheeks wet. “I missed you.”
The man comes to embrace him, folding Tyrell into his arms, widening his posture to let Tyrell rest his head on his neck.
“I’ve been here the whole time,” he answers, his voice holding a tone that says, ‘silly you.’
“No, you weren’t.” He’s getting the man’s neck wet with tears. “I couldn’t find you anywhere. You left me.”
“I’ve been here the whole time,” the man spits out, voice suddenly stern. He pushes Tyrell away with force. He stumbles, falling onto the ground.
“Tyrell, you have to promise me,” he looks down at Tyrell from his standing position. They’re laid on a patch of grass. His tone is suddenly urgent as he continues, “you have to promise you’ll see everything.”
“What do you mean?” he countered with confusion. The man was always vague.
“You have to promise me that you’ll see it all. Up there. Everything.” He’s shouting now, leaning down into Tyrell’s face and it scares him. He backs away and the man suddenly drops to the grass, begins crawling towards him on all fours. He looks terrifying, his face contorted in something mimicking grief--anger, maybe. It’s impossible to tell. But he looks ugly, something Tyrell would have thought the man incapable of.
And Tyrell is paralyzed with fear, watching as he crawls towards him. He can’t move, he’s nailed to the grass. The man is on top of him, and he latches onto Tyrell’s neck, biting so hard that Tyrell shouts, thrashing underneath. He’s trying to dislodge the man, who is kneading the wound with his teeth, but he can hardly move.
The man’s hands find his chest and he digs his fingers in, so hard and deep there’s a pop followed by a sick squelching sound and Tyrell screams and sobs in agony. The man is reaching inside of him, still gnawing at the side of his neck.
“You have to promise me,” he repeats, voice echoing in the air around them.
Tyrell wakes with a start, chest heaving. It’s light outside, sun peeking through the edges of his curtains. He looks around the room, grateful to see that he’s without harm. That dream had felt so real, he aches a bit in the wake of it.
He is also thankful to see that the woman slipped out quietly during the night, or morning. He checks the time--it’s 10 am. He never sleeps in so late.
The dream really twisted his mind around and he feels his hands shake as he pulls the covers back. The first time he’d seen the man in two months and they met in a nightmare. It’s just not fair.
Tyrell goes through the rest of the weekend in a haze.
On Monday, he wakes up at 5:00 am. He goes on a run, followed by a strength training session at the gym. When he gets home he drinks a green juice, has half a grapefruit, an espresso, and he’s out the door for work.
He has a busy day, and he can’t be bothered to ruminate on the man--dream and real. Today, E Corp is meeting with a potential cybersecurity firm, Allsafe, to discuss taking them on as the primary method of security. Tyrell has pressed, as much as he can in his position, for a taskforce to move all E Corp’s cybersecurity efforts in house to save time and money, but it has always been brushed off.
He flies through his other meetings before heading to the lobby, where he waits for Terry Colby and Philip Price to join him. They exchange pleasantries and before taking three separate cars.
Why were they meeting at Allsafe, Tyrell wondered, instead of having them come to them? Price can be a bit eccentric, sometimes, so he supposes it’s best to follow and not question.
They arrive at their destination and as soon as Tyrell steps out of the car, standing in front of the office building, he feels a pit in the bottom of his stomach. It’s a neutral pit--a tip off that something is strange, not necessarily bad, or good for that matter.
Allsafe is on the 12th floor of a 30 story building. Not very impressive. Tyrell imagines that Allsafe has a lot riding on this meeting.
Terry Colby complains the entire elevator ride up. A hush falls over the floor as they walk onto it, eyes snapping up from terminals to stare. Tyrell’s ears suddenly itch, and he moves his jaw to alleviate it.
“Gentleman, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. My name is Gideon Goddard, I’m the CEO of Allsafe.” He reaches out and shakes each of their hands, their introductions following. “You can follow me to the conference room.” The man who walks over is tall with a beard and circular frames. He looks good-natured, smiling broadly as he claps his hands together. They dutifully follow, Price exchanging pleasantries as Tyrell and Colby look around, taking in the small office space. There’s no way a firm of this caliber could keep them safe from attacks, Tyrell thinks.
The meeting is boring. Tyrell already assumes that Price is going to say no, only taking this meeting as a pleasantry. He still doesn’t understand why they came here, instead of having Gideon come to them. Coordinating a field trip, as Colby had called it, did seem a bit unnecessary. Charitable. As Gideon and Philip continue talking, Tyrell takes to looking out of the glass separating the conference room from the rest of the office. He watches co-workers talk to each other, laughing. People scurry about, waiting for the copier, carrying mugs of coffee. He scans the room, notices a blond woman with large blue eyes raising her hands in agitation as she talks to a man, whose body language reads agitated. Lovers quarrel, he assumes.
He continues to scan the room, enjoying the new sea of faces. It’s interesting. He travels back to the copier, seeing a new line of worker bees waiting patiently.
Tyrell can’t breathe when he sees him. There he is, standing in line for the copier. He’s wearing black jeans with a button up tucked in. Tyrell stiffens. His heart is beating fast. He wants to jump out of the chair, run across the office and drag the man outside with him. Run away together, be where, and what, they’re supposed to be.
He watches the man as he finally gains access to the copier, pushing buttons as he yawns into his elbow. Tyrell’s breath is baited.
He trails him as he shuffles over to his desk. Tyrell is itching for this meeting to end.
His savior comes in the form of a very annoyed Philip Price. “Tyrell!” He nearly shouts and Tyrell jumps in his seat, sitting up straight when he realizes they’re all staring at him. Gideon, sheepishly, Colby, with amusement, and Price with irritation. They’re all standing, and Tyrell is still seated.
“Sorry--” he clears his throat, “I suppose I’m not feeling well today.” He stands up abruptly, hitting his knee against the chair in his haste.
Price fixes him with a gaze so severe Tyrell feels heat rise into his cheeks.
They shuffle out of the room and Colby bumps against his shoulder.
“What, the redhead?” He asks with a smirk, nodding towards a woman leaned over her desk. Tyrell shakes his head, faking a smile and a laugh.
“Mr. Price, I’d like to stay behind for a moment and speak with some of the engineers, take a look at the space. If that’s alright.” Tyrell blurts out as they exit the conference room. He fixes his tone to be half-apologetic. Price nods, watching Tyrell with a discerning gaze.
Tyrell turns to Gideon, “Mr. Goddard, would you mind if I took a look around the office?” He nods enthusiastically in response.
“Yes, of course. Would you like a tour?” He asks.
Tyrell nods, straightening his suit jacket. His palms are sweating. He’s about to meet the man again, and this time he won’t be disregarded so easily.
“Yes, please. I would actually like to meet some of your engineers, if that’s alright with you.”
Gideon smiles, placing a hand forward to motion Tyrell to follow. He’s talking about something, but Tyrell can’t focus.
They walk to the cubicles and Tyrell could vomit with how anxious he feels. He introduces him to two men, who Tyrell smiles politely too. But he doesn’t care. All he cares about is him.
Tyrell is standing in front of him and he can’t breathe. He watches in slow motion as Gideon grabs his attention, pointing towards Tyrell with a smile.
“This is Mr. Wellick, the Senior Vice President of E Corp,” he introduces. The man’s eyes are wider than usual, a look of recognition. He almost looks frightened. “Mr. Wellick, this is Elliot Alderson. He’s one of our superstar engineers.” The air rings in his ear as he hears the man’s name.
Elliot.
Elliot.
Tyrell feels like crying. The name is so beautiful. He feels elated. He doesn’t even care that Elliot--Elliot!--had given him a fake name at their first meeting. In fact, it only endears Tyrell further. Elliot is so cautious, so smart. Of course he wouldn’t give a stranger on the street his real name.
Elliot stares at him for a moment before mumbling, cooly “Nice to meet you.”
Tyrell can feel the panic radiate from Gideon, who must think Elliot just offended him. Tyrell smiles in response, reaching a hand out. This time, Elliot shakes it, shooting a look towards Gideon. Tyrell nearly collapses at the touch. He has thought about this man almost daily for four years. The press of their palms is soft, loose. It sends shivers down his spine, he nearly needs to steady himself with how dizzy he feels. The hand is gone too soon, slipping back into its original position on the desk.
Tyrell can’t help but frown.
“Mr. Goddard, I appreciate your kindness and hospitality. Please, feel free to return to your duties. I am sure you’re a busy man,” His voice is dripping in kindness, with a firm undertone, signifying a lack of interest in discussion.
Gideon furrows his brows, looking between Elliot and Tyrell with worry before nodding and switching to a wary smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Wellick. I appreciate your time.” He walks away, looking over his shoulder at the two on his way towards his office.
Elliot looks at him and his expression is unreadable.
“So, Elliot. You told me your name was Ollie.” Tyrell teases, smiling.
“Yeah. Didn’t think I’d see you again.” He shrugs in response. His tone says disinterest, but Tyrell can see his body is on edge. Maybe he felt the electricity in that handshake, too.
Tyrell hums thoughtfully, “Seems like fate, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say it's a pretty weird coincidence.” Elliot replies, turning his body back towards his computer. Tyrell refuses to give up on the conversation here.
“So, what do you do here?”
“I’m a cybersec engineer, shouldn’t you know what that is? Considering you’re the Senior VP of Technology at E Corp?” His tone is dripping with sarcasm and Tyrell furrows his brow. He doesn’t understand why he’s being met with such hostility—he’s been perfectly nice this whole time.
“Well, yes.” Tyrell feels uncomfortable, squirming in his spot. “I was just curious if you did anything special.”
Elliot shakes his head.
“Have you worked here long?”
Elliot shakes his head.
“Do you like working here?”
Elliot shrugs, so minutely it’s only a twitch.
Tyrell is floored by the outright discourteous disposition of Elliot. He’s nothing like the man in his dreams. But that’s alright, Tyrell doesn’t mind a challenge.
“Would you like to join me for lunch?” Tyrell asks, hopeful.
Elliot turns in his seat to look at him, eyes flitting across the room.
“I’m busy right now.”
“Well, we could do it later,” Tyrell presses.
Elliot turns his head, sweeping the room with his eyes. He fixes Tyrell with a panicked gaze. He looks scared, mixed with a layer of embarrassment. It’s such a strange reaction to being asked to lunch that Tyrell’s smile falters.
“I already said that I’m busy, Mr. Wellick” Elliot hisses this out through gritted teeth, voice low so only they can hear it. Tyrell notices with a quick survey that almost everyone is watching them. Their heads duck down when his gaze finds them.
Tyrell can’t help the heat that creeps up his neck. Elliot speaks to him with a scolding tongue, and it’s clear he wants nothing to do with Tyrell.
The phone on Elliot’s desk rings and he picks it up immediately, answering with a curt “Elliot.”
He’s turned away from Tyrell again, staring resolutely at the computer in front of him. Tyrell is about to wait it out. His watch beeps instead, reminding him of a meeting in 45 minutes. He sighs.
“Take care, Elliot.”
Tyrell is nothing if not tenacious, and he won’t allow this minor setback to demoralize him. He’s climbed the ranks of the largest conglomerate in history, groomed to become CTO one day. He takes what he wants, he allows no one to stop him on his path of desire. Elliot will need to come to terms with the fact that Tyrell is now a part of his life. There is anger bubbling on his skin, beneath the neat package of his navy blue Brioni blazer.
He’s going to tell Price that Allsafe impressed him.
❈
Elliot books it out of the subway, feeling eyes on him. He doesn’t see any men in black, surprisingly, as they’re usually hovering just in his peripheral.
He pushes himself up the stairs, breaking out into the cool air. He nearly gasps like a fish out of water, he had been walking so fast he was out of breath.
He hears a distant “wait!” and trudges forward, hoping it isn’t directed towards him. He can’t do this right now.
He hears another call to stop and he knows it’s directed towards him this time, can feel the eyes boring into the back of his skull. He’s resolved to ignore it, when there’s a ghost of a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. He jerks away at the unwanted touch, turning around to reluctantly pay his attention to whoever had been so desperate to receive it.
A handsome businessman stands in front of him. Elliot has to look up slightly to get a good look at his face. He’s holding up a $20, asking if it’s Elliot’s.
Mr. Robot appears beside him, making eyes at Elliot in interest.
The man is persistent, and it makes Elliot suspicious. The guy probably didn’t need 20 bucks, but it still didn’t make sense for him to try so hard to get Elliot to take it. Most people in New York would have just pocketed it, bought a latte and called it a day.
Mr. Robot gets close to his ear as the man keeps talking, speaking in a low voice when he says “I think he’s trying to pick you up, kid.” Elliot blushes, pointedly keeping his gaze forward, ignoring the unwanted observation.
Tyrell, as he introduced himself, is now asking for Elliot’s name. And like hell is he going to give it to him.
He really doesn’t have time for this. He’s running late for his first day of court-ordered therapy. Elliot gives him a fake name--Angela’s boyfriend, the first thing that popped into his mind--and walks away before he can hear anything else.
Mr. Robot steps into line beside him. Their feet walk the same rhythm. Right, left, right, left.
“That guy was a total weird-ooo,” Robot chuckles. “Could’ve used the twenty, though. Don’t be such a saint next time. Your martyrdom is superfluous and wasted, Elliot. A real drag.” He leans into Elliot’s shoulder, giving it a bump.
Elliot says nothing, eyes watching his feet as he trudges down the sidewalk.
That night, Elliot dreams. It’s hazy, unfocused. Flesh against flesh, pale skin shiny with sweat. The curve of a neck, the heat of lips. He recognizes the face as the man he met on the street, but it’s far away and milky, hard to visualize. Like an instinct, though, he knows who it is.
Elliot wakes up disturbed and aroused, an unpleasant combination. His mouth is dry, tongue like tissue paper.
The early mornings are usually free of Mr. Robot. It’s a near peaceful reprieve, despite the ever present intersection in his mind where he sits. Elliot can feel his presence more immediately, sometimes, a heavy weight in his brain that awakes, fingers digging into his frontal lobe.
It’s Saturday, and he can’t be bothered to dwell on his strange, unwelcome sex dream involving a man he met on the sidewalk. He reaches to where a shrunken joint lays limp on his bedside table, lighting it and inhaling. Drugs are the only thing that helps his mind quiet. When he becomes so fuzzy, a vapor rising over the outline of his body, the constant resident in his mind dissipates; no room for him in the crashing of ocean waves taking over Elliot’s mind.
Still horizontal in bed, he grabs at the floor beside him until he feels the cool plastic of his laptop. He heaves it up, plopping it onto his stomach. Joint in one hand, he uses the other to power it on, putting in his password with his index and ring fingers.
Elliot never forgets a name. It’s only a matter of spelling.
He types in: Tyrel Wellik
Okay, close enough he thinks when blue italicized text pops up: Did you mean Tyrell Wellick?
He clicks on the suggestion, and a flood of information pops up. The first, the most interesting, is a link to Evil Corp’s website under the Management and Executives section. He clicks on it, scrolls down until he sees the newly familiar face. Tyrell Wellick, Senior VP of Technology.
Elliot furrows his eyebrows. The guy had looked well put together, sure. But so do a lot of nearing middle aged men in New York City, wearing their corporate uniforms. He wonders what a guy like Wellick was doing riding the subway and then an immediate wash of paranoia overtakes him. He sits up straight, pushes the covers off his body and stubs the joint out on his bedside table.
Was Tyrell Wellick following him? Does he know something? Elliot can’t imagine how--he hasn’t even done anything yet, besides poke around a few Evil Corp servers and emails, but nothing salacious. There’s no way the guy knows what he and Mr. Robot are planning.
Logic has no place in Elliot’s panic. He walks to his PC, biting his fingernails as he waits for it to boot up.
He looks at his LinkedIn, first. He has over 800 connections, but he never posts. He checks Facebook, and his privacy settings are shit. For a senior VP of Technology, he sure doesn’t seem to mind prying eyes on his internet presence. He doesn’t post anything of interest, really. There’s a picture of him hiking, three posts down a picture of him skiing--geotagged Aspen. Elliot can’t help but roll his eyes; this guy is such a cliche. Outdoorsy businessman wearing curated activities outfits. Even his relationship status is public: single.
This guy is normal. Too normal. It’s suspicious, there’s no way an Evil Corp exec is this clean cut. Elliot doesn’t trust him. He decides to hack him, hunching over his keyboard, fingers flying. There’s a voice in the back of his head, but it isn’t Mr. Robot. Someone, somewhere in his brain is pleading to let him be normal, let this illusion be reality.
Eight hours later, he’s in the same position.
He’s found nothing. There’s a muddled sense of relief, mixed in with the lingering paranoia.
❈
Things have been quiet lately. The lull of autumn and winter’s indecision of which season will prevail. It’s getting colder, the days shortening into early darkness.
Elliot has been going to his court-ordered therapy sessions every 2 weeks. Fridays at 4:30 pm. They aren’t helping, though his therapist Krista is a good-natured woman. He still feels the all consuming swell of loneliness.
It’s Monday again and Elliot walks into Allsafe with his hoodie up. He walks over to his desk as a shadow, wisping past the other employees. Angela always presses into him to be more social at work. She tells him he should get to know some of them, join her in after work drinks and lunch hours. Elliot always promises to, and Angela smiles in response, the warmth not reaching her eyes.
The air feels different today, everyone seems to be on edge. Gideon is flitting about the space with an anxious aura, checking in with people as he passes by. Elliot powers on his computer. Lloyd, his tolerable deskmate, leans in when Elliot sits down.
“Yo, Elliot.” He nods back a hello. “Man, this place is bustling. Everyone’s so nervous about the E Corp meeting. Gideon is having a total shit-fit, he’s on his third cup of coffee today. I’ve been keeping count. I’m betting on five before the day is over. I still can’t believe those guys are coming all the way down here, assumed they’d want to reject our partnership in the comfort of their own building.”
Elliot usually drowns Lloyd out, but the mention of Evil Corp executives coming here makes his head turn, staring at him in confusion. His stomach feels hot with anxiety, taking in the air around him.
“What meeting?” He asks and Lloyd scoffs, looking at him wide-eyed.
“Dude, do you live under a rock or something? Everyone has known about this meeting for weeks. Gideon has been trying to bag them as a client--y’know, keep the lights on and shit.”
“They’re coming here?” Elliot questions, looking around the room.
“Yeah--are you even listening to anything I’m saying? I told you that, like, 5 seconds ago, bro.”
Elliot clears his throat, mutters a sorry and stands up from his desk. Lloyd stares at him in exasperation before shaking his head.
He walks over to Angela’s cubicle, where she’s nose deep into a stack of paperwork.
“Hey,”
Angela looks up, smiling at him.
“Hey, Elliot!” She pushes her paperwork to the side, spinning in her desk chair to give Elliot her full attention.
“Evil Corp is coming down here today?” Angela nods, sagely, and begins picking at a cuticle on her finger.
“Yeah. I’m really nervous. I hope they take us on, I want Gideon to put me on the account.” Elliot sometimes wonders how Angela can seem so unaffected by the company, its overbearing presence in consumer debt, its immoral practices. Her mother, his father, both died due to the negligence of the company. And Angela seems content to join in on the nervous excitement with the rest of the floor.
He says nothing so Angela continues, fixing him with an almost maternal stare. “So, be on your best behavior, okay Elliot? This means a lot to Gideon. Take off your hoodie, too.”
Angela had gotten Elliot this job on recommendation after he destroyed his last job’s server room. She looks at him sometimes like she’s scared he might do something similar here.
Elliot walks back to his cubicle to see Mr. Robot spinning in his seat. He takes his hoodie off, throws it onto the chair and walks to the kitchen area to get a mug of coffee. Mr. Robot follows him.
“If Evil Corp takes on Allsafe as a client, we’d have pretty good access to their servers.” Mr. Robot points out, shouldering past Elliot into the kitchen. He stands in front of him, blocking Elliot from the counter. He steps around him and grabs a mug out of the cabinet, filling it with lukewarm coffee.
“Do you think they’re gonna take Allsafe’s offer?” Mr. Robot prods, standing so close to Elliot he can feel phantom warmth.
“Probably not,” Elliot mutters, breaking open a sugar packet and pouring it into his coffee cup. “We’re still new and pretty small. I don’t understand why they aren’t internal with their cybersec, anyway.”
“It is a bit fishy, isn’t it?” Robot hums thoughtfully, placing a cigarette between his lips. It hangs loosely as he continues to say, “External security almost guarantees slow response time to attacks.” Elliot nods in response, sipping his coffee as he walks back to his desk.
Robot continues to pester him, sitting at an unoccupied deskchair next to him. Elliot ignores him, focusing on a work assignment.
At 10:20, Gideon comes out of his office, asking for everyone’s attention. He emphasizes the importance of this meeting, warning of 10 minutes before their arrival.
Elliot slouches in his seat. He wonders, for the first time that morning, if Tyrell Wellick will be joining the team. He hopes not.
But, of course, Elliot’s hopes and dreams are a pointless waste of time. At 10:30, he watches as three men in suits push through the entrance, where Gideon stands waiting. First, Elliot recognizes as Philip Price--a greying old man with a jovial smile. Next is Terry Colby, CTO of the company. Elliot had read up on his background, and the guy was basically tech illiterate. He looks around the room with judgemental eyes. Elliot’s breath catches in his throat when he sees Tyrell Wellick trailing behind them both. He smiles benevolently, but Elliot doesn’t trust it. His smile lacks any depth to it, like choosing the face of a video game avatar; a mere articulation of expression. Elliot sinks further down in his chair, hoping to blend in with the upholstery.
Elliot convinces himself that there’s no way Tyrell will remember him. It’s not like he knows Elliot works here, or even his name. He remembers he gave him a fake one. He relaxes a bit. It was a brief encounter, there’s no telling how many people Tyrell has bumped into since there.
Feeling safe, Elliot goes back to work. Mr. Robot disappeared about an hour ago. Elliot went to the restroom and when he came back the desk next to him was empty again.
Elliot stands to use the printer, needing to scan a few documents plopped down onto his desk. He doesn’t understand why they use paper, anyway. It’s an annoying vestige of corporate life. Everything should be digital.
As he stands at the copier, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. There’s a distinct feeling he’s being watched. He keeps his head forward, eyes skimming the room. His heart pounds as his eyes travel to the conference room. He sees a pair of blue eyes, staring at him in an almost hypnotic intensity. Elliot’s hands sweat, he grabs the copies and shuffles back to his desk. Maybe Tyrell hadn’t seen him; Elliot is probably just being paranoid. He sees an apparition of his dead father, sometimes is him, thinking someone is staring at him wouldn’t be the wackiest thing Elliot has imagined.
He peeks his head up every so often, feeling relief when he sees the men exiting the conference room. Elliot will soon be able to go back to his life free of Tyrell Wellick.
Elliot goes back to his task, performing a penetration test when he hears Gideon’s voice nearing him, coupled with a responding voice lilting with the subtleties of a Northern European accent.
His blood runs cold when he sees them stop at his desk. Tyrell is looking down at him with unbridled excitement, and it makes Elliot’s skin crawl. He considers, briefly, hopping up from his chair and running away. Angela had told him to be on his best behavior, though--and for all the concessions Gideon has awarded him, he knows that being rude to a potential client wouldn’t be brushed off. So, he accepts the outstretched hand, feeling the heavy warmth. The handshake further sets him on edge and quickly releases, settling back into the comfort of his bubble.
Tyrell is pestering him, pointedly excusing Gideon. Elliot can feel Lloyd staring at them, can feel the eyes of everyone in Allsafe watching as Tyrell Wellick smiles down at Elliot, attempting conversation.
It takes great strength to not tell him to fuck off. Elliot is overwhelmed. Hot from the attention of both Tyrell and apparently, everyone on the Allsafe floor.
Elliot can’t figure out what Tyrell wants from him. Was it as simple as Mr. Robot had implied--an attraction?
Tyrell looks at him with an expression that Elliot can’t quite place. Hunger, adoration? All those words seem to be ridiculous. He doesn’t even know him. But still, Tyrell maintains a look in his eyes that makes Elliot uncomfortable.
He’s saved by a phone call, nearly hits it against his face with how rapidly he picks it up. He has never been so happy to respond to a phone call.
He watches Tyrell walk away out of the corner of his eye. Something settles in his stomach; ice cold.
That night, he dreams of Tyrell again. This time it’s more fleshed out, so vivid Elliot can feel the breeze on his skin.
They’re on a farm. Tyrell is tending to a herd of sheep inside their pen. He’s not wearing a suit, instead clad in blue jeans and a plaid long sleeve. It’s chilly out. Tyrell wipes at his face with the back of his hand, motioning Elliot over.
“Elliot, this is the one.” He yells. Elliot walks over, mud sticking to his shoes. Tyrell points down at a sheep--or, something approximating a sheep. It's a crumpled mess of limbs and its matted coat is bright red with blood. Its face and head are free of fur, completely bald. There’s sores covering every inch of the exposed skin. A swarm of flies hover above it.
Elliot notices the sheep is missing all of its teeth, its mouth caved in. The sheep is breathing heavily, its tiny body rising and falling with exertion.
“Are you ready?” Tyrell asks, pulling him from his stare. The sheep’s face stays with him as he looks up at Tyrell.
“Ready for what?” His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s far away, echoing.
Tyrell steps towards him, holding out two palms.
“It’s okay,” he reassures, stepping closer until his open palms are directly under Elliot’s teeth. “You can let go.”
Elliot looks down at his palms at the same time as he feels his mouth open against his will. He watches in horror as a tooth falls down into Tyrell’s hands, the string of a gum still attached. In quick succession, the rest of his teeth fall out and Elliot can only watch him horror as they fill Tyrell’s hands, bloody. He tastes the metallic flavor of blood, a hand comes up to touch his lips. The inside is bare.
Tyrell smiles at him, then stares down at the teeth.
“Such a shame,” He coos, words dripping sweet, “but he needs it more than you.”
Elliot tries to scream, opening his mouth wide, but no sound comes out. His legs are stuck in the mud, and he’s sinking deeper, slowly. The mud is up to his knees.
He watches helplessly as Tyrell leans down to the sheep’s side. He maneuvers all the teeth into one palm, opens the sheep’s mouth with the other, and shoves them into his mouth. The sheep shrieks in pain, and Elliot is crying silent sobs. He’s down to his chest now and he can’t breathe, the mud is closing in on him.
Elliot wakes up in the middle of yelling. His chest heaves. His sheets are damp with sweat. It’s still dark out, but there’s no way he can go back to sleep. He turns the lamp on his bedside table on and walks to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
Elliot feels an instinct, very deep in his bones, settled and scarred, that it had only been a matter of time before he met Tyrell Wellick.
❈
The rest of Tyrell’s workday is spent in a foul mood. His assistant tiptoes around him, speaking softly so as not to anger him.
He feels humiliated that Elliot addresses him with such flagrant disrespect. He doesn’t understand what all of this means, and Tyrell is not a fan of uncertainty.
He mashes the keyboard as he sends a email, tight-lipped and shoulders tense. All his replies today have been curt, bordering on rude.
Tyrell decides to leave work early. He’s wired too tightly, on the precipice of exploding, wet and bloody across his pristine office walls. He tells Elizabeth to cancel the rest of his meetings, and her shoulders drop in relief when he says he’s leaving.
Sutherland waits for him outside, hands folded in front of him. He opens the door for Tyrell; he slides in, the comforting smell of leather does nothing to calm him down.
“Did you find him?” Tyrell asks. Sutherland looks at him through the rearview mirror.
“Yes, sir. Would you like to head there now?”
Tyrell gives a yes, leaning his head back against his seat. Usually, he would think of the man in his dreams; a presence that grounds him. Instead, he thinks of earthly counterpart.
Tyrell has lived two lives for four years. In his walking form, he is an ruthless executive, accustomed to means of blackmail, of violence, meaningless sex to get to the top. He has no one in his life, besides co-workers and peers. There’s another world for him, one where he doesn’t have to fight, one where he is loved and liked without force. Dreams of the man--of Elliot--are his escape from the life he’s chosen, the path of resistance to being anything but the best.
From the fifth or sixth dream, Tyrell knew that it meant something. That this was just not a matter of fantasy. He could feel it in the depths of his being, nestled into the stem of his brain, the pile of his organs. This man was real. He was out there. And when Tyrell found him, his life was going to change.
They pull up to an underpass, car slowing to a stop. It’s quiet here, save for the rushing of cars on the stretch of highway above. Tyrell clambers out, taking off his suit jacket.
There’s a man waiting for him. He’s dirty, a greying beard unkempt covering the bottom half of his face.
“Not the face this time, please,” He asks and Tyrell ignores him, taking off his suit jacket. He pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves before grabbing his wallet. He counts out $200 and hands it to the man, who takes it without counting and quickly shoves it into his pocket.
He stands in front of Tyrell and raises his arms out to his side. Tyrell twists his neck to each side of his shoulder and then reels forward, landing a punch directly into the man’s stomach. He sputters in pain. Tyrell rains down punches on him, landing one on his cheek. The man crumples into the ground, pleading for Tyrell to stop.
Tyrell kicks him once, feet clad in sturdy Burberry oxfords. The man lets out a pathetic groan.
Feeling satisfied, less tense, Tyrell rolls his shoulders, takes off the gloves and shoves them in his pocket. He slips his jacket back on, walks to the car. Sutherland, who was standing outside of the driver’s door, watching, gets into his seat and turns the ignition.
They drive in silence on the way home. As the car pulls up to Tyrell’s home, he’s hit with a loneliness so severe it makes him feel wrung out, teased between hands like a towel.