Chapter Text
At its deepest, the ocean plunges eleven thousand meters into the earth. Sunlight can only penetrate the first two hundred of those. This so-called shallow, topmost layer of the ocean is the epipelagic, or sunlit, zone. The other ninety-eight point eight percent of the ocean, made up of, in descending order, the mesopelagic, bathypelagic, abyssopelagic, and hadalpelagic zones, operates in either near or complete darkness. Humans have explored approximately ten percent of the oceans on earth.
That is to say, not very much at all.
Though Fin Windemere is proud of everything she has accomplished in her career as an elite corporate and wedding event coordinator, there are times her job makes her wish she could sink to the very bottom of the hadalpelagic zone, where it would just be her, the snailfish, and sixteen thousand blessed pound-force per square inch.
That is to say, it would be very quiet.
It is not quiet now. It is the middle of one of Fin’s biggest ever events, a charity gala hosted by Seaing Forward!, a green-minded sustainability think tank funded by the most prominent oil, gas, and fracking companies on the eastern seaboard of the United States. Well-dressed and attractive servers in white button-downs, black slacks, and minimal makeup are making the rounds, offering millionaires in black tie OceanWise (or vegan, depending on the esteemed guest’s dietary needs) caviar on gluten-free crackers, accented with sustainably-sourced seaweed farmed off the coast of Maine. Amidst the general hum of conversation and gentle, almost subsonic whale song being pumped unobtrusively through the hall speakers, the tall, severe event caterer with sharp features informs Fin in low tones that one of her server’s shirts is not properly tucked in.
“I’ve told her twice already,” the caterer says through gritted teeth that, to uninterested passersby, could feasibly be a smile.
The two of them standing next to each other cut an impressive duo. That being said, Fin does not like discussing complaints in view of guests. It’s unprofessional and sloppy. Much like this server’s untucked dress shirt.
Fin ushers her away from the milling crowd, stopping only once they’ve landed in a utility hall full of furniture and other detritus the set-up team didn’t have time to properly store. She looks at the caterer, who watches her expectantly. Fin considers herself a problem-solver. In fact, that’s the majority of her job. But, time and time again, she has found that the most common obstacles to a perfect event aren’t financial, or decorative, or edible in nature. Every time, it is human error. Lack of judgement.
Fin says, “Servers are your responsibility. Why did you hire someone who can’t even tuck in a shirt?”
The caterer does not hide her disbelief well. She scoffs, clearly expecting Fin to commiserate instead of questioning her hiring practices. They’ve worked together on a few events, though their interactions haven’t strayed beyond the job. Fin respects that about her, at least.
“One of my regulars called out—her kid is sick. She’s a last-minute replacement.” The caterer brusquely smooths her crisp uniform. “Did you want a warm body or did you want a lineup for the canapés?”
Fin moves to the side so they can surreptitiously survey the reception area. “Where is she?”
The caterer scans the crowd. “She’s short and my servers don’t wear heels.” After a moment of consideration, she adds, “She has a lot of hair.”
Fin does not get a chance to ask for clarification, because a hand has sinuously curled around her bicep from behind. She turns around. It could be a drunk guest gone a bit handsy. It wouldn’t be the first time a male attendee tried to hit on her or a female guest tried to engage her in conversation about the cause, the venue, her outfit, or her personal life.
This time, though, the pale, slender hand belongs to Katarina Carr, head of Public Relations for Seaing Forward!, and one of Fin’s primary business contacts of the past eight months. Much of their correspondence was digital at first, but as the date grew close, their in-person meetings increased, and at increasingly strange times to accommodate their hectic schedules. Katarina is a beautiful, petite redhead, with the deeply unsettling ability to chameleon herself into any social situation. Fin, despite her client-facing role, is incapable of such a thing, and thus Katarina’s presence inspires equal parts awe and wariness in her. Both by trade and by nature, Katarina likes to twist things up. Fin, on the other hand, likes things very much untwisted.
“Wynonna,” Katarina says warmly. To the caterer, “Excuse us.” Her voice is low and hypnotic. She makes eye contact with Fin, and doesn’t even need to incline her head to say, with me. Another unsettling thing about Katarina—she can speak without speaking in a way Fin has never encountered in another person before. It’s especially headache-inducing when Katarina says one thing with her mouth, and another with her gaze, and, though Fin will never know for sure, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn at all that during these instances, Katarina is thinking an entirely different third thing altogether in the steel trap privacy of her own head.
“Find her,” Fin directs over her shoulder at the caterer, who makes an irritated clicking sound with her teeth at Fin’s retreating form.
Hand hovering at the small of Fin’s back as she leads her through the hall, Katarina smiles and nods and exchanges pleasantries with every person they pass. She asks about their new car, their new house, their children, their organization’s initiatives, all within the ten seconds it takes to enter and leave speaking range. She’s wearing heels and a simple but elegant black dress; not overly showy, but still turning heads with ease. Even though Fin has a few inches on her and is in flat-soled loafers, she has to quickstep to keep up. Katarina glides everywhere she goes, never a hair out of place nor a flush on her cheeks that she herself didn’t paint there.
As they reach the edge of the crowd, Katarina directs her up a flight of hidden stairs. “Just fantastic,” she says without turning around as they climb. “The whole night. Not that we expected anything less.”
Katarina leads her into the hidden second-floor sound booth where a woman with too many tattoos to be allowed in the guest’s sightline manages the gala’s lighting and music. A graveyard of crushed Red Bulls sits amongst the monstrous equipment. The tiny room smells like marijuana.
“It’s just that—” Katarina says, and stops meaningfully. The DJ, Jacquie, stares at them both with red-rimmed eyes. She turns to her laptop and deliberately switches out of the tab she’s currently in—a Reddit comment section—to something work-appropriate.
“The music is a bit—” Katarina says, and smiles. More of a simper. “Can’t say enough about the originality while still managing to stay on-theme.”
“The playlist was approved by Seaing Forward! three months ago,” Fin says. “Your office, if I recall.” She does recall. This is Fin’s version of being nice.
“Of course,” Katarina says. Her chest buzzes. She pulls her phone out of her dress and glances at it. “I need to take this.” She glances up, smiling. “We just want to pump up the party a little bit. But not too much. Average guest age is fifty-seven. Average hair color is grey.” She answers her phone and says into it, “Just a moment.” To Fin, and a stunned, stoned Jacquie, she says, “I’ll leave it with you.” Then disappears out the door in a cloud of subtle perfume.
Fin and Jacquie stare at each other. Ten seconds of silence pass. Then Jacquie says, “Hey… who was that?”
Fin pinches the bridge of her nose. It took months of back and forth with various wildlife groups, musicians, and technicians to put this soundscape together. It wasn’t Fin’s preference, but it was Seaing Forward!’s idea. “Verisimilitude”, they had requested in one of their first meetings. What has more verisimilitude than melodic (and scientifically accurate) whalesong at the sustainable ocean gala?
Annoyance ticks through Fin. Human error indeed. Or fickle powers-that-be. She had to make some serious budgetary compromises to make this happen, and now she has to change it out for some Vivaldi pumped through a sound system they haven’t had time to optimize for classical.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket. Jacquie jumps. Fin sighs.
“Are you gonna get that?” Jacquie asks as the vibrations become more irritated.
Fin has one friend, who knows she’s busy tonight. She always calls her mother, not the other way around. She has hundreds of business contacts, none of whom would be calling on a Saturday after 10:00PM, except the ones she’s collaborating with on this event.
“Just another hiccup,” Fin says. She pulls out her phone, glances at the number. It’s the venue contact. “Go through your library,” she tells Jacquie. “You heard the demographic. Put something together. I’ll be back soon to review.”
Jacquie salutes her. “Yes, ma’am!” She cries cheerfully. The sudden movement hits Fin with another wave of pungent, earthy cannabis. Maybe after everyone leaves she can ask for a hit. Samantha Tilly, her one and only and therefore best friend, has often suggested it as a means of stress relief. Or, as she put it, to help you chill the fuck out a little about that giant stick wedged up your ass. Note I didn’t say remove it. Weed’s not a miracle worker. It’ll just help you accept your fate, not change it.
***
After Fin assists the venue contact with a very drunk guest who tried to escape the event (and his date) via the window in the men’s restroom, she hunts the caterer down. She finds her in a secluded corner directly outside the kitchen, the saloon doors never once settling before another member of the catering staff bustles in or out. From the other side comes a wave of chaotic noise—cries of “CORNER!”, chefs cursing, plates sizzling, cutlery tinkling, knives chopping, corks popping. Fin has been around long enough to know that half the people in that kitchen are high on cocaine and energy drinks; as long as the food is good and they stay out of the public eye, she doesn’t care.
The first thing Fin notices, when she lays eyes on the woman the caterer has trapped between her body and the hallway, is, indeed, a lot of hair. Blond, wavy, kinky, and piled high on top of her head, strands sticking out everywhere. The caterer may have a height advantage—the server is short, just clearing five feet— but her high ground seems to end there. The server’s shoulders are slouched, not in a sheepish, disciplined manner, but a stance that indicates an emotion closer to, Okay, and? Fin even catches her glancing at her nails as she approaches.
Fin’s eyes fall to her waist. Her shirt is still untucked. In general, she has an unkempt appearance. Her clothes are rumpled and there are shadows under her eyes. Makeup isn’t required in Fin’s playbook, but she expects her staff—and the staff of anyone she hires, female or male— to appear well-rested. This is especially aggravating because the server is wearing makeup, if smeared black rings around her eyes and stray glitter on her cheek counts as such. She has large brown eyes and wheat-coloured eyelashes that any resourceful woman would start batting furiously to get out of trouble. Instead, her gaze is full of mirthful disdain, mouth quirked up at the corner.
“Something funny?” Fin asks. Behind their little group, the kitchen doors fly open.
“Finally,” the caterer says, eyeing the server with disgust. That only makes her look more delighted.
“What’s your name?”
The server looks at Fin, eyeing her up like they’re both wearing boxing gloves and about to start punching. The disdainful line of her mouth disintegrates; she still thinks something is funny, though. “What’s your name?”
In her line of work, people argue with and contradict Fin all the time; rarely ever so quickly or baldly. The kitchen door whooshes open again as a server disappears inside, and immediately starts yelling, prompting the kitchen staff to immediately start yelling back, even louder.
“In charge,” Fin says, a bit rudely, response delayed by a loud crash from the kitchen. Someone on the other side of the door yells, nice going, asshat!
The server’s eyes spark with delight and she doesn’t register the commotion at all. She straightens her slouched shoulders, stretching out her neck. “Yes, ma’am,” she says, like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened. There is an edge to her insouciance that grates Fin like she’s just been bitten by a fire ant.
“Keep in mind you’re being disciplined at your place of employment,” Fin says, clipped.
The server laughs. “Oh, I mean… that’s stretching it a little, huh? This is just a last-minute gig. Lol.” She says it as all one word. Lawl. She indicates the caterer with an inclined chin. “Ol’ Jean practically hauled me in off the street and stuffed me into this penguin get-up herself.”
Fin glances at the caterer. Presumably, there is more to the story. Not that Fin particularly cares to hear it. “Did you illegally hire a minor for this event? No adult would act so immature.”
Over the server’s bright flame of laughter, the caterer responds, flatly, “She’s an adult.”
“I’m twenty-four!” The server chirps.
“Alexandria,” The caterer sighs, long-suffering despite knowing her for only a few hours.
“Lex,” she corrects. Her eyes cut over to Fin. “Lex Hall. At your service.”
“Except you’re not,” Fin reminds her. “Serving. Because you’re here, being reprimanded.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Lex says. Her pronunciation of ma’am gives her away. One of the Carolinas. Or maybe one of the Virginias. She salutes. “What did you say your name was again?”
Fin exhales through her nose. “Wynonna Windemere. Event Coordinator.”
Lex’s eyebrows fly up. “What a name! So distinguished. Very classy.” She grins. Her teeth are a bit too big for her mouth. It makes her smile very distracting. “So, you’re the head honcho? You put this whole thing together? It’s awesome. A little stuffy for my tastes, but still.” She leans into Fin conspiratorially. “Those mini vegan weenies? Most vegan food tastes like plastic, but those things are like crack. And, like, I’ve done crack.”
Fin levels her with a stare so cool she takes a step back, putting a much more appropriate distance between them. “Do not eat the vegan cocktail wieners.”
Lex presses her lips together very tightly.
“They’re for guests,” Fin continues. “As is all of the food that comes out of that kitchen.” As if to prove her point, the door swishes open once, twice, then three times as a trio of servers disappear down the hall with additional portions of the wieners in question. “There are an array of sandwiches and drinks for all staff downstairs.” Most clients overlook it when Fin sets aside a small portion of each event budget for providing food for staff. The occasional accounting firm catches it, but Fin is comfortable enough in her career to stare at them, dead-eyed, and remind them that fed servers are happy servers, and happy servers feed happy guests. Her vendors and industry partners come with their own staff. She doesn’t control how much they’re paid, or their paltry livelihoods, but she can at least ensure the lowest rungs of the ladder get a sandwich and a Coke during their shift.
Even the ones who don’t tuck in their shirts.
“Oh, I had two of those already!” Lex says happily. “Egg salad and roast beef. The weenies were just dessert!”
“Stop saying weenies,” Fin snaps. Beside her, the caterer sighs again. Fin calms herself. “Look. Just tuck in your shirt and stop eating food meant for guests.” She checks her watch. Halfway through the event. Three hours to go. The ghostly moan of whalesong drifts down the utility hallway. Stupid idea. Fin makes a mental note to start telling clients their ideas are stupid more often.
Lex flicks her wrist, winks, and says, “Okay, Ms. In Charge, but only because you asked so nicely.”
She turns, pushes open the wrong side of the kitchen doors, and sends the plateful of vegan cocktail wieners on the other side directly into the face of the server who was hustling them out—if nothing else, Lex was right about that. People are loving the vegan cocktail wieners.
“On second thought,” Fin says, while the caterer tends to her server in the kitchen and a safe distance from Lex. Someone behind the door yells, CAN YOU PLEASE STOP BLEEDING OVER EVERYTHING, IT’S A FUCKING BIOHAZARD. “You’re fired.”