In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Eight: Feeling a Little BLU

        Miss Pauling watches me from the other side of the living room, sitting in the armchair with an expectant look. I stand in the doorway of our apartment, a bag of groceries in hand. Pulling down the hem of my uniform causes metal pins on the back of my nametag to scratch my chest. I chuckle lightly. "Honey, I'm home."

"Dead, honey, that's what you are," she corrects in a sarcastic tone.

"Dead?"

"Dead."

"Dead, dead?"

"As dead as it gets." She points to the couch. I ignore her and walk into the kitchen, beginning to put away my groceries. "And now you're deflecting."

"No, I just don't want the milk to get warm," I say, ripping the fridge open and tossing the carton inside. The paper bag tears at my speed. "Nobody likes sour milk. You were the one who asked for it before I left."

"Nobody likes having a dead teammate," she counters.

"I'm not their teammate."

"You became a part of the team the moment you accepted the offer, Miss Fredrickson." She motions to the couch again. I refuse a second time and turn around to start a pot of coffee. She sighs. "What, you're going to let a few bad interactions deter you from the job?"

I stand at the sink and fill the pot with water. "A team is about working together, and I can't work together with people who try to kill me."

She laughs and rests her head on her fist. "Oh, all of them were trying to kill you?"

"Yes," I say, pouring the water into the brewer.

"I beg to differ." She starts to tap her foot. "I'm trying to help you, Fredrickson."

I drum my fingers on the edge of the counter before moving a hand to move some strands of my hair out of my face and behind my ear. The air conditioning shuts off and settles the air. I always hated living here. From the noisy upstairs neighbors to the landlord that doesn't do anything and the horrible smell that pushes its way into the vent whenever it so pleases, it's a miracle I have yet to physically harm anyone in this building. Coffee spurts into the pot and splashes, a drop burning my skin. My caffeinated drink doesn't smell right. Cigarette smoke wafts in and gives me a headache when it usually wouldn't. Miss Pauling clears her throat, and I look at her. Her expression is gentle, but stern. I turn away from her again and watch the coffee brew. The laughter of young children can be heard beyond our front door, followed by the exhausted call of their father to keep the volume down. Sunlight shines into the metal kitchen sink and reflects the light into my eyes.

"So, I'm dead," I recap. "What does that mean now? I've been going to work for the past three days and it took forever to convince Vince and Parma to let me take my old job back, you know that. How am I going to break the news to them now? And it's not like the Administrator will let me take my moonlighting job back as a cubicle rat."

"Sit down, and I'll tell you," she beckons. I shake my head and take a mug out from the cabinet.

"The last time I sat down on the couch to chat with you, I was about to ignite like a fucking fireworks display. Call it a hunch, but the couch is a bad omen that should be avoided."

"I don't understand what else bad could happen to you, your neck got snapped!" She rebukes and stays planted in the armchair. "I assure you, a fictional minimum wage paycheck from a diner that sits on the side of the road in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico is the least of your worries. And you hated it in the basement, that's why you asked me about my position, anyway! Technically by your logic, though, Miss Fredrickson, that means you're still alive."