Chapter Text
To all the peons in the lower ranks of Kirkland Publishing, Arthur Kirkland, resident tyrant and technical president, was a shadowy figure of mystery at best. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the entirety of their lives at work, and even outside work at times, was governed and ruled by this man. There was very little that they did or said that didn't reach his ears and everything they accomplished was to please him and him alone. Sure their department managers might give them assignments, tell them what to do and manage their accomplishments and fuckups, but it was clear to all that Mr. Kirkland was the true puppet master of everything that went on within the company.
And rightly so. It was his company, after all.
At the same time, almost no one had actually seen the man, let alone spoken to him at any length. There was a small group of employees that were entirely convinced that the man was a robot, created by the late Archibald Kirkland to pose as his son and therefore take over after his passing; the perfect creation that never stopped working, never rested, and was constantly creating new ways to make the company more successful so that it could, eventually, take over the world. Since that's what robots did, generally speaking. Most thought this group was a little off the reservation and, as Vash liked to point out, Arthur's father's name was Roger, not Archibald (even though Archibald was, even Vash had to admit, a much more impressive name if you were intending to attach villainy to his list of character traits).
It was rumored that Elizabeta Héderváry, from accounting, had glimpsed the unruly blond hair of their elusive president from over the top of a certain cubicle stationed near the elevators on the second floor, but Roderich Edelstein, head manager of the Public Relations department, had it on good authority that she'd made the whole thing up. For a week in December, Yong Soo, an intern from the local college, had implied that he'd in fact met Mr. Kirkland, that they'd had a five and a half minute conversation while using the sixth floor men's restroom and that Mr. Kirkland had actually admitted that Yong Soo was responsible for the creation of the publishing industry. No one believed him.
Gilbert Beilschmidt had claimed he'd seen the president at the local bar, that they'd gotten absolutely piss-drunk shit-faced together and had almost had an illicit affair before they'd passed out. His brother Ludwig, junior in age but senior at work, insisted that he'd actually made out with a mop in the broom closet of a restaurant after having one too many appletinis. Gilbert had then argued that appletinis were not girly, and even if they were, that he'd only been drinking them to prove a point.
Long story short, nobody below the seventh floor of the publishing building ever saw or heard Arthur Kirkland, even if they'd been working at his company longer than he'd been running it. There were actually only a handful of people who saw Arthur with any sort of regularity, and they were mostly the people who helped him manage the company twice a week during meetings, if Arthur bothered showing up at all.
With the exception of one person, however: The Personal Assistant.
Many of the people working within the company had applied for this position, as had a plethora of grad students, interns, and other applicants with varying levels of competency. It was a coveted position in the company, one that would provide a good deal of opportunities to the applicant once they'd gained enough experience, a platform for their ideal job, whatever that may be. Mr. Kirkland had just recently acquired a replacement for this position, held by one Aiden Kirkland until a couple weeks ago, and there had been a large cloud of gloom hovering over the first six floors once the Chosen One had been announced and it hadn't been anyone within the company. There had been enough applications sent in to fill an entire cubicle, but the victor had turned out to be a young American who hadn't even been in London at the time.
Rumor had it he went by the name of Alfred Jones.