In Which Our Heroine Has A Job Interview

[Briarheart]

”Are you fucking kidding me?!" My enraged screams echoed throughout the basement laboratory. Had anything else survived the blast, they would have had their mangy, flea-bit tails tucked squarely between their legs and took shelter under the splintered remains of the nearest table.

To say everything hurt was... mildly inaccurate.

It felt like I had been ran over by a train and dragged halfway across Salvar, all the while being repeatedly bitten by dire ants until we finally reached our destination, where I was promptly removed by a group of harpies who decided the best way to tend my wounds was to strip away what flesh remained with their talons before disposing of my corpse in the nearest active volcano.

I tore away a chunk of blood-stained glass that embedded itself in my right eyes, carefully examining it with the two that still worked. It came from the beaker that I had dumped some of my alchemical reagents in roughly three seconds before I found myself unceremoniously thrown into (and nearly through) the far wall. Reaching up to see if I had any more errant pieces of equipment sticking out of me, I discovered that I could not feel anything at all--for my right hand decided that it would rather dangle from my wrist by a couple vines.

Me being me, I decided to drop a few more choice F-bombs, but that's when the jolt of pain in my face pushed through the fog in my mind. White hot fire seared my nerves as I grimaced, which made things even worse. I felt around with my left hand for a minute--one side of my mug was perfectly fine, but the other half had been burned clean off by the reaction, leaving behind blackened ends of writhing vines and charred jaw and cheek bones.

I would discover later on that my nice mythril face mask had been blown clean off my face during the incident and was embedded into the stonework of the basement wall.

I shifted around on the floor for a minute, completely ignoring the lingering flames of my failed experiment on the table and the smoke that swirled around on the ceiling. The explosion blew out the windows, so the smoke at least had somewhere to go. As for the fire.... fuck it, eventually it'll run out of splintered wood and chemicals to burn through.

The sand bucket was right over there, maybe five feet away from me, somehow not overturned in the fiasco. I could just put the damn thing out right now, but I would not grant the experiment a noble death. For all I fucking cared, it could wither away to nothingness like it damn well deserved.

I moved to stand up. I got to my knees just fine, but when I rose to my feet, there was a loud snap! as my left shin completely snapped, the bloody shard of bone sticking out through the vines of my leg as I crashed into the grimy laboratory floor.

Oh, isn't this just the best day ever.

[Briarheart]

Another round of cursing and grimacing and other such things one does when they're dying but too stubborn to actually do so, and I managed to claw my way up the steps back to the first floor of my Ranger outpost-turned-personal hideout, leaving a trail of ash and dark sticky liquid behind me like the world's saddest mutated slug. See, even my metaphors--which have always been sub-par, mind you--got shredded in the accident.

“Hype!” I called for the briarbane through the half of my mouth that still worked. “Hype get over here right now!”

“What's wrong, Madison,” she called out from the kitchen. “I heard a loud noise, and the house shook, and it knocked all of the glasses and cookware of their shelves, but I didn't go see what it was because you told me to leave you alone whenever you were downstairs so I did and—”

I finally worked up the energy to interrupt her. “Just shut up and come help me!” It sounded more like the mewling of a dying animal than a coherent sentence as I laid there on the musty carpeting of the house's entryway.

The soft pattering of Hype's footsteps grew louder until she rounded the corner. The glass she held slid from her grip and shattered into a dozen pieces on the floor as she covered her mouth and stifled a shriek.

“M-Madison! Are--”

I snapped at her, “Does it look like I am?”

In a flash, she was knelt by my side, resting a hand on a small strip of my shoulder that hadn't been singed by the fireball. “I-is there anything I can do for you?”

“Help me up,” I grumbled. “Everything is broken.”

Hype was never one to get hyperbole. “[/i]Everything?[/I] Then how did you get up here? How are you talking right now?”

“By the sweat dripping from Hromagh's hairy balls, just pick me up and carry me to one of the quarters, Hyperion!” Even now, the dryadic magic stored in my briarheart was starting to kick in, working overtime to knit my body back together. A nap and a raw slab of meat would help speed up the process a bit.

Hyperion hooked her arms under mine, careful not to dislocate anything else as she picked me off the floor, fussing the entire time about how my lab robes were completely ruined. She got me three feet closer to a bed when there was a knock on the door.

“Fuck off!” The order came out before the realization hit me--we had a guest. A guest. All the way out here. Several miles--days, really--off the beaten paths deep within the heart of Concordia. Where nobody was supposed to know I was living.

The intruder ignored me. “Hello? May I come in?”

Hype snapped to attention, her desire to be Best Friend To All overriding her common sense. “Who is it?”

Oh, if I could move either of my arms, I'd've slapped her upside the head.

“I'm looking for, ah, a Madison Freebird? Does she live at this residence?”

Shit shit shit shit shit. I racked my brain for anything I might be wanted for lately--all of my recent schemes and experiments have failed miserably before the Rangers or Imperials could even catch wind of them, and as far as I knew I wasn't wanted in Salvar, and the Alerarans knew to leave me well enough alone--

“I believe you have the wrong house,” Hype tried.

The mysterious voice hemmed and hawed for a moment. “That's weird, weird indeed. You see--”

A man in a pristine three piece suit walked through my front door and materialized in the entryway. His skin was a pale blue and translucent, his eyes two glowing orbs set into a handsome face. His hair was neatly combed. In his hands, he held a clipboard and a pencil.

“--according to the resume I received, this is Miss Freebird's address. And unless this was a mistake on her part, one that, based on what we know about her, is next to impossible...”

The suit spirit looked up from his clipboard, glancing at me as I was draped over Hype's shoulder, clothes mostly burned away, oozing what passed for blood, shredded plant matter hanging off various parts of me.

“Oh, goodness, I'm terribly sorry. Is this a bad time?”

[Briarheart]

The glowing, translucent man in the nice suit was kind enough to wait until I healed up from my latest disaster. He sat on the dusty bench in the hallway throughout the entire night, politely refusing any food and drink from Hyperion the entire time. I could hear him from the spare room where I was laid up. “Didn't want to impose on us”, he said every time. Hype wouldn't take no for an answer, though; after six hours, our guest relented and accepted a glass of water and a couple games of cards.

Their gabbing kept me up throughout the night. They were both so incredibly... courteous to one another, with their impeccable conversation manners and quickness to apologize at even the tiniest perceived slight. I wanted to throw up.

It was nearly lunchtime the next day when I finally felt like I wasn't going to shatter into a hundred pieces if I took another step, so I finally climbed out of bed.

First order of business--change into a set of more acceptable clothes and fix a cup of hot chocolate.

I slipped into a nice, neutral-looking tunic and loose pair of pants and headed off to the kitchen. Hype was already flitting about the place, throwing random ingredients into a mixing bowl and igniting the stove.

“Morning,” I muttered.

Hype set her whisk down, reaching for a small bottle of milk. “Oh, good morning Madison! Are you feeling any better?”

“Are we talking about physically, or emotionally,” I said with a shrug. “Because that's the fifth catastrophic failure in the past three weeks.”

“Aww, it'll be okay, Madison.” The briarbane paused her work long enough to take one of my hands. “You'll bounce back!”

“Yeah, sure,” I grumbled as I pried myself from Hype's grasp and wiped off a smear of pancake batter on the side of my pants.

As I gathered stuff for cocoa and put a saucepan on I got to thinking about everything that had happened since I left the Crimson Hand all those months ago. Finding our little hideout in the far reaches of Concordia, losing my soul to the nekojin, and then one after another all these schemes I dreamed up would come crashing down around me. Why now? Why was I being stricken with one failure after another now?

Maybe I needed a break from the lab. Find myself again.

I've done it many times before, what's one more journey of self-discovery and reinvention?

[Briarheart]

Our uninvited guest rose from his seat in the hallway as I approached, steaming mug of molten chocolate in hand.

A thin smile creased his face as he hugged his clipboard tighter to his chest. “Ah, good morning, Miss Freebird. I sincerely apologize for interrupting you yesterday when you were, ah--” He cleared his throat. “--suffering from multiple grievous injuries and bleeding out all over your wonderful carpet.”

I glanced down at the rug, stained dark from yesterday's adventure. “It's alright, don't worry about it. I mean, no, it's not alright, and you should probably worry. Nobody knows I'm here. This fort is miles from the nearest trail, and days from even the closest settlement. Let's start with how you know who I am and who gave up my location.”

The glowing man's smile died a bit, but the cheer didn't leave his voice. “It wasn't terribly difficult, you see. My employers are, shall we say, on the omnipotent side. My name's Dalton. Reggie Dalton. It's a pleasure to officially make your acquaintance.”

Dalton extended a hand. I arched an eyebrow at it.

“Continue,” I sternly ordered.

The glowing man pulled his hand back in, fidgeting with the papers attached to the clipboard. “Ah, anyway, as I said, my employers are of a higher sort. I am a representative of Pantheon Solutions, Ltd. We are an organization dedicated to the continuation of the betterment of human- and humanoid-kind through synergistic, faith-based methods.”

“You're a cult.”

Dalton raised his hands defensively. “Absolutely not! Cults are scattershot and unrefined in their technique, and usually fade out in short order. Sometimes literally, other times in a more cosmic sense. Pantheon Solutions, Ltd. has been around for eons, remaining one of the top corporations in the market thanks to their ability to adapt with the changing needs of their clientele.”

What in the seven hells was going on here?

“But the reason I've contacted you, Miss Freebird, is because we recently had a position open up in, shall we say, our upper management. We've received your resume, and after some--”

“Hang on, hang on,” I interrupted. “Resume? What are you talking about?”

“Your resume.” Dalton cocked his head slightly. “You know, a neatly-organized list of your accomplishments and--”

“I know what a resume is,” I grumbled. “I never submitted one to you--in fact, I've never even heard of your, what did you say it was? Pantheon Solutions?”

“We get that an awful lot, I'm afraid.”

I waived a dismissive hand in the air. “Either way, I never submitted a resume. I've never even written one up.”

“And yet--” Dalton flicked his clipboard with an immaculate fingernail.

I sighed deeply. “Look, I don't know why you're here, but I want you out of my house. Go away, never return, and tell your employers or whoever that they can fuck right off.”

Dalton pursed his lips and thought for a moment as I turned away from him. I got about two steps down the hall before I was enveloped by a blinding light.

[Briarheart]

When the light faded, I found myself in a quaint, minimalistic office. I was seated in a rather comfortable leather chair, one of two that sat before a mahogany desk with little decoration carved into it. To my right, the wall was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. It was filled with both the obvious and unique--four wooden globes with one map I recognized and three that I didn't, trophies and plaques celebrating achievements I couldn't make out etched onto them, woodcarvings of various animals that were vaguely familiar.

The far wall was lined with windows that opened up to a city the likes I had never seen before. As far as the eye could see stood these towering structures, brick and wood, reflective glass and metal. Glowing letters dozens of feet high decorated several of the buildings with characters that I didn't understand. Some sort of foreign language, perhaps?

“--and this is why I always insist on bringing them right here!” The voice was muffled, coming from just beyond the door leading into the room. I recognized it as Reggie Dalton's.

“Put yourself in their shoes,” a second voice chimed in. It was deeper, heavier, and carried with it an air of authority. “If you found yourself suddenly approached by a ghost and whisked away to another plane?”

“Please don't make fun of my skin condition.”

“How would you feel, Dalton? You'd feel confused, you'd feel angry, you'd refuse to cooperate, you might even try to escape!”

“Not with our security measures, sir.”

“And one day, even those might fail. Like so many others that we've brought into the fold here at Pantheon.”

I turned around as the soft clicking of the doorknob announced a visitor. A giant of a man filled the doorway. He, much like Dalton, was dressed in a fine three-piece suit. He was apparently very fond of the color black. The only color the man allowed himself were three medals that were pinned to his chest in a triangle, each one set at a perfectly measured distance from the others.

He was a bit on the old side, a weathered, scarred face on a square-shaped head. His hair was salt and pepper and kept short, military-style. His eyes were almost steel, cold and distant like so many warriors that have seen the carnage of countless battles. A smattering of color returned to his cheeks when he laid eyes on me. He did not flinch at my appearance, which is more than I can say for a lot of people.

“Ah, you must be Madison Freebird. My name's Victor Markov. It's a pleasure to meet you at last.”

[Briarheart]

Markov strode across the room, filling the space between us with a hand that demanded to be shook. I stood, and felt oddly compelled to oblige him.

“Pleasure's all mine, sir.” The words came out unbidden, as if a spell had come over me.

Markov motioned for me to sit as he rounded the desk and plopped down in his own chair. Even as he relaxed, he maintained perfect posture. One could imagine the lack of back problems he was suffering from in his advanced age.

“How was your trip?”

The blinding light. Must have been a teleportation spell. “Well,” I began, “to be completely honest I'm not sure. I had my home invaded by one of your... associates, I suppose. Then, he proceeds to tell me that your... organization or whatever knows who I am and everything about me, before ripping me through a portal and dropping me off here. I should be angry. I should be absolutely livid. I should be holding him by the sides of his head, squeezing him until his skull caves in as acid dissolves his flesh into bubbling puddles of luminescent goo on your nice carpets. But I'm not. I'm not mad, and I'm not committing a company-wide killing spree. And that's what frightens me.”

Markov nodded. “That would be the outburst suppression field we had installed about two-thousand years ago. Keeps emotions in check so we don't have any unnecessary incidents. Here at Pantheon Solutions, Ltd. we employ a number of individuals who could be considered a little too powerful for their native worlds. The last thing we need is a hurricane raging through the break room because someone's lunch was stolen from the fridge.”

The old man laughed at his little joke. I thought it would get me out of here quicker if I smiled along, so I did.

Markov adjusted his collar a bit before continuing, “So, I can imagine that you have a lot of questions. I'm going to answer every one of them right now. My assistant Dalton, he's a good lad, but he's not very good at filling our applicants in with the details they need to know. Before we begin, would you like anything to drink?”

Go with the flow, Madison. Just go with the flow. “Whiskey, please.”

His brow furrowed a bit. “Never would've thought a plant to prefer fire water to the real stuff, but there you go.” Markov reached over and pressed a button on a box next to a speaker. “Janice, two whiskeys, if you could.”

Markov folded his hands on the desk before him. “Now, let's see. What did Dalton tell you about our organization?”

I took a deep breath. That you're a bunch of shady fucks with a penchant for buzzwords and possibly a cult, and that I want nothing to do with you and just want to go back to my little castle in the woods and try to blow up the remaining shreds of confidence that I have in myself before wasting away under a pile of books and cats.

I exhaled. “That you are are an organization dedicated to the continuation of the betterment of human- and humanoid-kind through synergistic, faith-based methods.”

He nodded. “Good boy, sticking with the company byline. However, marketing terminology looks good for the shareholders, but isn't very informative once you look past the fluff.”

“So what does it mean, then?”

Markov sat up straighter than he already had been, somehow. “Miss Freebird, to put it bluntly, we are gods.”

Oh.

[Briarheart]

“So you are a cult, then!” I crossed my arms, feeling like I was finally getting a handle on the situation.

Markov opened his mouth to respond when the door behind me opened again. In walked this petite little thing, blue skin, pink hair, thick black-rimmed glasses and a pencil skirt to signify that she was a secretary. In her hands, two tumblers full of whiskey. I reached for one and thanked her. She handed the other one to her boss, then promptly disappeared.

Not as in “go invisible”, but excused herself from the office.

Bringing the glass up to his mouth, Markov took a sip and closes his eyes, clearly savoring the drink and the temporary reprieve it brought. I followed suit, nursing the amber liquid as it danced across my tongue--

--and nearly spat it all over the table, opting instead to choke it down and do my best to tolerate the horrendous taste of liquid wood.

“Strong, isn't it,” Markov asked with a smirk.

“A little too strong,” I spat out, my four amber eyes blinking out of sync.

My host took another sip from his glass, and set it down on the table. “No matter what world you find yourself working on, it's amazing how quickly that your clients offer you alcohol. That was Nars'garthian Amber, distilled around two-hundred years ago, I believe? I received the first bottles from the batch, as payment for services rendered. I've lost count how many different kinds of alcohol I've got stashed away throughout the building. Ran out of room at home, you see... Now, where were we?”

I rubbed a small dribble of spit off my face with a sleeve. “You were going to conveniently explain everything for me,” I croaked.

“Ah, yes, that's right.” He slid open one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a couple pamphlets. “As I said, we are gods. Or, at least, that's how we present ourselves to our clients.”

I started thumbing through the materials as he continued.

“Pantheon Solutions, Ltd. The continuation of the betterment of human- and humanoid-kind through synergistic, faith-based methods. It's a lot simpler than all those froufrou words make it out to be. Our mission, simply put, is to help chart a course for aimless, wandering peoples throughout the universe. We provide them with the information required to further develop their position in the world, and provide the necessary stories and distractions for them to explain the whys.”

I looked up from a charcoal drawing of a man in the clouds, pointing a trident as an army charged underneath. “Stories and distractions, like gods.”

Markov nodded. “Information is easier for people to accept and disseminate when they believe it comes from a higher power.”

[Briarheart]

The pamphlets hit the polished top of the desk with a light smack. “Well, I'm afraid that I might not be a good fit for this company. I'm sure you've done your research if you were able to track me down. The knowledge I've accumulated throughout the years? All of it is the kind of stuff that you don't want people knowing.”

“All knowledge has a purpose,” he solemnly noted. “Take me, for example. I'm known by many names, about six percent of them I'm able to pronounce. Romanis. Markov the Bloodletter. Korrigan. Var'Sek. My area of expertise?” Markov tapped the medals pinned to his chest. “War. I teach people how to kill others. I show them how to forge and use their weapon, show them exactly where to stab the other guy until they lay on the ground in a puddle of their own vis. I teach their strategists the ways of war, and how to use the environment and emotions of their enemies against them.”

“War is human nature,” I remarked. “As long as there are two people left in the world, one will want the other dead.”

“And you don't believe the knowledge you have in your noggin is just as useful as what I offer my clients?”

I took another careful sip of my drink, this time not rushing the damn thing down my throat. “Not everyone's rushing out to staple giant moth wings to their cat, I'm afraid. Besides, nothing I've worked on lately has worked out. Everything keeps blowing up in my face or melting down or dying on me before I can finish my work.”

Markov downed the rest of his own whiskey and set the glass down on a napkin he must have produced when I wasn't paying attention. “Another question that I intended to answer at some point, but we may as well get it out of the way now. I want you to look back on your life as of late. Several big things of note, separated by a bunch of pockets of you sitting on your thumbs while the world continued on without you.”

Well, that was a harsh way of putting it, but he was absolutely right.

“Let's see...” I looked past him, out the window and to the endless cityscape just outside. “I spent a couple months with the Crimson Hands, continuing my research there...”

“Yes...”

“After I left them again, I moved back to Corone and located an abandoned fort. My friend Hyperion and I moved in and set up a laboratory.”

“That's correct.”

“What else...” I tapped the side of my briar-knit face, trying to kick-start my memory. “Oh--! There was one night I played a little 'game' with a nekojin. I lost the game, and she snatched my soul and ran off.”

“And then?”

And then--? Well, that's when things started going downhill for me. That's when... oh, shit.

Markov caught the light of dawning comprehension in my eyes. “That's exactly it. The knowledge is stored away in your mind, but your ability to use it on your own was shaky at best. The one you shared a soul with--what was her name? Pud? Pood?”

“Pode.” The word lingered, a sour taste on my tongue.

“Yes, her.” He made a gesture. “Pode's influence allowed you to experiment unimpeded. She guided your hand, whether you were aware of it or not, and now that she's been separated from you, you find that you can't do the one thing you defined yourself by.”

I took a long moment to unpack this revelation. As much as I hated to admit it, it made sense. All of my experiments, all my research, all this time--there had been a sort of malevolent bent to it. I had always been researching new ways to make people suffer. From the moment I killed that bitch and ripped her soul out of her body and took it into my own... How many people had I indirectly killed since then? The virus sold to Alerar, the experimental plagues unleashed in Tirel? The blood-thirsty chimeras running around in the depths of the Seventh Sanctum? My budding army of briarbanes lurking around in the depths of Concordia?

My head was swimming. So many thoughts, so many feelings. So much anger that I couldn't unleash because of this stupid suppression field. All I could think to do was...

“Wow... Um, this explains everything.”

Markov simply winked.

[Briarheart]

I let my hands fall down to my lap. “So, why am I here, then? What do you want with me?”

“We understand that your last, ah, 'employer' wasn't exactly the best one.”

“Which one are we talking about,” I snorted. “I've worked for a lot of terrible people and organizations in my life.”

“This Pode woman,” he said with a nod. “Talented though she may have been, she wasn't the best leader. Not one to look out for her company's best interests, turning talent against one another in some sort of barbaric competition for her favor...” Markov shook his head. “She wouldn't have lasted a hundred years here at Pantheon.

“I'll go ahead and cut to the chase, Miss Freebird. I know you'd like to get back to cleaning up your mess in Concordia. We currently have an opening in our sales department, and we feel that you would be perfect for the position.”

My amber eyes flickered in confusion. “Sales? Gods have sales departments? You mean, like prophets?"

Markov flipped open a manila folder that had been sitting on his desk. “Prophets, oracles, and other such personnel, yes--but we feel that would be a complete waste of your talents.”

“Then what exactly do you want me for?”

A brief pause filled the air. Long enough for me to think about starting to possibly worry about what was coming next.

“We'd like to bring you on full time as a goddess, Miss Freebird.”

[Briarheart]

Oh, hells. Me, as a goddess. Me. I... I didn't know what to say. I said as much.

Markov's face stretched in a warm, fatherly smile. “Looking over your resume, you are more than qualified for one particular opening. Raised as an assassin, you have a healthy track record of clean kills and have met all your quarterly quotas of fear instilled. Your work in Eiskalt in particular shows that you check all the boxes.”

Despite myself, I felt my neck and face getting hotter. If I had, y'know, regular human skin and all, I'd be blushing.

“And the ingenuity you showed when creating Magic Killer for the Alerarans is very promising,” he continued. “Your body of work is impressive, and feel that you would be a valuable addition to Pantheon Solutions, Ltd.”

I mean, holy shit. I could become a goddess. Maybe not in the literal sense; it couldn't be this easy, right? I know many have tried to ascend to godhood, but have completely crashed and burned before they could reach it.

But then again, from the way Markov put it, I would actually be a goddess. I could use my extensive knowledge on various subjects to actually do some friggin' good for a change. ...I wonder how that would actually feel? Would I get the warm and fuzzies? Or would it leave me feeling even emptier than I usually do?

First, the most important part of a job interview. As excited as the possibilities were making me--

“I have a few questions.”

Markov nodded, clasping his hands tightly on the table. “Of course. Go ahead, Miss Freebird.”

Which one to ask first? Let's go with the obvious one. “What would my duties as...” The word caught on my tongue. Normally, I wasn't one to believe in them, but now... “...as a goddess entail?”

The God of War took a deep breath and carried on for what must have been a solid half hour or so. The short of it; I would be a part of a two-man (two-god?) team, tasked with “sales”. What that meant as far as Pantheon Solutions, Ltd. was concerned was... How did he put it? Sometimes, potential clients needed to be “sold” on the necessity of a higher power or powers. My job would entail demonstrating to the unwashed masses why they should have someone with a bit of the old omnipotence on their side, saving their asses every time the Big Bad Spooky Plant Lady From The Old Legends comes calling.

How would I do that, you ask?

Plagues. Lots of plagues.

Insects, blight, boils, snakes, sneezes, bacterial and viral. All the good stuff.

My wheelhouse.

I was sold. I was in, and Markov knew it.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Freebird,” he said with a grin as he extended his hand.

I wonder if Hyperion would like to be my high priestess. Maybe I could bring her on as an unpaid intern.