“…God,” he murmured, “why do I keep saying yes to things with basements? I'm starting to think it might be a kink or something. Ew.”
He slumped back in the chair, arms dangling over the sides like he was melting into it. The leather creaked under him again, far too luxurious for a place that may or may not have been built on a crypt. Or a cavern. Or...well, whatever.
“So I’m interviewing monsters. Monsters.”
He scratched his head under his hat, pausing for a second, as he had to confirm to himself that this was indeed reality. “Yeah. Okay. That’s not vague or terrifying or inethical at all.”
He sat up and leaned forward on the desk, tapping the metal with his gloved fingers. It was cold. The kind of cold that suggested it hadn’t felt a warm human touch since the 50's.
“Could’ve just been a cashier,” he muttered. “Nice job, daylight, screaming kids, maybe a rat or two. Normal stuff.”
He looked at the door. It remained shut, but there was a faint hum now. Like something was breathing very slowly behind it.
Nope. Nope nope nope.
He turned his attention to the desk—just in time to hear a bzzt followed by a whrrrrr-chk. Something clicked above him, or below him, or maybe inside the walls. It was hard to tell.
Then, with a sound like a printer being strangled to death, a sheet of paper slid onto the desk from…um...seemingly nowhere. There was no printer in sight. Not on the desk. Not under it, either. The wall hadn’t opened. It just... appeared. As if the building had coughed it up.
Halden stared at it.
“…Well that’s very normal.”
The paper smelled faintly of petrol and a hint of garlic. It was typed—again, in that unmistakable WRAITH & CO tone. Which was to say: enthusiastic and emotionally distant, like a children's cartoon about serial killers. Lovely.
RECRUITMENT PROFILE #0001
TODAY’S TARGET CANDIDATES : HIGHLY ADAPTABLE MONSTERS
PREFERRED ATTRIBUTES:
— Excellent survival instincts
— Shape-shifting / Multi-environment capabilities
— Non-unionized (expect to see this one a lot)
— Resistance to high-pressure scenarios (literally and metaphorically)
— Comfortable with... varied tasks
WARNING:
Adaptability does not imply docility.
Please refer to attached survival tip sheet [SURV-ADPT-001] before initiating interviews.
(Tip sheet not included. Tip sheet may not exist.)
GOOD LUCK, [INSERT NAME HERE]!
WRAITH & CO. — HIRING FOR A STRONGER TOMORROW, NO MATTER WHAT CRAWLS OUT OF THE DARK TODAY.
(?)
Halden squinted at the paper, then slowly lifted it up with two fingers like it might bite him. “Highly adaptable monsters,” he read aloud. “That could mean anything. It could be a werewolf, or a puddle.”
He paused. “Or a werepuddle. Puddlewolf? Wolf..ud...uh...Wuhddle...um.”
He shook his head.
He took another glance around the room. Still alone. Still no windows. Definitely wasn't a dream.
“Well, Halden,” he sighed, placing the paper down and cracking his knuckles through the gloves, “you wanted purpose. Here it is. Interviewing nightmare creatures in a forgotten hole for a company named after a ghost. Probably as meaningful as it gets...”
The terminal flickered again.
He jumped.
Then a new line of text blinked slowly onto the screen.
> FIRST CANDIDATE APPROACHING.
DO NOT SCREAM.
He swallowed. “Great.”
Interview #001: Slorbo
The door creaked open with a low, ancient groan. Worse than before, I mean.
A moment passed. Then came the sound.
Slrp. Schlup. Schlrrrch.
And finally, a shape.
It oozed its way in slowly. A translucent, glistening green-blue mass that flubbered forward with enthusiasm, wobbling slightly with each bounce. Atop the slime sat a perfectly dry, extremely proud-looking fedora. Around what would’ve been its neck—if it had one—was a loosely fastened clip-on tie, pink with cartoon ducks.
It paused in the doorway, wobbled happily, and gave what must have been a beaming smile—somehow. It didn't...have a mouth.
“HELLO!” it said. “I’m—well, I don’t really have a name yet, but hi!” It waved with...uh...itself. A wobbly pseudopod extended upward and did its best approximation of a happy little flap.
Halden stared for a moment, blinking slowly. This was...unexpected.
Then cleared his throat, grabbed the paper, and sat upright, posture overly stiff. “How should I call you?” he asked, already scribbling down No Name (Hat) in the corner.
The slime paused. “Oh. Um. You can call me Slorbo!”
“Right.” He didn’t question it.
He forced his voice into corporate mode, even as a drip of goo landed on the floor with a cheerful plop. “Do you have a resume?”
Slorbo tilted his hat back a little—on what Halden assumed was its front—and chuckled. “A what?”
“…Resume? You know, uh—prior experience? References? Documents?”
Slorbo wiggled cheerfully. “Nope :D! But I did survive being stepped on by a horse last week! That’s something, right?”
Halden wrote “Survived equine trauma” and circled it three times.
“Well, we’re looking for monsters with high adaptability,” he began, with forced composure. “Creatures that can survive varied environments, uh... shape-shift, improvise, and... ideally not form labor unions.”
Slorbo puffed up (or… inflated? Excuse my lackluster knowledge of slime anatomy.) excitedly. “Oh! I can totally do that! I change shape all the time—watch this!”
The slime shrunk into a puddle. Then puffed into a vague cube. Then a sort of lopsided cone. Then it just sort of… jiggled with pride.
“See? Very flexible!” it chirped.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Halden nodded slowly. “Yes. Quite. Impressive.”
He checked the next box. “Any combat experience?”
Slorbo blinked. “Combat?”
“You know. Conflict. Danger. Being attacked. Retaliation.”
“Ohhh!” The slime wobbled thoughtfully. “Well, a squirrel once bit me! And I didn’t die!”
“That’s a start.” He sighed. This box, he didn't tick.
“What’s your greatest strength?” Halden asked, now on autopilot.
“Optimism!” Slorbo said without hesitation, smiling wide.
“And your biggest weakness?”
“Fire.”
Halden paused. “Right.”
He looked at the terminal. Still dead. No hints. He didn't really know whether he was doing this correctly or not.
Halden leaned forward, fingers steepled like a parody of an actual interviewer. “Okay, Slorbo. Final question. This position involves potential exposure to...uh, wait, let me see...toxic atmospheres, temporal dislocation, unknowable horror, and occasional paperwork. Do you think you’re adaptable enough to work in those conditions?”
Slorbo jiggled with delight. “I don't know what any of that means! But I’m very happy to be here! :D”
There was a silence.
Halden sighed through his nose, pinched the bridge between his eyes, and looked back down at the profile sheet. Highly adaptable. Survives trauma. Shape-shifts. Cheerful under pressure. Not unionized.
“…You know what?” he muttered. “Screw it.”
He reached under the desk, pressed the green button marked ACCEPT, and heard a cheerful ding!.
The door across the room opened again with a hiss.
Slorbo gasped. “I got the job?!”
Halden nodded. “You’re hired. Just… try not to touch anything flammable.”
Slorbo jiggled with glee, did a little victory wobble, and oozed toward the exit.
If you listened closely, which Halden did, you could hear him sing, faintly, in the distance... "When you can't even say...my name..."
The door hissed shut behind him.
Halden sat back, rubbing his temples.
“One down,” he muttered. “God knows how many to go.”
He looked up at the terminal.
And right on cue, it buzzed back to life.
> CANDIDATE ACCEPTED.
WELL DONE.
SECOND CANDIDATE INCOMING...
He groaned.
Interview #002: Gregory Pawson
The door gave a metallic ka-thunk as it unlocked again.
Halden straightened up, eyes flicking warily to the entrance. What could be worse than a slime?
A long pause.
Then, a clawed hand reached through the door frame. The rest of the body didn’t follow—not immediately. The creature grunted, clearly stuck. There was some frustrated wriggling, a quiet growl, and then the distinct sound of fabric tearing.
Finally, a very large, very furry, very overdressed werewolf stumbled into the room sideways, clutching a large folder under one arm and a flash drive between two clawed fingers.
He was wearing a business shirt that might’ve fit a child’s mannequin. Definitely not a full sized werewolf. The buttons clung to life. His slacks had lost all will to live. His glasses were perched delicately on his snout, and fogging up with every anxious breath he took. And he took a lot.
“Ah—h-hello!” the werewolf wheezed, voice deep and hoarse. “S-Sorry. Door’s a little, um... narrow.”
Halden blinked. “Right. Happens.”
The werewolf immediately pulled out a microfiber cloth and began polishing his glasses with trembling hands. “I-I hope I’m not late. I set three alarms. I left at dawn, too. Chewed my GPS in half on the way here but I still made it. I think. I mean. Am I late?”
“You’re… fine,” Halden muttered. “Take a seat. Make um...yourself...comfortable.”
The werewolf awkwardly folded into the metal chair with the delicacy of a collapsing armoire. His tail stuck out at an angle.
Halden squinted. “You’re… here for the… accounting job?” He had guessed.
The werewolf nodded quickly, pushing the flash drive forward with both paws like a sacrifice to a very unimpressed deity. “Yes! I brought my references, portfolio, records, projections, background checks, blood test, and uh, psych eval. Just in case!”
He flipped open the folder and it was stacked. Like, stacked stacked. The subtexts had subtexts. The references had references.
Halden stared blankly at the terminal, which just blinked:
> PROFILE TYPE FOR ACCOUNTING: HIGHLY ADAPTABLE. SURVIVAL EXPERIENCE PREFERRED. EXCELLENT PROBLEM-SOLVING AND SPECIALIZED EXPERTISE ENCOURAGED.
“Uh-huh,” Halden said slowly. “Right.”
He turned back to the werewolf, clearing his throat. “Okay. Name?”
“Gregory. Gregory Pawson.”
Halden didn’t laugh. He wanted to, but he didn’t. That would’ve been cruel (and potentially life-threatening). He just nodded like it was totally normal.
“Resume?”
“Thirty pages,” Gregory said proudly, then instantly looked ashamed. “I-I trimmed it down from fifty.”
He passed it over. Halden took it. Pages were slightly damp. The man—wolf?—had credentials OUT THE ASS. CPA-certified. Ten years of corporate experience. Survival finance training. Office budgeting for high-risk environments. Interned in an adamantium mine.
“Wow,” Halden said honestly.
Gregory smiled. “Thank you. I, uh, take pride in my numbers.”
“Right,” Halden said, trying to stay professional. “Let’s go down the list. How adaptable are you?”
“I have learned three coding languages, survived a spreadsheet fire, and once filed taxes during a blood moon. I also fast during full moons and haven’t eaten a coworker in four fiscal years.”
Halden scribbled “impressive self-control” in the margins. Although he still struggled to understand what a...spreadsheet fire...meant. Oh well.
“Combat experience?”
Gregory shook his head quickly. “I’m more of a…um... hider. I can play dead extremely well. I took a seminar.”
“Team player?”
“I cry during group meetings but yes.”
Halden was starting to sweat. The guy was a perfect hire. But—
He leaned forward. “Okay, look. This might be a weird question but… are you technically a shape-shifter?”
Gregory blinked. “I—well, yes? I mean, full moons, stress, peanuts. It’s not, like, voluntary.”
“Right, right…” Halden stared down at the profile sheet. “Just trying to check if you count as a 'highly adaptable monster' or, like, a 'dude with a glandular issue.'”
Gregory opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “...I once escaped a riot by flattening myself between two vending machines. If that..um...can help.”
“...Noted.”
Halden shrugged, then pushed the button once more.
The terminal let out a ding!
Halden stared at it, then looked back at Gregory, who was already reorganizing his own file alphabetically.
“You’re in.”
Gregory paused. “I—what?”
“You’re hired,” Halden said, half in disbelief himself. “Congratulations. You can, uh… just follow the green line on the floor when the light turns on.”
Gregory made a small yipping noise of joy, clumsily tried to shake Halden’s hand, then squeezed back through the door with a thwump, tail wagging happily.
Halden slumped in his chair.
Then looked at the stack of papers Gregory had left behind.
It had tabs. Color-coded ones.
“…God, I hope he survives,” he muttered.
> SCANNING LIST OF REMAINING PROFILES...
He rubbed his face.
“I need coffee. Or sedatives. Or sedative-flavored coffee.”
And then—
> END OF DAILY PROFILES.
> DAILY COMPLETION STATUS: ACCEPTABLE.
> LETHAL GAS DISPENSAL: DEACTIVATED.
There was a loud click overhead. Halden didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked up to the vent above him. Had that thing been there the whole time? Probably.
“Ah,” he said flatly. “So I don’t die today. Fantastic. Was this even mentionned in the contract? No, 'cause I don't think it's very leg-”
> CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR FIRST DAY, INTERVIEWER HALDEN.
> YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY IDENTIFIED TWO POTENTIALLY VALUABLE EMPLOYEES.
> NOT ALL FUTURE APPLICANTS WILL BE AS SUITABLE. PLEASE PREPARE YOURSELF TO SAY 'NO'.
> YOUR DECISION-MAKING INSTINCTS AND HUMAN-BASED PERCEPTION ALGORITHMS ARE HIGHLY VALUED.
Halden squinted. “Is that just a fancy way of saying ‘vibes’?”
> YES.
“…Right.”
There was a faint clunk from the desk. A small, dull coin slid out from a slot that Halden hadn’t noticed before.
It had the company's horrid logo stamped on one side—“WRAITH & Co”—and a picture of a coffee cup on the other.
> TREAT YOURSELF TO ONE UNIT OF COFFEE. YOU HAVE EARNED IT.
Halden picked up the coin slowly. It was warm. Which was concerning. Not enough to raise any more alarm bells than...well, all the rest.
“Thanks,” he muttered to nobody, and got up, stretching. His back cracked loudly.
The facility was still utterly silent. No hum of machinery. No flickering lights. Just... still.
Halden followed the narrow concrete corridor, past the flickering exit sign, into a small side-lobby by the elevator. There was a single vending machine standing there, old and humming softly. The buttons were worn blank.
And standing in front of it, staring at it with full-bodied determination, was the slime.
“OH! HALDEN!” it said excitedly, turning around (sort of—it wobbled ninety degrees or so). “I WANTED TO GET YOU A COFFEE!”
Halden blinked. “…I literally just got a coin to do that myself.”
“YES! But you worked so hard today!” the slime chirped. “AND I FIGURED, ‘WHY NOT BE NICE TO MY BOSS!’ :DDD”
“I’m not your—”
“I’M GONNA DO IT.”
Halden leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
The slime squinted up at the machine. Or… maybe just leaned slightly forward. Either way, it seemed to concentrate.
A single pseudopod reached toward the coin slot. It flailed slightly. Missed. Slapped a button. The machine beeped angrily.
“Oh dear D:,” said the slime, trying again. It dropped the coin. Picked it back up with an apologetic squelch.
Halden watched in silence as the slime spent four full minutes trying to line up the coin. At one point, it got the coin halfway in and then absorbed it accidentally.
“WHOOPS,” it said, flustered. “Gimme a sec, I'll—”
“Nope,” Halden said, turning around. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“But—YOUR COFFEE! DDD:”
“You’ve… earned it more than I have,” Halden muttered, throwing him his own coin, already walking toward the exit.
“OH! OKAY! I’ll save you a sip! :D”
“Please don’t.”
He stepped into the elevator and let the doors close on the sound of buttons being enthusiastically slapped and a vending machine quietly weeping.
Day One. Done.
He didn’t die. He hired a slime and a tax-wolf. Got a coffee coin. Lost a coffee coin.
Halden sighed.
“…I should’ve gone back to McDonalds.”