Two hours later. . .
With a sigh and another look at her watch, Fran debated the merits of pulling out her cell phone and logging in for a few more rounds of Fallout Shelter. She shifted in the remarkably uncomfortable antique chair and reached for her briefcase. Leave it to the Templars to value tradition over comfort, she snarked to herself. Just because a few decades of Templar asses have rested here, doesn’t mean they couldn’t replace the springs and add a little lumbar support.
She pulled the file for Gracie “Ghostchilde” Miyelli and scanned through it again, quickly glancing away from the color photograph clipped to the heavily redacted file. Damn, those are some spooky eyes, she thought to herself once again. Tilting the paper, she attempted once again to see through the streaky black redacting marks, with little success. If the Templars would actually join the 21st century, that would be awesome. At least I’d be able to hack a computer file. The non-redacted contents of the file were so bare bones as to be virtually meaningless. “Ghostchilde” had joined the Templars less than a year ago, and had already shot to the top of the Templar ranks as a “Bee”.
“Home town: redacted, Education: Redacted, Current assignment: redacted. Skills and abilities. . . Holy shit,” Fran muttered, taking in the pages of arcane and mundane weaponry listed. “Mental note, pissing off this boss may be hazardous to my health.” The soft murmur of a one sided conversation was the only warning she got before a pale woman in a white jacket and white leather trousers stepped into the hallway, talking intermittently into a Bluetooth headset.
For pity’s sake, she’s so pale she freakin’ glows in the dark, Fran marveled to herself. Ghostchilde paused her end of the phone conversation, her spooky-pale green eyes meeting Fran’s with a touch of amusement, as Fran stood to attention. And yep, the eyes aren’t ONE BIT less freaky in person. Fran’s new boss pointed to herself. “Albino. Sunscreen is my best friend. Get over it.” She held up a smart phone. “Sonnac says you’re my ‘Faction Recruit’. . . so, Faction Recruit, welcome to Team Ghost.”
“Actually my name is. . . “ Fran began, stepping forward to shake hands.
Ghostchilde drew back and interrupted her sharply. “No handshakes, please--I have a thing about contact. In fact, you’re probably better off standing over there,” she pointed to a spot a few feet away. “Things that invade my personal bubble tend to end up double-tapped. We’ll talk names when you prove you can actually survive this madhouse,” she continued. “I hate going to the trouble of memorizing someone’s name just to have them die off. Can’t keep track of the dead ones names anymore, anyway” the pale woman added cryptically. “Got some work for you already.”
She tapped at her phone and Fran’s own phone beeped in response. A text message sent as a speech bubble from an orange Pac Man ghost appeared on her screen. Fran opened the message, eager to finally start her new job and prove herself to her new boss, but her heart sank as she read the details. She looked up at Ghostchilde with narrowed eyes. “Sonnac’s solstice shopping? Seriously? That’s what you’re giving me for my first assignment? “
The pale woman smiled, and to Fran it looked like there was just a touch of evil glee in that smile. “This is the Secret World, Faction Recruit. Nothing is ever as simple as picking up someone’s packages. Keep up the whining and I’ll have you working on my dry cleaning. Have you ever experienced what an Ur Draug can do to white leather? ” Ghostchilde tapped at her phone again. “Here are the receipts and a voucher for some ammo from the armory. Remember, if overwhelming firepower doesn’t work, you’re not using enough of it.” With that, she waved, and disappeared in a shower of golden sparks and buzzing.
“Freakin’ bees. . . . “ Fran muttered, and headed to the armory.
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