6th Ymiden 718
Molly came to her in the morning (well ‘morning’ relative to the perpetual visage of an accusing paleblood moon looming within reach of a broken world where only time is feared, yearning for the warm embrace a mother would extend to their malformed, shapeless forever child seeded by Formless Odium, most elusive of the Old Ones and a surprisingly gifted citre player on casual fridays in the Yana lounge. He’s in Human Resources counseling for his many illicit affairs and he seems to be making progress. Very happy for him. Hope it all gets sorted out) with five words that instantly ruined Fiona’s day.
“The Amygdala are on strike.”
Fiona didn’t drink coffee. But if she did, she would have sat up from her chair in the Hunter’s House, thrown back her hand, and very calmly and very deliberately spat it all over the giant, pink-brimmed bonnet that was all she could see of the diminutive Molly. Instead, she pretended a sudden, inexplicable interest in the book she was perusing. She couldn’t read a thing about since it was written in a runic alphabet indecipherable without anything short of a hundred eyes lining the inside of your brains, but it still served its purpose for hiding her shock and the growing dread in the pit of her stomach from Molly.
“Say that again.”
“The Amygdala are on strike.” Molly repeated obediently.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Wait, let me get this straight: Aren’t the Amygdala’s attractions?”
She couldn’t see Molly’s face, but the sudden shift in body language bristled offense.
“I don’t know what basic etiquette is like where you come from, Fiona, but here? We do not call valued employees of Hunter’s Dream enterprises ‘attractions’. Consider this your only warning. Your next slur will be reported to HR-”
“THEY’RE GIANT, 20 FOOT TALL DRAGON-SPIDERS WITH DETACHABLE ARMS THAT SHOOT LASER BEAMS FROM THE MASS OF EYES AND LUMPY TISSUE THAT THEY DEIGN TO CALL HEADS. HOW WAS I TO KNOW THAT WASN’T AN ATTRACTION?”
The bonnet shook its head in disappointment. “You better check yourself before you wreck yourself, Fiona. You use that kind of language in my face again, and we’re gonna have words. And fists. Mostly words.”
“They’re-”
“A prejudiced minority trying to find their way in a world that doesn’t want them, refuses to understand them, and willing to exploit their inherent ability to grab people and shift them between the nebulous dream and the nightmare frontiers as for minimum wage.”
“I thought they crushed the people they grabbed in their claws”
“A myth touted as truth to enhance immersion for visitors to the Dream. They’re just glorified transport systems paid next to nothing. Frankly, I’m happy they’re finally standing up for themselves; demanding a good wage for once. This is an unprecedented civil rights milestone we’re looking at.”
“They’re spiders-”
Molly tiptoed on her heels and smacked her on the cheek so hard she was launched out of her chair. Her book spilled from her hands, clattering to the side. She brought up a hand to finger the stinging welt. For someone who barely reached up to her shoulders without the giant bonnet, the bitch hit hard.
“No 3rd strike,” Molly said. “Perhaps your racially-challenged fanny shouldn’t be at the negotiation.”
“Negotiation?”
“We need them to keep working, one way or another. I’m just hoping we get them a good, nice raise so all parties are happy.”
Fiona righted herself, still fingering her cheek. “How often does this happen? How often do these monsters-”
She could feel Molly’s glare and, not wanting to be slapped by the abnormally powerful child, quickly changed tact-
“-Employees act up?”
“Surprisingly often. The Wet Nurse was demanding a raise, extra benefits, and counseling leave as her contract neared expiration because, I quote, Mergo’s a needy bitch with no personal boundaries and a perverse mammalian inclination for breast milk which, as you well know, a giant cloak of blades cannot provide. Maria thinks she’s worth thrice her salary pretending to be a living corpse in a derelict clocktower, so we relocated her to the developmental areas of the Dream to wait out her contract. ‘Lady’ she wants to be called. What an entitled bitch. These Amygdala toll daily in the ruins of visitor hotspots like the old cathedral and she thinks she and her human-shaped butt thinks she’s undervalued?" The bonnet moved up slightly; an indignant scoff. “Yharnlinials. They don’t know how hard us Loraniels have it.”
This was insane. Fiona took this job expecting to handle dangerous creatures, yes, but this was way outsider her field of expertise. She handled the vile, the brutal, the fearsome, and the feral and excelled at it all - but pay disputes? Why did some of the specimens get the same rights extended to proper, dyed-in-the-wool sapient beings. What exactly did she sign up for?
“What exactly did I sign up for?” she repeated out loud, but Molly had already walked over to her wheelchair, plopping her butt down on it; a giant bonnet pretending to be disabled for… reasons.
“Come along then,” she said. “There’s a few things we need to do before the negotiations later in the afternoon.”
“How am I suppose to tell it’s the afternoon again?”
“The moon starts bleeding and the celestial children turn towards the cathedral to worship their buried sire.”
“Arbitrarily weird shit happens. Gotcha.”
Molly came to her in the morning (well ‘morning’ relative to the perpetual visage of an accusing paleblood moon looming within reach of a broken world where only time is feared, yearning for the warm embrace a mother would extend to their malformed, shapeless forever child seeded by Formless Odium, most elusive of the Old Ones and a surprisingly gifted citre player on casual fridays in the Yana lounge. He’s in Human Resources counseling for his many illicit affairs and he seems to be making progress. Very happy for him. Hope it all gets sorted out) with five words that instantly ruined Fiona’s day.
“The Amygdala are on strike.”
Fiona didn’t drink coffee. But if she did, she would have sat up from her chair in the Hunter’s House, thrown back her hand, and very calmly and very deliberately spat it all over the giant, pink-brimmed bonnet that was all she could see of the diminutive Molly. Instead, she pretended a sudden, inexplicable interest in the book she was perusing. She couldn’t read a thing about since it was written in a runic alphabet indecipherable without anything short of a hundred eyes lining the inside of your brains, but it still served its purpose for hiding her shock and the growing dread in the pit of her stomach from Molly.
“Say that again.”
“The Amygdala are on strike.” Molly repeated obediently.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Wait, let me get this straight: Aren’t the Amygdala’s attractions?”
She couldn’t see Molly’s face, but the sudden shift in body language bristled offense.
“I don’t know what basic etiquette is like where you come from, Fiona, but here? We do not call valued employees of Hunter’s Dream enterprises ‘attractions’. Consider this your only warning. Your next slur will be reported to HR-”
“THEY’RE GIANT, 20 FOOT TALL DRAGON-SPIDERS WITH DETACHABLE ARMS THAT SHOOT LASER BEAMS FROM THE MASS OF EYES AND LUMPY TISSUE THAT THEY DEIGN TO CALL HEADS. HOW WAS I TO KNOW THAT WASN’T AN ATTRACTION?”
The bonnet shook its head in disappointment. “You better check yourself before you wreck yourself, Fiona. You use that kind of language in my face again, and we’re gonna have words. And fists. Mostly words.”
“They’re-”
“A prejudiced minority trying to find their way in a world that doesn’t want them, refuses to understand them, and willing to exploit their inherent ability to grab people and shift them between the nebulous dream and the nightmare frontiers as for minimum wage.”
“I thought they crushed the people they grabbed in their claws”
“A myth touted as truth to enhance immersion for visitors to the Dream. They’re just glorified transport systems paid next to nothing. Frankly, I’m happy they’re finally standing up for themselves; demanding a good wage for once. This is an unprecedented civil rights milestone we’re looking at.”
“They’re spiders-”
Molly tiptoed on her heels and smacked her on the cheek so hard she was launched out of her chair. Her book spilled from her hands, clattering to the side. She brought up a hand to finger the stinging welt. For someone who barely reached up to her shoulders without the giant bonnet, the bitch hit hard.
“No 3rd strike,” Molly said. “Perhaps your racially-challenged fanny shouldn’t be at the negotiation.”
“Negotiation?”
“We need them to keep working, one way or another. I’m just hoping we get them a good, nice raise so all parties are happy.”
Fiona righted herself, still fingering her cheek. “How often does this happen? How often do these monsters-”
She could feel Molly’s glare and, not wanting to be slapped by the abnormally powerful child, quickly changed tact-
“-Employees act up?”
“Surprisingly often. The Wet Nurse was demanding a raise, extra benefits, and counseling leave as her contract neared expiration because, I quote, Mergo’s a needy bitch with no personal boundaries and a perverse mammalian inclination for breast milk which, as you well know, a giant cloak of blades cannot provide. Maria thinks she’s worth thrice her salary pretending to be a living corpse in a derelict clocktower, so we relocated her to the developmental areas of the Dream to wait out her contract. ‘Lady’ she wants to be called. What an entitled bitch. These Amygdala toll daily in the ruins of visitor hotspots like the old cathedral and she thinks she and her human-shaped butt thinks she’s undervalued?" The bonnet moved up slightly; an indignant scoff. “Yharnlinials. They don’t know how hard us Loraniels have it.”
This was insane. Fiona took this job expecting to handle dangerous creatures, yes, but this was way outsider her field of expertise. She handled the vile, the brutal, the fearsome, and the feral and excelled at it all - but pay disputes? Why did some of the specimens get the same rights extended to proper, dyed-in-the-wool sapient beings. What exactly did she sign up for?
“What exactly did I sign up for?” she repeated out loud, but Molly had already walked over to her wheelchair, plopping her butt down on it; a giant bonnet pretending to be disabled for… reasons.
“Come along then,” she said. “There’s a few things we need to do before the negotiations later in the afternoon.”
“How am I suppose to tell it’s the afternoon again?”
“The moon starts bleeding and the celestial children turn towards the cathedral to worship their buried sire.”
“Arbitrarily weird shit happens. Gotcha.”
