RP Silythus Tower, Inc.


Resident Witch
Staff member
Greta Henderson had been the receptionist at Silythus Tower for exactly seven years, this day. Early in the morning, when she had first arrived, Madam Anastasia had presented her with a small cake and a series of cards (each one containing small gifts or gift cards). The entire office had remembered the day she had first arrived at the company. And of course, without a birthday to celebrate, they had taken to celebrating her arrival instead.

It was one of the things she loved about working at the company. Not only was she working for one of the most innovative companies she had ever known, but she was valued as an employee. The hours were good, as was the pay. And despite the odd working conditions she sometimes found herself working in, she appreciated the company for all they had done for her.

It was roughly ten AM when she pulled out the new hire documents from the cabinet underneath the octopus tank behind her desk. The little guy in the tank gently placed a full tentacle on the glass, tapping it in her direction. Greta smiled and stood, reaching for the shelf over the desk. She took down the cooler that sat there, and using the tongs on the side, she reached in and pulled out two small fish. They were exotic-looking in nature. These weren’t goldfish or beta fish or any of the other kinds of fish you’d find in a pet shop. In fact, they looked oddly like angel fish.

She lifted the lid to the tank and dropped the cold, dead fish into the tank. As the lid snapped shut, the octopus– whose name was Cleo– snatched up the fish and disappeared into the inky darkness of the tank. Greta smiled to herself and sat back down with the new hire paperwork. There were certain documents she was waiting on. The new interns would be bringing it in with them, of which there were at least four of. Interns, not documents.

Supposedly, they might even have a fifth arriving at some point today, but they had confirmed at least four of the interns. She had five sets of documents ready, nonetheless. It would be easy enough to return one set, empty, to the folder in the drawer behind her. Or at least, it normally was. Sometimes the drawers could be finicky.

The new hires were told to arrive any time between ten AM and eleven AM. Orientation would begin at eleven-fifteen. This gave them plenty of time to arrive and interact with one another. Madam Anastasia believed it was very important for all employees to have working relationships, if not friendships. This was one of the ways the company functioned as well as it did.

Greta hummed softly to herself as she finished sorting through the papers. For the most part, the documents were non-disclosure agreements, hazard documents, new hire handbooks, as well as assignment paperwork. Each department had its own assignment paperwork, as each department functioned in vastly different ways. Two for Finances and Asset Protections, one for Design and Interfacing, and one for Sales and Strategy. Those were the ones she knew for sure. Until the fifth intern arrived, she wouldn’t know what other documents she needed.

After she had the paperwork sorted, she reached under the main cavity of the desk and lifted a box out, setting it carefully on the desk. Apparently, one of their interns had submitted documents demanding that they provide either compensation for her equipment or workplace-provided equipment. Given the short notice, they had opted to supply her for her first day with the items she would need. Hopefully, once she understood why they needed to be her personal equipment, she would simply accept reimbursement. After all, the equipment on site tended to have trouble bonding with new employees. Not enough time within the company for things to have imprinted on them.

With everything finally and completely sorted, Greta sat back down. All that was left was to wait for the new hires to arrive. She pulled out her copy of Foundation by Asimov, reclined in her chair, and tapped on the security camera feed that was linked to the front doors. Then, she flipped the book open to her bookmark and began to read.
There were always questions with a new job, weren't there? Giselle Hart had read the offer letter over several times, hoping to find answers, but what she had mostly found was more questions.

Why didn't she remember the interview? Who had she talked to? What had they said? What was this job supposed to be about? Was she really curious enough to take the risk, or was she just that desperate?

The last one she could answer, at least. Freelance work paid... sometimes. Sometimes it even paid well, but Giselle had totaled up the amount of time she spent chasing after clients to pay their invoices, and it certainly cut into her hourly more than she would have liked. She could always do a little freelance work on the side, but there was certainly a lure in the idea of having a steady paycheck to balance it all out and give her some leeway to drop a few of her clients who were less inclined to part with their fees.

Was she going to be working in Design as she assumed, or was that a misconception on her part? What if she ended up working in Technology and Development and she hadn't brought steel-toed boots - Giselle did not own steel-toed boots. Were the people in Technology and Development supposed to bring both steel-toed boots and galoshes, and were the galoshes supposed to fit over the steel-toed boots? When they said wear comfortable clothing, did they actually mean it, or did they mean that they wanted them to wear business casual and pretend it was perfectly comfortable?

Giselle had decided that, as far as the last one went, she was going to wear comfortable clothing and if they didn't like it, she would go back to freelancing. "Comfortable clothing," in this case, was a dark skirted ballet dress over pale leggings, and a pair of flats, because pointe shoes were not comfortable unless one was actually en pointe. She had a messenger bag, which had neatly rolled galoshes, a tightly rolled raincoat, a rather elderly Victorianox Swiss Army knife with several blades, one of which was three and a half inches and was just going to have to be good enough, because she wasn't about to take a hunting knife on public transit. The rest of the recommended but not required list wasn't made up of things that Giselle owned already, and she wasn't about to go out buying them until she'd gotten at least one or two paychecks. She was also uncertain what she would actually need those for, and that simply led to more questions.

The trip here had gone more quickly than she'd expected it to, for once not suffering a breakdown or mechanical failure or worker's strike or lightning bolt from the heavens or any of the other things that usually made public transit reliably later than one thought it would be. Consequently, it was just passing three, which led her to the door with one additional question.

Do I knock?

She knocked.
Emma Kwon-Atkinson was not the kind of person to be late.

She wasn't, even, particularly the type of person to be on time, because if you drew the time out until you were right on time, you were effectively late anyway, even if you weren't. And if you drew the time out to be right on time, then ran into some unexpected circumstances along the way that made you actually late?

Then it was your own darn fault.

She'd left with the idea of arriving thirty minutes early, but (thanks to her careful planning and a bad spot of traffic and the garage she'd carefully chosen ahead of time being closed) she was arriving on time, which was later than she intended, but on time none the less. She wasn't alone - a girl was standing outside the door and waiting patiently, wearing something that could only be described as middle school chic. Another one of the interns, then.

Emma, tugged on the front of her blouse and brushed out her slacks, moving up next to the girl with a curt glance.

"That's not even business casual." She eyed her up and down. "When they said dress comfortable, they didn't mean wear the first thing you pulled out of your closet."

Her gaze shifted to the door.

"Is it locked?"