1
CYPRESS
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead with the same dying-battery energy that I feel pulsing through my veins, and I wonder, not for the first time this morning, if the universe is trying to send me a message about the trajectory of my life. The conference room smells like stale coffee and broken dreams, that particular corporate miasma of burnt Folgers and the collective desperation of thirty-seven employees who all know the ship is sinking but lack the survival instincts to start swimming for shore. I pretend to take notes while Gerald Hoffstead, our illustrious CEO, drones on aboutsynergistic optimization strategiesandleveraging our core competencies in the Q3 pipeline. The man hasn't had an original thought since 1987, and even that one was probably stolen from a fortune cookie.
"As you can see from the projections," Gerald continues, gesturing vaguely at a PowerPoint slide that I'm ninety percent certain he copied from a LinkedIn motivational post, "our path forward requires bold, innovative thinking." He pauses for dramatic effect, smoothing down his combover with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned his ownmediocrity. "We need to think outside the box, people. We need to be disruptors."
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper because if I have to hear the word "disruptor" one more time from a man who still doesn't know how to unmute himself on Zoom calls, I'm going to disrupt his face with my tablet. My green highlighter hovers over a particularly egregious bullet point about "streamlining redundancies," which is corporate-speak for "firing the people who actually do the work while keeping the golf buddies on payroll." The yellow highlighter is for action items I'll need to follow up on, the pink is for things that are actively on fire, and at this point, my entire document is a screaming neon pink disaster zone.
Marcy from Accounting catches my eye from across the table and makes a tiny gagging motion that she disguises as adjusting her reading glasses. I respond with an almost imperceptible eye roll, the kind of silent communication that only develops between survivors of prolonged corporate warfare. We've been doing this dance for three years now, watching Gerald systematically dismantle everything that made Pinnacle Solutions functional while collecting bonuses that could fund a small nation's healthcare system. The man has the business acumen of a caffeinated lemming, and somehow he's still in charge of two hundred people's livelihoods.
"Cypress," Gerald barks suddenly, and I snap to attention with the practiced alertness of someone who has learned that looking busy is seventy percent of surviving these meetings, "where are we on the Henderson account?"
"We lost the Henderson account six weeks ago, Gerald." I keep carefully neutral, the tone of a woman who has practiced this exact conversation in front of her bathroom mirror while holding a stress ball shaped like a screaming face. "They went with Morrison & Associates after we missed the thirdconsecutive deadline because IT couldn't recover the files that were deleted when Derek in Sales accidentally reformatted the shared drive while trying to download what he claimed was 'definitely not a virus.'" Derek, who is sitting three chairs down and studiously avoiding eye contact, turns an impressive shade of magenta. "I sent you a memo about it. I also sent you a follow-up memo. And then I printed out both memos and left them on your desk with a Post-it note that said 'URGENT: Please Read.'"
Gerald blinks at me with the vacant expression of a man who uses his desk primarily as a surface for his collection of motivational desk toys and has never once checked his email. "Right, right, the Henderson situation. We're pivoting on that. Pivoting is key." He nods sagely, as if he's imparted some profound wisdom rather than just strung together buzzwords like corporate magnetic poetry. "What we need to focus on now is the Quarterly Innovation Summit. I want everyone brainstorming. I want ideas. I want outside-the-box thinking."
The box, I think bitterly, adjusting my messy bun which has achieved a new level of structural instability that mirrors my mental state. The box is on fire. The box has been on fire for eighteen months. I have sent seventeen separate emails about the box being on fire, complete with charts and graphs and a very detailed PowerPoint presentation that no one attended because Gerald scheduled the meeting during the company-wide mandatory fun day that he also scheduled. At this point, I am standing inside the burning box, and Gerald is asking me to think outside of it while simultaneously denying that fire exists as a concept.
My tablet buzzes with a notification from the company's internal messaging system, a passive-aggressive reminder from Gerald's executive assistant that I need to submit my expense reports by end of day or face "administrative consequences," which is rich considering I haven't been reimbursed for theemergency printer cartridges I bought out of pocket four months ago when the entire purchasing department was "restructured" into nonexistence. I add another pink highlight to my notes, this one simply reading "SCREAM INTO VOID" in increasingly unhinged handwriting that has deteriorated significantly since I started this job as a bright-eyed recent graduate who thought "entry-level position with growth potential" meant something other than "do the work of six people for the salary of half a person."
The meeting continues its slow, agonizing crawl toward what I can only assume will be a merciful death, and I find myself calculating exactly how many more months of this I can endure before my student loans are paid off enough to justify the sweet release of unemployment. The math is depressing. The math is always depressing. I have a master's degree in Business Administration and I'm essentially a very expensive babysitter for a man who once asked me to explain what a PDF was, and the worst part is that I'm good at this job, genuinely good at keeping the ship afloat despite Gerald's best efforts to drill holes in the hull while insisting that water is actually "liquid opportunity."
"Now, regarding the budget allocations," Gerald says, and Marcy's soul visibly leaves her body as she realizes we're only on slide seven of forty-three, "I've been thinking about some creative restructuring that could really maximize our?—"
The door explodes.
Not opens. Not swings wide. Explodes inward with a thunderous crack that sends splinters of wood showering across the conference table like confetti at the world's most aggressive surprise party. I'm on my feet before my brain catches up with my body, tablet clutched to me like a shield and three highlighters clattering to the floor as the entire room descends into screaming chaos. The emergency exit sign flickers overhead, apparently as startled as the rest of us, and throughthe settling dust and debris steps the largest person I have ever seen in my life.
He has to duck to clear the doorframe, and even then his shoulders brush against both sides of the ruined entrance as he strides into the conference room with the casual authority of someone who has never once questioned whether he belongs in any space he chooses to occupy. His skin is a deep olive green, the color of ancient forests and something primal that my hindbrain recognizes as danger even as my conscious mind struggles to process the sheer overwhelming presence of him. He's wearing a suit, my brain notes hysterically, a three-piece Italian number in charcoal gray that looks like it cost more than my car and my apartment combined, and it strains across shoulders that could comfortably carry a refrigerator while the buttons of his vest wage a valiant but losing battle against the muscular terrain beneath.
Two tusks curve up from his lower jaw, and I notice with a detached sort of horror that they're braided, actually braided with what looks like thin gold wire in an intricate pattern that catches the flickering fluorescent light. His hair is dark and pulled back from his face in a severe style that emphasizes the brutal angles of his cheekbones and the deep-set intensity of eyes that sweep across the room like a general surveying a battlefield. In one hand, he carries a steel briefcase that looks less like an accessory and more like a weapon, and given the way the muscles of his forearm flex beneath the tailored sleeve, I suspect it serves both purposes equally well.
"ATTENTION, CONQUERED PEOPLES," he bellows. "I AM KNOX BLOODAXE, WARCHIEF OF THE BLOODAXE CLAN AND YOUR NEW SUPREME COMMANDER OF CAPITAL ACQUISITION. THIS TERRITORY AND ALL ITS ASSETS ARE NOW UNDER MY DOMINION BY RIGHT OF HOSTILE FINANCIAL CONQUEST."
Gerald makes a noise like a deflating balloon and clutches at his heart in a way that makes me wonder if I should call HR or an ambulance, though given that HR was also "restructured" last month, the ambulance is probably the more practical option. The man's face has gone the color of old cottage cheese, and he's gripping the conference table with both hands as if it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the mortal plane. Around him, my coworkers are in various states of panic, some frozen in their seats with expressions of pure animal terror, others attempting to hide under the table with the graceful coordination of startled deer, and Derek from Sales has knocked over three chairs in his desperate scramble toward the emergency exit that, I notice with grim satisfaction, he cannot figure out how to open because he never actually read the safety manual I sent him last quarter.
The Orc, Knox Bloodaxe, I suppose I should think of him as, though my brain is still stuck on “terrifying green man in a very nice suit," steps further into the room with a ground-shaking confidence that makes the carpet tremble beneath his presumably custom-made dress shoes. Behind him, through the shattered remains of our conference room door, I can see more figures moving in the hallway, other Orcs in similarly tailored business attire carrying tablets and folders and what appears to be a portable whiteboard, and the cognitive dissonance of watching a hostile takeover conducted with both brute force and proper presentation materials is doing something complicated to my stress response.
"Your pathetic defensive maneuvers were laughable," Knox continues, and I notice that he's not just yelling for effect, this is apparently just his regular speaking volume, a battlefield boom that commands attention through sheer sonic dominance. "Your poison-pill provisions crumbled like the bones of the weak before the onslaught of superior strategy. Your white knight defenders fled the field of battle when faced with our leveragedbuyout offensive. The Bloodaxe Clan has secured a majority stake in this... companyy..." He says the word like he's tasting something unfamiliar, his tusks clicking together thoughtfully. "And by the ancient laws of corporate combat, all who dwell within these walls are now subject to my command."
"You can't— this is— there are procedures—" Gerald sputters, as he attempts to summon the blustering authority that has served him so poorly for years. "I am the Chief Executive Officer of Pinnacle Solutions and I demand to speak with your— your?—"
"Your quarterly earnings have declined for seven consecutive cycles," Knox interrupts, and he reaches into his suit jacket to produce a folder that he tosses onto the conference table with a heavy thwap that makes everyone within a three-foot radius flinch. "Your market share has hemorrhaged like a gut-wound in battle. Your competitor analysis is laughable, your supply chain optimization is nonexistent, and your employee retention rate suggests that your workers would rather face the unemployment wastes than continue serving under your banner." He leans forward, placing both hands on the table, and the wood groans audibly under the pressure. "You have led this company like a chieftain who has never tasted victory, who fears the sound of his own war drums. I have executed hostile acquisitions of seventeen enterprises across three continents, and you, Gerald Hoffstead..." He pronounces the name with contemptuous precision. "You are the most incompetent warlord I have ever had the displeasure of deposing."
Gerald's face cycles through an impressive range of colors, white to red to purple and back to white again, before his eyes roll back in his head and he crumples to the floor with the boneless grace of a man whose entire worldview has just been violently restructured. Several people scream, nobody actuallymoves to help him because honestly what would we even do, and Knox Bloodaxe straightens up to his full, terrifying height.
"The fallen leader will be removed and processed according to standard severance protocols," Knox announces to the room at large, and one of the Orcs from the hallway, this one in a slightly less impressive but still very nice navy suit, steps forward to efficiently drag Gerald's unconscious form out of the room by his ankles. Which, technically, is perfectly legal under the Inter-Species Corporate Combat Accords, provided the acquiring clan pays the mandatory medical hazard fees. I know this because I actually read the fine print of our corporate charter, unlike Gerald, who is currently buffing the hallway carpet with his face. "His tenure of failure has ended," Knox booms, entirely unbothered by the human resources nightmare he just legally created. "A new era of conquest begins." His eyes, which I notice now are a deep amber color catches the light like molten metal, sweeping across the assembled employees with the calculating assessment of someone evaluating the potential usefulness of recently acquired assets. His gaze passes over Marcy, who has gone very still, and Derek, who has given up on the emergency exit and is now hiding behind a potted plant that is absolutely not large enough to conceal him, and the rest of my coworkers who all seem to have collectively forgotten how to breathe.
And then his eyes land on me.
I am still standing, I realize, my tablet still clutched to me and my three highlighters scattered across the carpet around my feet like fallen soldiers. My glasses have slid down my nose from the impact shockwave of the door explosion, and my bun has achieved a level of dishevelment that could generously be described as "catastrophic," but I haven't moved from my spot since the chaos began. I haven't screamed, haven't hidden, haven't fainted like Gerald or fled like Derek attempted to.I've just been standing here, watching, processing, cataloguing information the way I've been trained to do through years of surviving corporate warfare in its more mundane forms.
Knox Bloodaxe looks at me, really looks, and something shifts in his expression that I can't quite identify. The room has gone deathly silent around us, everyone holding their breath.
He raises one hand, and I notice the rings adorning his thick green fingers, heavy bands of what looks like white gold and darker iron that speak to a wealth and power that goes beyond the already impressive statement of the tailored suit. His index finger extends, pointing directly at me with an unwavering certainty that brooks no argument, and when he speaks, his voice drops from a battlefield boom to something almost conversational, though it still resonates with that bone-deep authority.
"You."
