Around me, my coworkers are making themselves as small as possible, as if they can somehow avoid notice through sheer force of will, and I am suddenly, acutely aware that I am the sole focus of an apex predator's attention.
"You are the one who prepared the defensive analysis," Knox continues, and it's not a question. "The one who identified the seventeen structural weaknesses in the current leadership's strategy. The one who sent..." He pauses, reaching into his jacket again to produce another folder, this one significantly thicker, and I feel my stomach drop as I recognize the formatting of my own meticulous documentation. "Forty-three memos. Forty-three detailed tactical assessments of this company's vulnerabilities, complete with projected outcomes and recommended countermeasures, all of which were ignored by the fool I just removed from command."
I open my mouth to respond, to explain, to somehow justify the fact that my attempts to save this company have apparentlybeen used as a roadmap for its conquest, but no sound comes out. My throat has decided that now is an excellent time to stop cooperating with basic biological functions.
Knox's lips curl in what might be a smile if smiles were typically quite so terrifying, and he takes one step toward me, then another, until he's I have to tilt my head back at an uncomfortable angle just to maintain eye contact. He's huge, absolutely mammoth, and the sheer physical presence of him overwhelms every other sensory input in a way that my rational brain finds deeply inconvenient. He smells like something dark and rich, sandalwood maybe and something earthier underneath, and the heat radiating from his body cuts through the perpetual chill of the over-air-conditioned conference room.
"Your strategic thinking is adequate," he announces, which I suspect is a significant compliment coming from a literal Warchief. "Your organizational systems show discipline. Your ability to identify weakness and recommend corrective action speaks to a mind that understands the flow of battle, even if you have been trapped serving under a commander unworthy of your talents." He reaches down and picks up one of my fallen highlighters, the pink one, examining it with apparent curiosity before tucking it into his jacket pocket like a claimed trophy. "I am in need of a First Mate of the Ledger. Someone to manage the bureaucratic campaigns while I focus on expansion and acquisition. Someone who can translate the language of these spreadsheets and reports into actionable intelligence."
"I... what?" The words come out as a croak.
Knox's amber eyes flash with something that might be impatience or might be amusement, it's hard to tell when his face is primarily composed of sharp angles and tusks. "You will serve as my second-in-command of administrative operations. You will organize my conquest schedule, manage the subordinate assets, ensure that the paperwork of war is filedcorrectly and on time." He gestures broadly at the cowering remains of my coworkers. "Or I will liquidate this entire floor and start fresh with recruits who show proper appreciation for the opportunity to serve under Bloodaxe banner."
I look around the room at my coworkers, at Marcy who is silently mouthing please help us and Derek who has somehow gotten himself tangled in the potted plant's decorative moss, at the scattered papers and the shattered door and the motivational poster that has finally completed its slow descent to the floor. I think about my student loans, my dreams of eventually starting my own consulting firm, the seventeen expense reports I'm still owed reimbursement for.
I look back up at Knox Bloodaxe, Warchief of the Bloodaxe Clan, who is apparently offering me a promotion at the point of total corporate annihilation.
"First Mate of the Ledger," I repeat slowly, testing the words. "What's the salary?"
2
KNOX
The human female stares up at me. It takes me several heartbeats to identify it, this strange tightness in me, this sudden awareness that I may have miscalculated my approach, and when recognition finally dawns, I am forced to suppress a grimace of displeasure. I am nervous. I, Knox Bloodaxe, Conqueror of the Midwestern Regional Markets, Subjugator of Three Fortune 500 Companies, am experiencing something perilously close to anxiety because a human female who barely reaches me is looking at me like I have just demanded she sacrifice her firstborn to the profit margins.
This is not how the conquest was supposed to proceed. I had planned for resistance, naturally, had prepared speeches about the glory of serving under Bloodaxe banner and the honor of contributing to a winning campaign. I had not prepared for the way her brown eyes narrow behind those delicate glass frames, assessing me with a sharpness that reminds me uncomfortably of my grandmother reviewing a battle strategy. I had not prepared for the way she pushes those glasses up her nose with one finger, a gesture that should not be as distracting as it is,and asks about compensation as if she is the one conducting negotiations.
The other humans in the room are useless, cowering and whimpering and generally behaving exactly as I expected conquered assets to behave. But this one, this Cypress Evans with her tablet clutched against her like a shield and her highlighters scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers, she is not cowering. She is calculating. I recognize the look because I have worn it myself countless times across countless boardroom battlefields, that particular expression of a mind rapidly processing variables and assessing outcomes.
"What's the salary?" she repeats when I fail to respond immediately.
I realize, with a clarity that strikes like a war hammer to the skull, that I am in danger of losing this particular skirmish. The human is small and fragile and clearly exhausted, dark circles beneath her eyes speaking to long campaigns fought without proper reinforcement, and yet she is not breaking. If I press too hard, if I maintain the aggressive posture that has served me so well in dismantling corporate defenses, she will shatter. And I do not want her to shatter. I want her to fight. I want to see what that sharp mind can do when it is properly supported and adequately resourced.
"Your current compensation," I say. "What is the figure?"
Cypress blinks, clearly not expecting the question. "Forty-two thousand," she says after a moment's hesitation. "Before taxes. Which, by the way, is criminally underpaid for someone managing half the department's workload while Gerald spends his days playing mobile games in his office, but nobody asked my opinion on the matter."
Forty-two thousand. I run the conversion in my head, translating the number into terms my clan would understand, and I feel a surge of genuine outrage that has nothing to do withconquest strategy. My grandmother's war mastiffs are fed better than this company has been feeding its most valuable tactical asset. The previous leadership was not merely incompetent, they were wasteful in a way that offends me on a fundamental level. Good soldiers deserve good provisions. It is the most basic principle of successful campaign management.
"Triple," I announce, and her eyes widen behind those glass frames, her mouth falls open slightly. "One hundred and twenty-six thousand of your human dollars, plus full access to the executive meal allocation and a personal workspace befitting a First Mate's station. You will also receive a percentage of quarterly conquest gains, to be negotiated once I have fully assessed the terrain of this particular battlefield."
The room goes very quiet. Even the whimpering from the corner where several humans have clustered together ceases, replaced by a stunned silence that I choose to interpret as appropriate awe.
Cypress's throat moves as she swallows, and I track the motion with more attention than is strictly necessary for a negotiation of this nature. "Triple," she repeats. "You're offering me triple my salary. To be your..." She gestures vaguely with one hand, the motion encompassing the destroyed door, the unconscious former CEO, the general chaos of the conquered conference room. "Your strategist. Whatever that means."
"It means you will be my second in command of all administrative operations," I explain, and I find myself leaning forward slightly, eager to make her understand the honor being offered. "You will manage the documentation of conquest, ensure that all regulatory requirements are met, coordinate the various departments under Bloodaxe control. You will have authority over scheduling, resource allocation, and interdepartmental communication. You will report directly to me and no other."
"So... basically what I already do," Cypress says slowly, "except with actual authority, a real title, and compensation that reflects the work."
"Yes." I pause, considering. "Also, you will no longer be required to tolerate the mobile game enthusiast. I intend to reassign him to a position more suited to his talents." I have not yet determined what that position will be, but I am confident it will involve significantly less comfortable seating and significantly more manual labor.
Cypress is quiet for a long moment, her eyes moving across my face with that assessing sharpness that I am beginning to find deeply compelling. I can almost see the calculations happening behind those glass frames, the weighing of risks against rewards, the pragmatic evaluation of a mind that understands that survival often requires adaptation. She is not a warrior in the traditional sense, but she has a warrior's understanding of strategy, and I respect that immensely.
"Benefits?" she asks finally. "Health insurance, retirement contributions, paid time off?"
"Full executive package," I confirm. "The Bloodaxe Clan takes care of its soldiers. You will have access to our clan healers as well as whatever human medical systems you prefer, contributions to your future security at a rate of fifteen percent of your annual compensation, and adequate rest periods to ensure you remain sharp for battle." I pause, then add, because it seems relevant, "Also, I am told that human workers appreciate something called 'casual Fridays.' This will be permitted, within reason."
The corner of Cypress's mouth twitches in a way that might be the beginning of a smile, though she suppresses it quickly. "Within reason," she echoes. "Does that mean I can't show up in sweatpants and a t-shirt that says 'I survived a hostile takeover'?"
