“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered to myself. I was standing in my kitchen, reading my emails on my phone.
“What’s up?” Thomas asked, not moving from the couch that he was laid out on.
“Oh nothing, just the fucking PRA kicking me in the teeth while I am already down,” I reply sardonically, sneering at the phone.
“Oh?”
“Students on the PRA track get their education paid for, since the Agency is chronically underfunded. The trade-off of course being that you need to work for them for a period of five years. Normally, it’s a safe investment, since you are supposed to be guaranteed to get hired. But now that they basically told me to fuck off, now they are demanding I pay back the cost of education. So now I find myself in debt to the tune of about forty grand.” I replied, privately cursing those assholes.
Thomas sat up, eyes wide in shock.
“Dude, that is actually fucked. I thought the program was a scholarship type affair.”
I shook my head. “More like a grant with strings attached. And since the agency has decided that I am not fit for employment, they are demanding I pay back all the tuition. Kind of a problem, since I am broke, and yet to even graduate.”
“Are you going to stay at Jackford University? If staying here is costing you money, for an unusable degree, it might be better to drop out and find a job.” Thomas asked, seemingly concerned about the situation.
“I will probably stay till I graduate. A B.S. in Power Regulation isn’t great, but it is a degree, and might open some doors. ‘Sides, the tuition is already paid, no refunds.”
“Are your finances good for that? If you need help, I can loan you some money,” he offered.
It was a nice offer, and I considered it for a moment, before shaking my head.
“Thanks for that, but I should be fine, till the year is out at any rate. I have a bit of a nest egg from working at the range, which should support most of my expenses for now. Looks like the grant money got converted to a standard student loan, so educational expenses just go on that tab, to be dealt with later. I’m honestly more concerned about the loan payments, which are kicking in immediately for some stupid reason.”
“You’d think they would have the decency to wait until you’d graduated, and started making some real money.” Thomas opined, fuming on my behalf.
“You would really think so, huh?” I said absently. I checked my watch, and swore under my breath. “Fuck, I have to go to my next class. I’ll chat with you later dude.”
Thomas waved goodbye as I frantically grabbed my backpack and rushed out the door. I hopped on my bike, and made my way to class, dodging a couple students who thought the best place to chat was in the middle of the street. Assholes.
Class was boring as usual. It was my social relations course, which emphasized how best to relate and interact with others. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly the best at the course material. I was only half paying attention through the droning of my professor. I was rather preoccupied with the debt dilemma.
Truthfully, I hadn’t been exactly candid with Thomas. I had enough money to ride out the semester, to account for miscellaneous expenses, and charge the rest to my already monolithic debt. The problem was that with the debt payments starting early, I don’t really have enough money to cover both. I would run out of funds in the next three months or so.
I have a credit card I could max out to cover emergencies, but other than that, I was in an awkward spot. I couldn’t really ask for money from my parents, since we have a decidedly strained relationship already. Gabe would probably be happy to give me an advance of work I do for the range, but I’ve seen his books, and he doesn’t really have the liquidity needed to do that more than once or twice. As it is, he’s had to pay me a couple weeks after my work for him a couple times. He is good for the money, but timing is another thing.
Though...I could talk to Candyman. I am not overly fond of the gangster, but he has the cash needed to help me out. It wouldn’t be hard, since he already has a good relationship with Gabe, and knows of me, even if we’ve never met.
The benefits of course being that any work for Candyman would be sporadic. The casinos demand a twelve hour work shift, and are too far away from Jackford to realistically keep up my classes. Similar deal with most other jobs. I could try for part-time work somewhere, but that would barely keep me treading water. Maybe if I couldn’t get the in with Candyman I would give that a shot.
Head swirling with ideas, I departed from class having learned just about nothing important. Instead of heading back to my dorm, I decided to make the trip and cycle down to Sr. Asno’s. I rode up to the curb, hopping off my bike and walking in. The bell on the door chimed as I strolled in. Rick was manning the counter, and he waved his hand in greeting as he saw me enter.
“Hey kid, how’s it going? Here to get your weekly reviewing done?” Rick asked warmly.
“Hey Rick. Might do that. Gotta chat with Gabe first. Everything going well here?”
Rick shrugged at that. “Pretty quiet morning. Got nothing to complain about. Gabe is in the back if you need to talk to him.”
I nodded in acknowledgment as I let myself into the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. This was the warehouse section of the store. We tended to keep the more common models back here, so someone could pop in, order a handgun, and be out within the hour. The display models were the rare ones, tended to be flashier but less useful.
I leaned my bike against a cardboard box, and proceeded further in, to find Gabe doing inventory. He was busy sitting on the floor with a box cutter, opening up packages and sorting the parts into different piles. I knew from experience that they would be stocked into the bins we keep for repair, spare parts and common mods for your average weapon. Upon seeing me looming over him, Gabe looked up, his face breaking into a wide smile.
“Ryan. Bit early in the day for you to stop by. You mind helping me out with these laser mounts? Had to get a new shipment in after the last set came with half of them broken. Shitty packaging and bad transport.” Gabe said, his deep baritone filled with a slightly amused tone. Classic Gabe. Never had anything good to say about the postal service. In fairness, the red tape for firearms being shipped would annoy anyone, but Gabe seemed to take it personally.
“Sure thing,” I said, smiling a bit. “These are Picatinny mounts right?”
“Right you are. Go ahead and set them on shelf E, by the grips.”
I grabbed an armful of the boxes of laser dots, having to balance slightly to hold them all. I made it to the shelf, and dumped them next to the grip attachments, before stacking the small boxes neatly.
“Hey Gabe,” I asked, somewhat seriously, as I continued to stack boxes. I didn’t really want to make eye contact.
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“Who’s your contact for Candyman?”
I could almost feel Gabe frown at that.
“That’s a dangerous question kid. Why do you want to know,” he asked warily. I turned around to face him. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his face was set in a frown as he gave me a hard look. “If you are trying to buy off him, I’m not about to rat you out to your parents, but Christ kid, if you need to get off, let me know what I can do to help.”
“No no,” I said frantically, waving my hands as if to dispel his assumptions. “Gabe, I’m not on drugs.”
“Alright,” he said skeptically, but with a bit of relief in his voice. “But what’s a kid like you, no offense, doing needing to be mixed up with Candyman’s lot?”
I let out a sigh. “PRA rejected me. And ordered I pay back cost of tuition. I’m graduating with a useless degree and a shit ton of debt. What’s more is the payments are starting immediately. I need money to ride out the rest of the year, and word has it Mr. Candyman pays well.”
“Listen, if you need money, I can boost your take from the reviews. Tack on another 5%, and increase your check from the after-hours work. We can make this work,” Gabe said, optimistically but with a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Gabe,” I said, exasperated. “You don’t have the money to pay me that much. I know you can barely keep Rick on. Who’s your man in the gang?”
Gabe closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.
“Fine. I don’t like it, but you aren’t wrong. I’m not about to give you his number, that’s a good way to get on his shit-list. Guy's name is Robin Barley. He’s an accountant type, real white-collar, back room sort of deal. You won’t find him in the database. His manifestation is a genius type, makes him a proper whiz at math. Supposedly does the books for Candyman, and manages where they sell and at what price. I’ll arrange a meeting, see if he likes you. If things go well, maybe he gives you a job.”
“Thanks Gabe. I really appreciate it. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll go out back now, maybe review a few weapons.” I said gratefully. I began to walk out, before stopping as Gabe began talking again.
“I want you to take the Badger 2032 when you meet with Robin.” Gabe said, seemingly out of the blue.
“Really? Why?” I asked, somewhat befuddled. I leaned against the door-frame and crossed my arms, looking at him.
“Kid, I know what your skill-set is, and so does Candyman. If you think he ain’t going to play into that, you’re outta your mind. Think of it as personal protection if you don’t end up working security for him.”
“But the Badger is one of your most expensive guns. Why not something boring, like one of the RATs?”
Gabe laughed at that. “Kid, you ain’t getting that shit for free. It’s on loan. I know I can trust you with it, and besides, you are one of the best shooters I’ve run into. I want you to have an expensive gun for the free advertising.”
I smirked at that, amused, but somewhat touched. “Truly, your business acumen knows no bounds. Alright, I will go ahead and work with that one, do some reviews. It wouldn’t do to not know the gun I’ll be using for the near future.”
I exited to the front, leaving Gabe as he turned back to his inventory, listening to him cursing out the postal service the whole way. After chatting with Rick, and assuring him that yes, Gabe said he wanted me working with the Badger, he laid his finger on the biometric scanner to pop open the display case, and pull out the gun.
I took it to the back room to service, but also to just take a look. It was an interesting looking gun. A sub-machine gun made for urban combat, it had been designed and manufactured from the ground up by the Fenris Security Corporation, which was a really fancy term for the group of criminal scientists and engineers which ran the group over in the Netherlands. It was engineered for use by criminals against law enforcement, not that it prevented police departments and governments from ordering Badgers for their own stock.
It was a dull matte black color, with the stock gently resting against my upper arm. It held sixty rounds and was designed to be fairly easy to maintain, given the dubious training of the intended clientele. For the normal uses, it wasn’t truthfully much different from other weapons. A fire toggle, to switch between semi-auto, burst, and full auto. It was very collapsible as well, so you could conceivably carry it concealed under a coat, only needing to slot the stock on.
The interesting part were the more esoteric features. A nanomaterial coating to remove fingerprints within minutes of being dropped, a handy feature to prevent the user from being identified. Along the side, by the barrel was another toggle, to shift an internal suppressor into action to muffle the noise. And of course, the penetration was uncharacteristically high, enough to punch through cheap Kevlar, though still stymied by steel plate and Maker armor.
I spent a fair bit of time cleaning it, admiring the less than elegant look of it. Some guns are all flowing lines and ergonomics, looking like some space age weaponry exclusive to the elite. They have class, they have wealth. A lot of maker weaponry falls into that trap. Half of it chromed to boot, shiny to the point you could shave with it. The Badger? A thick, almost rectangular barrel with angled bezels along the edges. It was an ugly, clunky weapon which oozed practicality and pragmatism, a no nonsense hunk of steel meant for getting the job done. The sort of design that really appealed to me.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
I walked out to the range, to begin practice. To my delight, it handled like a dream. A touch heavier than most sub-machine guns, in order to mitigate the greater recoil that comes with higher penetration, but the balance was phenomenal.
I spent the rest of the day working the range, absolutely enamored with the gun.
“Alright Ryan, listen to me,” Gabe said in warning. We were sat in his old hatchback, parallel parked next to an Italian bistro in the middle of the city. “The meeting is going to be just you and Mr. Barley. I’ll be sitting here, waiting to pick you up. I’d come with you, but the man was very clear that he wanted the conversation to be private.”
“Understood,” I said as I eyed the place. It seemed fairly quiet, though perhaps that was because it was the middle of the day. Still though, I could see a few small groups eating there, so it wasn’t some ghost-town.
“Right then,” Gabe said, fumbling around in the glove compartment. I saw a flash of light as he retrieved an unmounted scope, which he proceeded to use as a monocular. “Looks like our friends have arrived before we have. Three cars, all marked with a blue flower decal. I think its symbolic or something, a blue water-lily. Not really sure what though, was never one for that poetry crap.”
“May I?” I asked, holding my hand out. Gabe snorted and slapped the scope into my hand.
“Sure, take a gander.”
I peered through the scope, closing one eye as my gaze roved over the intersection. Sure enough, there were three cars, two black and one green, all three with tinted windows, sporting the stylized blue flower on the front bumper. As I watched, one of the windows on the green car rolled down an inch to let out a small cloud of cigarette smoke, followed by the butt itself being tossed unceremoniously to the curb.
“Hmm. Sitting there huh.” I muttered, under my breath.
“Aye,” Gabe replied, leaning his seat back and grabbing a nail-file to idly work on his fingers. “I reckon they’ve made us, probably since we pulled in. Robin knows my car. Here’s the drill. Three cars, three groups. One is sitting out here, keeping an eye out for vigilantes, cops, other gang members, etc. Worst comes to worst, they cause a distraction, act as a quick getaway, chase us down if you’ve pissed them off. Something along those lines.”
“I’ll try and avoid that,” I interjected dryly.
“See that you do,” Gabe said, no trace of levity in his voice. “Now, the second group is likely goons as well. I’d put good odds on them being inside, at another table. Close enough to help Mr. Barley, in the event you were feeling suicidal, but far enough that they can’t eavesdrop. Word of advice, work with the waiter and buy em a round of beers. I can’t say that I make a habit of meeting with Mr. Barley, but when I do, I try to buy off the goons. Makes me feel a bit safer, since these lads probably aren’t happy about having to wait around doing boring work. Can’t hurt anyways.”
“Ok, eyes open for the goons.” I said, thinking furiously. I pointed the scope at the bistro, trying to see through the windows but couldn’t spot them. Was able to see a bit of the room though. “Not to lean into stereotype, but I would assume these guys would prefer a corner booth yeah? Less sight-lines to worry about, all facing the entrance?”
“Something like that. It isn’t uncommon to be sure, but it’s not like its a guarantee. Don’t want to be too predictable. For what it’s worth, the restaurant owners pay dues to Candyman, and are willing to overlook most conversations. You don’t have to worry about the waiter ratting on you, but at the same time, they are all aware of what’s going on.”
“Right. Eyes open for the henchmen, make sure to buy them a round. Now talk to me about Mr. Barley.”
“Mr. Barley. He is an interesting one. Very precise. Very demanding. Likes to test people. I would describe it, but it’s better to go into it blind. He doesn’t like anyone spoiling his fun, it’s one of his pet peeves.”
“Oh thanks,” I said, somewhat surly about Gabe’s reticence. “Real useful you are.”
“I try,” Gabe said, grinning insufferably. “Seriously though. I reckon you have a better chance than most to interest him, with your manifestation. Mind you, Candyman probably has his own ideas about where you would best be situated, but Robin is still probably getting his hopes up anyways.”
I shook my head in exasperation. “Very precise you say. Well, might as well start heading in now. I should be in with a few seconds to spare.”
“Good luck,” Gabe called after me as I got out of the car and began walking towards the entrance.
I opened the door, shivering a tad as the air conditioning hit me. Why do so many restaurants blast the AC? I should have brought a sweater.
Walking up to the desk, I leaned over while eyeing the waiter. He had slicked back hair, which gleamed gently in the amber lights casting their glow from the chandelier.
“Hello, I am here to join my companion. Mr. Barley, party of two?” I asked, flashing a roguish grin to the man.
“Ah yes, Mr. Barley requested the corner booth in the back room. Over there,” he said, turning and pointing with his left hand.
“Thank you.” I said, beginning to walk over. As I came into view of the booth, I saw Mr. Barley, sitting in the corner. He was tall and thin, face almost gaunt. He was probably only in his late forties, but his thin facial features made him look a few decades older, either that or he was subject to some kind of wasting disease. His skin was fairly pale, and his hair was yellowish, more the color of straw than gold. His eyes were a pale, watery blue, and the over all effect was a sort of washed out look, as though the man’s color had faded.
He wasn’t paying attention to me, but rather was looking down at his right hand, which was clutching an ornate silver pocket watch.
This had to be a test. And right off the bat as well, really putting me on the spot. Not that it’s particularly difficult to figure out. Gabe’s emphasis on precision, Mr. Barley’s manifestation granting him prodigal math skills. Easy to figure out, but likely impossible to succeed. Unless…
I let my power loose, unleashing it quickly as I took another step forwards. A misty phantom of myself reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone and pulling up the clock app. I had a few seconds still. Not for the last time, I felt a wave of gratitude that my power was capable of remembering information. I forget the time constantly, but my manifestation never forgets, and to my knowledge is incapable of forgetting. Sure, I have to engineer a roundabout way of getting that information, but the passage of time is literally the most predictable phenomenon in existence, assuming certain manifestations aren’t involved.
I slowed my gait slightly, walking just a touch slower. As my mental model of my clock changed to 12:00 on the dot, our scheduled meeting time, I sat down in the seat. Mr. Barley snapped his pocket-watch shut at that moment, and looked up at me, staring hard, eyes piercing through me. He must have liked what he saw, or at least not hated it, because his lips curled into a thin smile.
“Mr. Cardano I presume.” He said. His voice was surprisingly smooth, pleasant to listen to. I'll be honest, I was expecting him to sound raspy, like he'd smoked a pack ever day for the last decade.
“Mr. Barley,” I said, smiling genially. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I began holding out my hand, but caught the faintest change in expression as I did. Barley’s smile turned ever so slightly wooden, a dead, shark-like look sliding over his eyes. Making a split second decision, I changed course.
“May I see the menu,” I said, recovering rather admirably if I do say so myself, as I held my hand as if to receive the laminated menu rather than to shake his hand. He chuckled, and handed the menu to me, which let me lean back and peruse it.
I was slightly annoyed at myself, cursing my near slip-up. You can tell a lot about a person by their quirks. You can also tell a lot about them by their powers. The two, happen to be heavily linked. Funny that. Some people don’t really like touch, and Barley struck me as one of those. I couldn’t really tell if he didn’t like it, or if there was something deeper going on. Anxiety, perhaps high functioning autism. Hard to say really. Aversion to touch tends to be a surprisingly common trait for those with manifestations interacting with intelligence, usually genius or maker type manifestations. I really should have expected the possibility, but such is life.
“Hmm. I confess I haven’t been here before. I am not quite sure what to get.” I said, idly making conversation.
Barley signaled a waiter, who grabbed another menu and handed it to him before scurrying off.
“Well, feel free to get what you would prefer. I am paying for it, after all.” He said, smiling as he ran his finger down the menu.
Well shit. This might be another test. Not so obvious as holding a pocket-watch while waiting for me, but all the same, something to look out for.
I breathed a sigh of relief as the waiter came by to get drink orders. Good, that would let me stall a bit longer.
“Drinks for you?” He said, holding his pen to his pad.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, can I please have a water. If you could add a slice of lemon as well, that would be appreciated.”
Barley raised his eyebrows at that. “Not going to sample the drinks menu?”
“Not this early,” I said, chuckling lightly. “Besides, I don’t do well with alcohol. Poor reaction.”
“Ah, understandable. Well, don’t feel pressured on my account,” he said cheerfully. He turned his attention back to the waiter. “I’ll take a glass of the house red. I have a driver, so I don’t mind indulging a bit.”
Fair enough. While we waited on drinks, I took the opportunity to glance around. The relative lack of customers made it easy to spot the group of thugs occupying the corner booth. I wasn’t quite sure, but got confirmation when one of them shifted his arm, revealing a tattoo of the blue lily.
“So I confess, I am curious,” I started, intentionally keeping a light tone in my voice. “What would you recommend I get while I am here?”
“Get the smoked pike, with the shrimp scampi.” Barley said brusquely, without a sliver of hesitance in his voice.
“Why?” I asked immediately, in an almost confrontational tone. I was interested in challenging him, to see his game.
Barley flicked his eyes up at me, somewhat annoyed. Well, that was promising.
“The pike is optimal for cost savings,” Barley said, seemingly annoyed at having to explain this. “It is the lowest cost in comparison to the market value of the fish. I’ve told our hosts numerous times in our little audit meetings that they need to pay attention to the pike, since the price fluctuates so much, but they seem to take enjoyment in ignoring my advice and spiting me.”
“That sounds like it must be frustrating. Others ignoring helpful advice can always set my teeth on edge,” I started carefully. This was the tricky part of the meeting, where I had to make my play. God, I fucking hate social situations. One of the few situations where my precognition is functionally useless. Turns out, human just inherently are really fucking good at anticipating social actions and reactions.
I scanned down the menu, as I tried to search for the dish I was looking for. I began pushing my power a bit, prodding it a bit to contrive a decent future that could give me information. A phantom of myself briefly obscured my view before pulling out a ghostly version of my cell phone. My doppelganger shifted a few times, before holding the phone straight in front of my eyes. It had a spreadsheet pulled up, with the menu items I had seen, and the corresponding prices in a second row. God, this would be so much easier if I had brought a laptop, then maybe I could actually see the damn rows.
“I think I want to order the spaghetti marinara.” I said confidently, placing the menu on the table and crossing my legs, before leaning back and lacing my fingers together. I wanted to project the impression of absolute confidence here. I couldn’t afford a sliver of doubt to escape my act, even though I was riding a knife edge.
“What?” Barley exclaimed angrily, his eyebrows furrowing into an annoyed slant. After a second though, his face smoothed out as if he were unaffected. He continued in a slightly cooler voice, “Of course, feel free to purchase whatever you like.”
A reaction out of him, a real one which I didn’t have to guess about. Finally. I had him hooked, now to see if I could reel him in.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the pike is very good,” I said, smirking. “It’s just that, well, it strikes me as inefficient.”
“Inefficient?” Barley echoed, eyes narrowing to slits as his smile became more plastic. Oh he did not like that, he did not like that one single bit.
“I’m hungry,” I said simply. Barley blinked at the apparent non sequitur.
“I assure you, the pike is quite filling. And is the best value for money you can get here.”
“The spaghetti however is the best calorie for money value here however. As I said before, I am quite hungry. I had a busy morning.”
Barley paused at that. And then looked back at the menu, muttering under his breath. It was almost a minute before he responded, somewhat befuddled.
“Perhaps, but the markup for the spaghetti is 46%. You could go to any grocery store and get massive savings.”
I smiled triumphantly. “You are correct. But I’m not at the grocery store. I am here, with you. And time has a value all it’s own. Am I incorrect in any of my conclusions?”
“Hmm. Very well. If that is your goal, I will also order a breadstick bowl,” he said, looking pained at the thought of the latter. Probably was concerned with the poor value. “They have free refills, but its rare that people eat enough to break even on cost.”
Oh hell, I would have to commit wouldn’t I. I made a big deal about wanting to be efficient in food quantity, but now I’d need to actually eat everything I ordered in order to stick to my guns and not undermine my argument.
Fortuitously, the waiter came at that moment. Mr. Barley ordered, a somewhat introspective look on his face, before the waiter turned to me.
“Yes, I’ll have the spaghetti marinara. Additionally, I just saw that some friends of mine are dining here tonight, but didn’t wish to bother us. Can I buy them a round of whatever you have on tap?” I asked, pointing out the corner booth full of thugs. The waiter nodded, seemingly unflappable, or more likely experienced with this little song and dance, and took my credit card before departing.
“Interesting,” Barley said, eyes boring into me. I was beginning to notice that he blinked, but rarely enough that his staring became a touch unsettling. “I see that Gabriel gave you advice on how he prefers to interact with our organization. Though clearly not with me. Since he prefers a much different approach to the one you have been employing.”
I held my arms out, shrugging.
“I aim to please. Gabe felt it was important that he not influence my interactions with you too much, and I felt that it is important to interact with you honestly, so you have an accurate assessment of me,” I said, lying through my teeth. Yes, please believe I am a suave and confident mastermind. Please ignore the reality of my rampant cynicism and self-deprecation. If nothing else, it’s good practice for job interviews later down the line.
“Right then,” He said, eyeing me a bit. I couldn’t really tell if he was skeptical or not. I wasn’t getting the impression that Robin Barley is a particularly emotional person, let alone someone prone to reaction. “Your talents of course, are of interest to our organization. False precognition is powerful asset, provided it is used correctly.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, there is a problem. You are over-qualified.” Barley said blandly.
“Perhaps you could elaborate?” I asked, struggling to keep the mask up. The fuck does he mean over-qualified? I have a useless unfinished degree, and a manifestation which excludes me from a substantial amount of work.
“Gladly. Most of our recruits start from the ground up,” Barley explained. “They come to us from poor life circumstances usually, and then are funneled in to our system. Of course, we tend to run a rather meritocratic operation. The vast majority of our people need to start from the bottom and work to prove their loyalty, before being promoted through the ranks.
You, present a difficulty. While your manifestation is rather unfortunate, you aren’t what I would call poor life circumstances. I understand you are mostly finished with university, which puts you in rather a different economic circumstance than most recruits. That aside, your power is quite a bit more useful to us than the standard recruit, and we are aware that your proficiency with firearms rivals our senior members. We can certainly place you as a recruit, and give you the opportunity to prove your loyalty. But it would frankly be a waste of your talents. So tell me. Why seek us out? What are you hoping to gain from your association with the Candyman?”
I sighed at that. “You aren’t quite accurate. You are correct that most people in university have means beyond your average gang member. Which is because most people pay for university. I entered the PRA track however, which gives paid tuition and expenses. I could never afford university myself, and if my family were interested in helping me, they could never afford university. The PRA just rejected me and nullified the program benefits. So now I am in debt to the tune of roughly $40,000. I need this job, and if I need to do recruit jobs, I will.”
“Hmm. That does rather change things. And gives context for why you reached out to us.” Barley said still looking at me. He dropped his gaze, pulling out his phone, which he fiddled with for a minute or so. I let him do his thing without interruption. I know the value of patience.
After a period of time, he finally put the phone away.
“Mr. Cardano. Understand that I am not usually the person in charge of recruiting. One of my colleagues usually takes that role. However, I do have some leeway for making decisions on behalf of the Lotus’s. Here is the offer I will give you. In one weeks time, I will call you for a mission. If you refuse this, there will not be a second opportunity. This will be a trial mission, a way for me to gauge you over a longer period of time. If you disappoint me, or cause problems, that will be taken into consideration, and I will have our recruiter handle you. However. If you manage to impress me, I will talk to Candyman, and add my personal recommendation on your behalf.
Mind you, there are certain caveats. You must provide official paperwork, which verifies that you, as a false precognitive, have not had access to restricted information. If we find out that you are working for law enforcement, or on behalf of our rivals, there will be consequences. And of course, betrayal is dealt with harshly.
If you do not believe that this is a good offer, if the benefits are not enough or if the caveats are something which you find yourself incapable of accepting, you may decline the offer now without elaborating. We will not look into it, nor hold any grudge or harsh feelings. We are not the government, and we do not punish for thought-crime.”
I smiled at that. “Mr. Barley, I would like to thank you. I do believe I will accept your offer. I look forward to meeting you in a week.”
From there on, the conversation was mundane, but I felt triumph singing through my veins. And I ate every late bit of the spaghetti marinara. And it was delicious. I felt like shit after eating that much food, but that didn't detract from the experience in the moment at least.