1
In the Monster Resources Manual, it says every creature’s needs for accommodations will be met by Evil Inc. Specifically, Section 13.4.2C, subsectionRespect for Monsters Rights and Antidiscriminationsays, “The Company will respect the rights of all employed monsters, regardless of oaths, bloodlusts, undead dependents, or physiological strangeness.”
I know because I wrote it. I put the form for accommodations and accommodated leave where anyone who needed it could access it, and easily fill it out.
But in order to fill out the form, the company has to recognize your status as a monster.
According to Section 13.4.2F, the Company will never use personal information for any means other than business and will keep it under strict confidentiality. Such information will never be disclosed without explicit personal consent.
After the manager who hired me as her replacement put in her two weeks, no one at the office ever learned what I was. And I have kept it that way.
I’ve been getting away with it by the skin of my teeth, working mostly remote—going into the office only when it’s absolutely necessary to make an appearance, to hand out pamphlets to people bumping up against company policy and bare my teeth at anyone I’ve opened a file for recently. I don't like going in because it necessitates putting on my face—mascara, lipstick, the rest.
“Gwen, are you there?” a voice calls out of the shimmering mishmash of faces floating within the summoning circle laid out before me.
There’s a company-wide séance, and our Chief Evil Overlord has remarked more than once at how proud he is that he doesn’t have to cajole us to get people to be seen. There’s at least ten other people who, like me, have erased that part of the summoning diagram to avoid having to be visually paying attention. A couple weak bastards still buckled at his remark.
I’m not good at hiding that I’m less than thrilled to be talking to people, and making it look like I’m paying attention is more work than actually listening is.
I don’t need to participate in company retreat planning bingo or whatever they’re talking about. There was an email about this, with an itinerary attached, but we have to go over it all to waste time, I guess.
“Yeah, here,” I answer, not looking at the séance at all.
“I can't hear you. Can you hear me?”
Sighing, I pick up my lighter and flick it over one of the candles that had burned out. “Sorry, I was muted. I’m here, and I can hear you just fine.”
The blood drains from my face when I look at the summoning circle again and realize everyone else has dropped off the call. It’s just me and the Chief Evil Overlord.
I have to pretend like I've been paying attention, and not been clicking through different job postings for the last half hour. I thought applying to new jobs would be easier this time around. After all, I've been here long enough that I could apply for something with a more senior job title. I shouldn't have to go through all the same self-doubt as last time, thinking I don't have enough experience under my belt.
But as I'm scrolling through listings that demand master’s degrees, twice the industry know-how, and the enthusiasm of a person a lot younger than me, all it's making me do is realize I'm not even great at this job.
I swallow and try not to telegraph all of that on my face. “How’s it going, Soven?”
The faceless, cloak cowl looks back at me with what I can only imagine is disappointment that I was clearly not keeping up.
“I received your email about the retreat.”
“Oh! Yeah. That. Um, I just think, do you really need me to be there? I mean, it’s really just the Sales team presenting about last year’s revenue and our new products. I don’t really handle any of that,” I say, my excuses feeling weaker with every word. “I was thinking, it’d be a great time to get through a lot of paperwork and reorganize my filing system, y’know, since everyone else would be gone, I’d have a full week without meetings.”
Not things you say to your boss’s boss, really. But I’m desperate.
I had originally planned to just take the time off—before it was made clear that everyone was expected to attend the retreat.
“Not to mention, then we’d save the money on my travel and hotel—”
“Gwen,” he says, crackly with static through the séance.
I fall silent.
My teeth worry into my lower lip. It would be so easy to just fill out a form, and get the time off, no questions asked.
Except, there would be questions, and uncomfortable looks, and gossip to field when I got back.
“It would be more economical,” Soven agrees, and my heartbeat ticks up in a rush of hope. He continues, “Unfortunately, I do need you there. Kathy and Ted will be in attendance, and as their MR caseworker, you are best equipped to handle them.”
My never-ending source of paperwork—Kathy and Ted. Their file is about a mile thick. Unfortunately, their jobs involve quite a bit of working together, but they can’t stand each other, and send in complaints over every little thing: Ted is mad Kathy misspelled his name several times on their latest email thread with a distributor, Kathy thinks Ted is deliberately undermining her contributions, Ted thinks Kathy interrupts only him during meetings on purpose, etc. The list goes on. There’s really nothing too small for them.
