The Monstrous Creature Job Placement Agency
After dealing with yet *another* clean-up job for Alaya, a much put upon Counter Guardian asks to be assigned to anything other than his current job. His wish is granted...but as the old saying goes, maybe he should have been more careful about what he wished for.
Chapter 1: The Dementor
Of all the things Archer figured Alaya could think of to torment him in the eternal purgatory that was serving as a Counter Guardian, he’d never figured the collective unconscious of mankind would resort to paperwork. And not just any paperwork – improperly filled out paperwork – though even that was somewhat tolerable provided he could make head or tails of it, which he often couldn’t – and not because it was in a language he didn’t understand.
His employer being the collective unconscious of mankind and had provided him with knowledge of every human language currently in use for his current assignment, he at least didn’t have to worry about that…at least when the individuals he tried to help were human, or spoke some human tongue.
Which wasn’t most of the time, given that his current assignment was to manage, run, and otherwise ensure the day to day running of the Monstrous Creature Job Placement Agency, the part of the collective unconscious that connected the many monsters lurking in the shadows of human imaginings with various opportunities for work. Said monsters, of course, often being of alien geometries, of sub-human intelligence, or lacking anything in the way of common sense, making it very difficult to even figure out what they were, much less find a place for them.
‘How Dracula ever put up with this, I have no idea,’ he thought to himself, before remembering that with all the abilities and feats ascribed to the great (and fictional!) vampire, the Count could probably both understand everyone who came through the door, and command them to do his bidding. ‘I guess it gave him something to do between jobs…’ he grumbled, glancing behind him at the larger than life portrait of Count Dracula, self-proclaimed Lord of the Night, founder of the Agency, and his immediate predecessor as Director. ‘A way to keep playing his role when not…playing his role.’
That was probably why the interior of the Agency had originally looked like a castle’s audience chamber, allowing Dracula to entertain requests for placement from a rather imposing throne, like a Lord considering requests from lowly supplicants.
These days, it looked rather different, since Dracula was on extended leave due to taking one of the many opportunities that came his way (something that had happened entirely too often, and was growing less and less acceptable to Alaya), and the hapless Counter Guardian who had taken up this thankless job didn’t share his aesthetic sensibilities.
…or his advantages, at that.
The interior of the Agency had adapted accordingly, altering itself into a more modern form to meet his expectations, with an uncomfortably furnished waiting area, forms for applicants to fill out, and an electronic queuing system which gave applicants the chance to fill out those forms while waiting to be called to a (well, his) service window.
Not that he’d been able to get rid of Dracula’s presence entirely – hence the portrait, which loomed over him, seeming to stare down upon patrons of the Agency, as if reminding them just who was responsible for creating this place to begin with.
‘If only that would make these monsters fill out paperwork properly, I might not mind so much but…’
Alas, some of his clientele lacked a comprehension of just what paperwork was, lacked an understanding of any human language, lacked the appropriate parts with which to fill out the required documents, or…all of the above, in the case of the rash of unemployed zombies which had come shuffling into the Agency some time ago, after the most recent wave of media about the undead had ended.
That had been a bit of a mess to deal with, both from a placement angle (since there were only so many opportunities to go around), and from the more mundane angle of keeping the place clean – especially since he hadn’t swapped the rich (and easily soiled) carpets for linoleum prior to that. Still, despite the inconvenience, he’d felt a bit bad that he hadn’t been able to help most of them, given that those who didn’t get new opportunities eventually vanished altogether. Much like the gods of old, really – at least those who had actually been aliens or some such.
The beings he dealt with were largely fictional – created by the fertile soil of the human imagination – and so required a measure of fame (or infamy) to survive. And well, there was only so much fame to go around, only so many seats at the table called happiness.
‘Some things never change, eh?’
Surviving was easy enough for monsters like Orcs, goblins, and the like, who had long earned a place for themselves as staple antagonists in human entertainments, but for the rest…well, as vast as the imaginations of humans could be, their attention spans often left something to be desired.
At any given time, people devoted the majority of time, money, and brainpower towards what was new and intriguing, and it wasn’t necessarily easy to predict just what they would take to and what they would not. Often enough, things that were popular one season captured little interest the next, with no rhyme or reason that a rational mind could grasp.
‘Not that I am in any position to comment about anyone not being rational,’ Archer thought with a chuckle. One tended to lose that privilege after trying to commit suicide by temporal paradox. ‘Back to work then. There are more…beings to try and save.’
However futile and thankless the job might be.
“Next!” he called out, pressing the button to advance the electronic queue.
“Now serving, FE-7. Repeat, FE-7.”
The better part of a minute passed with nothing happening, with the Counter Guardian wondering if the individual in question had left without being helped while he’d been on lunch break (not that he needed to eat, but it was useful to take a breather now and again), before the being in question approached him, wordlessly sliding…was that…
Yes! Yes, that was a properly filled out placement form, with attached CV, list of references, level of infam—
…oh.
“Mister…Binks?” Archer questioned.
“Dassa me!” the being replied eagerly, looking at him with an air of desperation more intense than anything he’d seen in at least a few hours. “Yousa hava job for me?”
“It says here you were a ‘Bombad general’ and a ‘Representative of Naboo in the Galactic Senate,” Archer noted, raising an eyebrow. “Is that correct?”
Mister Binks nodded vigorously.
“Mesa proposed given Emergency Powers to The Supreme Chancellor,” he added almost proudly.
“…right,” Archer said after a moment. “Mister…no, Senator Binks, I’m afraid you’re over-qualified for any of the opportunities offered by the Monstrous Creature Job Placement Agency. Especially with your level of infamy.”
“You say what?!”
“You should be applying for work at the Heroic Talents Placement Agency,” Archer began, with a computer appearing before him so he could send over a referral for Mister Binks. Yet, no sooner had he punched in the being’s name when a notification popped up on his screen. “Or checking with the Mouse,“ he supplied, as a sheet of paper appeared in front of him, stamped with the infamous sigil of one of the most powerful entities of the modern day.
This didn’t happen often, but he knew better than to interfere when it did.
“Nosa!” Binks shrieked, almost leaping backwards at the sight of black mouse ears on white paper. “No! No, me…mesa was hopin’ you co—"
Whatever else he’d been about to say would forever be unknown, as the sheet of paper leapt off the desk and onto the former Senator’s face, with Mister Binks vanishing into a swirl of shadow.
“Next!” Archer said after taking a moment to process this.
“Now serving, FF-7. Repeat, FF-7.”
The next of his clients didn’t walk from the waiting area. Its three-meter-tall form glided menacingly over the floor towards him, its dark, hooded cloak rippling behind it as it chilled the very air around it, empty eye-sockets seeming to stare right through him. Anywhere else, this might have been intimidating, but at the Agency, this was more or less par for the course with their more monstrous clients.
…that, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t relive his greatest failings every moment of his life anyway.
“Right. Cut the act. Do you have your paperwork filled out this time, or do I need to put you at the end of the queue so you can take care of that?” he asked pointedly. “Again, I mean.”
The paperwork had to be done for a placement to be made. No exceptions.
It was one thing to provide reasonable accommodations for those with disabilities. He’d worked with clients who were blind, who were deaf, who didn’t have limbs – but one had to at least put in a good faith effort, and not try to take advantage of what little kindness he had left in his heart of steel.
If they didn’t, well, it was back to the end of the line, and who knew how many years it would be until your turn came up again. Beings had withered and died waiting to plead their case for placement, while perfect opportunities passed them by.
…it was, he reflected, perhaps crueler than Dracula’s habit of immediately executing those who offended him, but then, his job was to make sure everyone had a fair chance to get placed with a job, and nothing ever said that fairness was kind.
The being before him gasped, almost as if it was trying to suck in a deep breath of air, but thrust a greyish limb in his general direction, with a crumpled-up sheaf of papers clutched in a hand scabbed and glistening with slime.
…not the most sanitary thing he’d ever seen, Archer reflected as he took the papers from the entity that called itself a Dementor. Still, at least the paperwork was—
…wait a minute.
“…you got Mister Binks to do in your paperwork?” Archer commented, his tone utterly flat. “I thought I said—"
The dementor hissed and rattled in protest, wringing its hands in an almost threatening fashion.
“Yes, yes, I know you’re blind,” the Counter Guardian sighed in exasperation. “It’s written right on your paperwork, but that’s hardly an excuse for laziness!” Not that laziness was the worst sin he’d had to deal with among his clients, but he had standards, damnit. “I did offer to give you a braille version.”
Again came the hissing and rattling, though this time, the hand-wringing was curiously absent.
“Fine. You’re here, the paperwork is filled out. Let’s see what we have to work with,” Archer grumbled, noting the rather sparsely populated placement form and list of references. “Ok, so you’re representing an entire collective of your kind."
The figure seemed to nod cautiously.
“Right, so all of you are blind, but you can sense emotions. In fact, you feed off the emotions of living things, draining away any joy or happiness they feel, is that right?”
Another nod.
"And…here’s a surprise, you have a habit of slacking off at your job...and betraying your bosses.” The much put-upon Counter Guardian glared at the figure before him. "And you want me to give you a job?"
The massive figure, looking like nothing so much as a decomposing corpse in tattered robes, made some kind of rattling sound while holding out both hands in a gesture that Archer interpreted as either "Yes" or “GIVE ME A JOB.”
"Not the talkative sort? Well I guess you’re not supposed to be, so we can skip the whole ‘where do you see yourself in five years’ bit,” Archer reasoned, summoning his terminal to look for possible openings. “How about a horror movie?”
This time, the rattling sounded almost like a screech, as scabbed and rotting hands tightened into claws.
“Fine. No horror movie. Just thought that would be a good fit with your previous employment as prison guards, you know?” ‘Or as soul-sucking horrors serving as minions to terrible wizards, though we filled the last minion to the Dark Lord position some time ago.’ Archer shook his head. “What are you looking for, exactly?”
Claws tightened into fists, and then dropped to the dementor’s sides as it shuddered and wheezed.
“…a role that actually lets you do something that matters?” Archer interpreted. “Something where you’ll be noticed and talked about?” The Counter Guardian frowned. "That's a tall order with your work history. And your work ethic, at that.” He sighed. “Look, I’m afraid it’s going to be pretty hard to—”
Then the Dementor moved.
One moment, it was standing respectfully before him, the next it was right in his face, his body seeming to grow heavier and heavier as the darkness congealed around the two of them into something nearly solid. All at once, every bit of warmth seemed to vanish from the world, with its mouth yawning open as it leaned down towards Archer—only to freeze at the sensation of a white and black sword pointed at its throat.
…a sword which hadn’t been there a moment ago, and which was held in the hand of a rather annoyed Counter Guardian.
"Hey, none of that," Archer grunted. "I don't know what kind of workplace behavior your last bosses let you get away with, but we don't tolerate you threatening Agency employees.” Of which there was a grand total of one, for now, but the plural sounded more impressive than the singular. “Even if you're desperate and hungry. Even if you’re frustrated. I understand. I’ve been there. But it’s no excuse. Back off."
Heeding the warning, the darkness receded, with the dementor gliding backwards as it quivered in its...well, not boots, since it wasn't wearing any, but something of the sort. With a wheeze-rattle of despair, it made to retreat back to the waiting area, as it would no doubt be put back at the end of queue again when…
"Look. You ever do sci-fi?"
The figure froze and tilted its head, as if to ask, "what is sci-fi?"
“Futuristic weapons?” Archer prompted. “Advanced technology? Reactors?”
The dementor looked blankly, almost forlornly at him, as he rattled off terms completely foreign to anything in its experience.
"You know what, it doesn't matter," Archer grumbled, gesturing for the figure to glide back to the window as he dematerialized the blade. “As it so happens, there’s a position you might be qualified for,” he noted, stapling a sheet of paper to the packet that the dementor had passed him. “It’s in a place called Midgar which I doubt you’ve ever heard of. Something about making people feel like prisoners of fate.”
The dementor cautiously held out its hands as Archer passed the packet to it.
“Your contact for this job is a man named Nomura, who apparently is fond of belts. You’ll find the details on how to get to his unconscious on the sheet,” he explained with a friendly smile – or at least, baring his teeth. “Now get out."
At his words, reality seemed to twist, and with a hiss-crackle-pop, the dementor was gone.
“Next!”
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Originally Posted by eddyak
