Interview process

Reading the information off my datapad, I frown. Another new recruit scheduled to enter the office in five minutes. More than enough time to throttle myself to death to purge the stain of the last interview from my soul. I should’ve just shot him, I think wistfully, browsing through the next fool’s details.

Former Fed Navy, turned capsuleer only a few months ago. Promising combat record.

The door opens quietly, followed by soft footsteps.

I ignore them and continue to read the information on the datapad.

The chair in front of the desk creaks slightly. A man clears his throat.

I ignore him, continuing my reading. He clears his throat again. Persistent bastard.

Two slow, rhythmic clicks bring my attention around, a gun, the guards are getting sloppy. I kick my legs, sliding my chair back, the man letting out a startled yelp as the datapad hits him on the head, spilling his can of Quafe over the desk. My arm stops mid-swing, a small throwing blade in my hand.

The man stares at me, blinking in surprise, covered in the sticky substance that was his drink.

“I-I uhh,” he stammers. I sigh and wheel my chair back to behind the desk, looking from the spilled drink to the man in front of me. Gallente, his accent coloured with an unusual flavour, slightly Caldari. “You startled me,” I say, offering him a box of tissues, then proceed as if nothing happened.

After a short, uneventful interview, I send him on his merry way and head to the bar to meet up with my contact in the FDU.


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