"Come in!" warbled a cheerful voice.

  "Hello, Godkiller," Wade said, stepping into the extra-tall tent now that Shilloh had taken a break and left the space open.

  "Please, Wade," the obscured man said, the sound of a smile clear even if his mask (which may be more appropriately called The Mask) covered his face, "in this tent, you can just call me Thresher. Or, alternatively, you could take a note from our dear Ms. Genandoah and call me Gibbly Killery. I've really come to like it. Makes me feel young."

  If it had been someone else behind that mask, Wade might have worried; as it was, he just groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  "She's great, isn't she?" Thresher laughed.

  "She's certainly something."

  "Oh, relax, the name is ridiculous. But we deserve it. We decided to name someone in the fucking blightbanes 'Godkiller'. If that doesn't earn silly-name karma, nothing will. Honestly, it shocks me that I don't spontaneously generate guy-liner, tickets to My Chemical Romance, and ripped jeans each time I put this mask on."

  "You know," Wade said, "if it wasn't you, and if I didn't know you were avoiding doing your work. I might have taken umbrage to that."

  "Well, it is me and I am trying to avoid my paperwork."

  "Does that mean the interview went poorly?"

  The masked figure jerked his head back and hid behind raised hands, "No. Stop. I won't," he panted, "succumb. Not to your," he dramatically fell to a knee and let his hands start to quake, "your straight-laced, kill-joy aura attack."

  Wade laughed and threw a stick of beef jerky at the man.

  "Oh! Teriyaki! Is this a bribe?"

  "Only for information."

  "Nice! I knew I'd get you to figure out how camp life works one day."

  While the black-clad man hid away the treat Wade had smuggled in from the outside world, he took a seat across from Thresher's camp desk.

  "So, how did she do?"

  "Amazingly. But you knew that."

  "I had my suspicions. Did she agree to the magically enforced secrecy?"

  "Tentatively. She needed a short bathroom break after all the interviewing. Once she returns, I'll sketch out possibilities more thoroughly and see if she'll consent. I hope, really do hope, we can get her on the team."

  "Yeah," Wade said, thinking about the way she had taken to training. She listened to every detail and questioned almost all of them until she understood the 'what' and the 'why.' On top of that, she just had a sort of no-nonsense approach to working. He wasn't sure if it was more like seeing the workman-like efficiency of someone who had grown up on a farm and no longer thought of work as an obstacle, or the mindset of an athlete who had long since stopped fearing the process. "She's something special."

  "Of course, there wouldn't be a file with her name on it if she weren't. What impresses me is that she also seems—at least relative to other top talent—normal and pleasant."

  Rather than continuing to sit, the distorted figure started to stretch, working out the kinks from a day at the desk.

  "Honestly, she earned her trial period with us from the moment I got your reports on her and her conduct on the trip up here."

  "Really?" Wade said, thinking about Jasque's feedback.

  Thresher reached down to touch his toes, let out a small fart, casually asked Wade if he had heard that 'cave frog,' and kept talking. "Of course. She's got the grit; she has a mission. She's far more capable in the field than you were when we first got our hands on you, and she gets along with everyone. I'd send back the strongest fighter in the world if they were pushing our team apart."

  Wade didn't respond. It was noticeable.

  "Alright, she gets along with everyone she could get along with. Honestly, if Jasque liked her personality, then she wouldn't be a good fit for our little council of misfits and outcasts."

  "The man in the biggest tent, positioned right in the best parts of camp, can't be a misfit or an outcast. That's not how it works."

  Thresher got up and sat on his perfectly made cot. "I'll let your slander go, but only because there aren't any eligible singles nearby to hear it. What is it that I always say?"

  "First comes mask and mission."

  "No. I always say that you need mystique. Mystique, Wade. That's the best way to find someone willing to squeak cot-springs with you. If I can't be a misfit, I'll need to get my mystique by smoking, and that's a terrible habit. I'll have to trade all my beef jerky for cartons of smokes, and camping without beef jerky is intolerable. I need to be a misfit. There's just no other logical way."

  Wade shook his head with a smile, "No beef jerky? Perish the thought. No one wants a cranky Godkiller."

  "Exactly, why, if that happened, there might be oceans of blood that turned into a red mist filling the air with an unending crimson sunset."

  Wade didn't shiver; he was too experienced. The mist got to you the first few times. But once you found a way to keep the smell and taste out—which even decoy masks did excellently— it became much easier to handle.

  "You know," the Were said, "maybe we can tamp that whole 'exasanguinated fog' down a little. I know it's like, Your Thing, but there was that one nasty incursion, the one with the regenerating Callcamas—"

  "The regenerating, chimera-looking things?"

  "No, the regenerating dinosaur-centaurs whose lower halves were slugs."

  Wade could hear the other man grimace through the mask, "Oh, those."

  "Those," he nodded. "It took us, what, five hours of serious killing to wrap things up. And there was not a breeze to be found. We had so much blue mist for so long that by the time I went into my tent, my color vision was messed up. I thought you had burnt out all the blue receptors and I was going to be color blind for the rest of my life."

  "So you want me to cut back on the mists?"

  "If it wouldn't be a terrible inconvenience."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "My trademark mists?"

  "Your trademark mists."

  Godkiller wove his fingers together, stretched out his legs, and slouched until he could tilt his head back. "You know, there's a saying I like. 'Rather than trying to carpet the world, make sandals.' Blood is part of the job. Butchers know that, and they wear aprons rather than removing all the fluids from everything they need to butcher. If it bothers our people, maybe we should try something like that. You can vacuum-seal your clothes or get some scent beads to wash your stuff in after an incursion."

  "The therapy bills our corporate headquarters need to cover for all the traumatized banes working your incursions is probably enough to buy us some artillery."

  Godkiller didn't so much as stir; he just spoke in a relaxed voice, face pointed at the tent. "I know, but killing is killing and work is work. We have amazing jobs —some people's dream job. It's only fair if that takes a little extra gumption, right? "

  Wade laughed, "So that's a 'no' on tamping down the blood mists?"

  "I wish I could. You all work yourselves to death. But, until I can find a way to make spilled blood circle back and drown the beast I'm bleeding, then it might as well be in the air. Poor visibility suits us. Plus, you ever tried to run through a blood marsh, Wade? It's exhausting. And the kind of athlete's foot it causes?" Thresher shuddered." No. Better in the mists."

  And so it went. After that, they turned away from business talk. Thresher somehow slipped a whoopee cushion onto Wade's seat after asking him to grab a pen from across the tent.

  But breaks could only last so long, and Thresher couldn't take off his mask to eat when the tent flap could open at any moment. So, it was with a friendly groan about doing tedious grown-up work, that Thresher called Birch and Shilloh back in.

  The two women walked in and raised their eyebrows when they saw Wade.

  "Hello. Thank you for humoring me and coming back so fast. Aside from stretching all of our legs, I wanted to call over Mr. Raslow here on the off chance that he might be able to help me clarify some points. Obviously, this is your interview, and I'm happy to have him leave, or call in one of your other travel-mates if you think they would be more helpful."

  Shilloh, who was wearing a professional outfit, with some very subtle makeup and less jewelry than usual, glanced at him. Her hazel eyes pierced his, and he did all he could not to let her effect on him show. Not just because the teasing would be endless, but also because she was supposed to be just his friend right now. Thinking of this interview's outcome in terms of their eventual ability to date was incredibly selfish and disrespectful, given that he knew just how much this opportunity meant to her.

  "Thank you," the dryad finally said," I think Wade will do well enough for now." She shot him a smile. All the storm-clouds and self-reproach in his chest were blown away, and he smiled back.

  Though he was interested in how blatantly Birch stayed on Shilloh's side of the tent. Though, to be fair, that might have been because she was also very blatantly working her way through a Sudoku puzzle book while everyone else tried to comport themselves with professionalism and respect. Birch may just not realize that she had divided them into two teams.

  "Perfect," Thresher said, his tone warm. "Let me begin the tedious and strange process of telling you as much as I can about the prospects I foresee you having with the Blightbanes. All while telling you as little of substance as possible before we decide if you are willing to agree to the magical oaths that would let me share the more classified details with you."

  Shilloh took out a pad and pen, crossed her ankles, and locked her eyes on the man in a mask.

  "I'm ready anytime you are."

  "Perfect. I've been told you would be interested in our benefits. Those are pretty standard. They are separated into a few categories defined by the type of work, proximity to combat, risk of injury, and the severity of any probable injury.

  ~~~

  "That went too smoothly," Wade said, as the two women left.

  "Really? I thought she was quite piercing in her questions. I've rarely seen a person so willing to ask the same question over and over with slightly different wording until she got an answer to the exact thing she had been curious about."

  "Yes. Too easy. Trust me, I saw how she worked over Sam. She should have pushed for more details."

  Thresher shrugged, "Probably the mask. What is it that I always say?"

  "That you need mystique?"

  "No, that your name should remind everyone of all the things you are professionally capable of killing. No one cares about spilling coffee on Mr. Raslow. But no one wants to even sneeze too loud once you introduce yourself as Godkiller. Well, I suppose I should say that once you have reputably informed people of the title 'Godkiller'. It would be a terrible given name."

  "Maybe," he said, frowning at the tent flap while Thresher took out all the security precautions and small stand-up partitions that he would eat behind. "You want me to go and get Beige?"

  "That would be wonderful, thank you. I didn't think they'd take so long. Once we get past the swearing-in, I'm hoping the actual job offer will be done quickly. I'm starving for a proper meal."

  "I wouldn't get my hopes up."

  "Really? She's been very inquisitive, asked for a few statistics that I had to look up, but overall, she's been lovely. I'm sure that first experience with Sam was just a one-off because of how stressful the day had been."

  Wade grunted. "We'll see. Let me go get Beige."

  "Thank you, but Wade, I did want to ask; if she takes us up on the offer, do you want to give her your background or should I?"

  There was no need to ask about what background he was referring to. It was the only one that really mattered. The one where she would need to know about all the reasons he was an unreliable person to bet your life on, but that she might have to do so anyway.

  Or, in their weird potential relationship case, why he was a bad person to spend your life with.

  "I'll do it."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes, she deserves to hear it from me."

  "Wade," the older man sighed, shaking his head. "No one deserves to cross your boundaries. Even here, this is a job. Sure, it's a big job that helps a lot of people, but it's still just a job. I expect you to give me your all, but you are still entitled to your privacy and all the comforts you didn't bargain away in exchange for salary."

  Wade didn't turn around. If he did, Thresher might see the bitter smile on his face. What he said was an excellent rule for regular, trustworthy people. Unfortunately, he had no illusions about what he was. There was a reason no one else in his position needed a bodyguard who was constantly looking for signs of instability so he could promptly, and guiltlessly, murder his charge.

  Wade literally lived with a constant observer who had access to his every choice, breath, and biometric because he needed that.

  Privacy was a privilege, and he was already lucky just to be here. He was living on borrowed time, and there was no level of sincerity or personal determination that would ever make him reliable.

  That's why he had Jasque. One day, his choices would no longer be his own. His curse was not knowing if that was a minute or a decade away. Still, due to the shitty world they lived in, people entrusted him with their safety, their lives, their children, and their future.

  He would break that trust one day. So, no, he did not deserve privacy.

  "Thank you, Godkiller Thresher. But I would still like to tell her. Like you always say, we don't get to choose what is in our power to change, but it is always within our power to change what we get out of being able to choose."

  The way Wade Raslow would end was beyond him. He would fail. He would let everyone down. But, for today at least, he still had a choice. That meant Wade would choose to act like someone who lived up to the faith others put into him.

  Shilloh would hear it from him.

  Without spelling it out, he knew his mentor understood. Sometimes, when you felt powerless and afraid, the best medicine was to seize the day, focus on the small things, and reinforce the 'you' that you wanted to be.

  Someone who did this kind of work had to live that way. Otherwise, they wouldn't last long.

  "Are you sure that's what I always say? That doesn't sound like me at all. I thought that what I always say is that using Vaseline isn't admitting weakness, it's choosing wisdom."

  Wade almost choked on his own spit.

  Well fuck him, apparently. Maybe his mentor didn't understand. Maybe everyone else who worked to keep people from dying walked around with no burdens at all, whistled show tunes, and Wade was just a dramatic asshole.

  "I'm getting Beige." He sighed.

  "And Vaseline if you need it, right?"

  "Sure, I don't know why I even try to care. I'll get Vaseline and water too in case this goes long."

  "Nonsense. Did you see Ms. Genandoah? She's bored out of her mind. I'm sure we'll be able to wrap things up nice and quickly with her here to keep things relaxed and on track."

  Thresher uttered those words with all the confidence of an all-star varsity football player in a horror movie who had just told the group to split up after having premarital sex on the site of a deconsecrated mass grave.

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