I Clean Gods to Pay the Rent

0001 Job Hunting Ain't Easy

    "Here for the application? Name?"

    "Leo... Cassius Thorne."

    Thorne?

    At the familiar-sounding surname, the bored interviewer behind the desk arched a brow and looked up at the pale, skinny young man standing before her, asking with a hint of surprise:

    "Thorne... as in the Duke of Boarheart's Thornes?"

    "No, no..."

    The young man seemed well used to the question. He gave a small shake of his head and rattled off the explanation like he'd given it a hundred times:

    "It sounds the same, but the Duke of Boarheart took his from the black boar on the family crest — that 'Thorne.' Mine comes from Thornfield. Way back, our family was nothing but commoners from there."

    "Oh. Figured as much."

    The red-haired woman nodded in easy understanding, privately amused at her own jumpiness.

    That insufferable family, so proud of their pure gold hair, had hardly produced a member with any other color in generations. A black-haired, black-eyed descendant? One who'd sunk so low as to come job-hunting here? Not a chance.

    She gave Cassius's clothes a once-over — the old coat was scrubbed spotless, but its edges had worn through to the lining — and seemed to lose all interest. Her head dropped back down, and with her quill scratching away at some list, she said absently:

    "Right, so I'll put 'commoner' for family status. As for the rest — education, religion, any prosthetic work done, whether you've got a mini difference engine implanted under your skin, and what exactly you were convicted of. Just go down the list."

    Huh? Hold on. What he was convicted of?

    Cassius blinked, thrown for a second, then asked, puzzled:

    "Excuse me — that last item. You're asking whether I have a criminal record, right?"

    "?"

    At the question, the red-haired woman's brow creased. She curled her knuckles and rapped the desktop twice, hard, and snapped without a shred of courtesy:

    "I'd better get some honesty out of you! This is the Oddity Cleanup Bureau, not a court of law! Nobody comes applying to a place like this unless they've done something that'd hang them. Whatever you did, just say it plainly, and don't even think about playing games with me!"

    ?!

    Wait, what? I'm just trying to find a job here. How the hell did the gallows get involved?

    Tch. All that hemming and hawing. One look and you can tell he's been up to no good.

    Watching Cassius flounder for an answer, the red-haired woman across the desk gave a contemptuous little sniff, rapped the desk again, and said, cold-faced as a prosecutor:

    "I'll say this one last time: this is the Oddity Cleanup Bureau, not a court of law!

    "I neither can nor care to judge you. The only reason I'm asking what you did is so I can put your name in and get the kingdom's wanted notice on you canceled. So you'd better come clean! Save yourself the trouble. We clear?"

    A wanted notice?

    The words sank in, and as the wrongness of it registered, Cassius's pupils tightened. Very carefully, he asked: "Ma'am... is this the Smoke City First Public Sanitation Bureau?"

    "..."

    Public Sanitation Bureau?

    Now it was her turn to go blank. The red-haired woman thought a beat, and something seemed to click.

    She looked him over — the runty frame of somebody who'd gone underfed for years — and the disgust on her face flickered and died. She sat up straight, pointed out the window, and said quietly, brow furrowed:

    "Wrong door. This is the Bu— this is the House of Buer branch. We sit outside the Police Department's official roster. The Public Sanitation Bureau you want belongs to the Department of Roads — that's the building diagonally across the street. The one with the huge line out front."

    "Oh! Oh, right!"

    So he'd had the wrong building all along. Cassius let out a long breath.

    By the Bells, she'd scared the hell out of him. And here he'd been wondering why sweeping streets required being a wanted criminal first. Turns out this just wasn't the Public Sanitation Bureau.

    Also — wasn't this hiring round only offering ten positions total? Why was the line over there so long? That many people fighting over brooms?

    "Sorry for the trouble."

    He apologized politely, then stole one more look through the window at the long line across the street — and then, as if his feet had developed opinions of their own, he turned back to the red-haired woman and asked in a small voice, hope all over his face:

    "So... if you happen to be short-handed here, too..."

    "You're not a fit."

    "..."

    Watching the light drain out of the kid's face — sixteen, seventeen at most — the red-haired woman hesitated, then made herself explain:

    "The Oddity Cleanup Bureau pays well — better than your average city official, even. But around one in a hundred of us die on the job. So unless you're truly out of options, you'd best not come to me."

    One percent?

    At that cold little word — "die" — Cassius didn't flinch. If anything, a spark of delight lit up in his eyes.

    One percent? Please. He could live with those odds.

    Back in his old world, fine. But here, in this bizarre world where steam carriages crowded the streets, the baseline death rate for the men who stoked furnaces, went down the mines, ran mana-infusions, or refined reagents was close to two percent a year — and for every man who died, several more were left crippled by machinery or poisoned by fumes.

    Over an average "career" of thirty years or so, hardly a single worker made it through whole. One lousy percent a year was practically...

    "I may not have been clear just now."

    Seeing the interested look creeping onto Cassius's face, the red-haired woman shook her head and explained:

    "The Oddity Cleanup Bureau's death rate isn't counted per year. It's per month."

    "..."

    Per MONTH. One percent a month... that came out to over ten percent a year?! This "Oddity Cleanup Bureau" lost more than a tenth of its staff every single year?!?!?!

    Taking in the shock written all over Cassius's face, the red-haired woman gave a small shake of her head and shooed him off with a wave:

    "Now you get it, so run along. We only take people condemned to hang, or people carrying a controllable 'anomaly' of their own. An ordinary guy like you can't handle the work here. This place isn't for you."

    "Then... sorry to have bothered you..."

    With that gentle, absolutely-final refusal ringing in his ears, Cassius felt a stab of pain shoot through his skull, and a shrill ringing drilled into his ears.

    [For failing your 42nd job hunt, you have unlocked the black-iron badge [42 Job Hunts, Zero Offers]]

    [42 Job Hunts, Zero Offers: A young person who has, due to insufficient education, lack of experience, or a sluggish economy, thus far failed to secure gainful employment]

    [Worn Effect: When your parents chat with people their own age, they will reliably trigger the special state "Changing the Subject," automatically steering the conversation away from you]

    [Advancement Path: If this badge is worn continuously for more than two months without successful employment, and you meet the precondition of living under the same roof as your parents, it will automatically advance to the bronze badge [Gentleman of Leisure]]

    [Hidden Trait (no need to wear): While the [42 Job Hunts, Zero Offers] badge is active and total household assets sit below 58 pounds, your odds of landing a partner through a matchmaking service will automatically drop by 80%]

    "..."