Chapter 1 #2
"Your pathetic defensive maneuvers were laughable," Knox continues, and I notice that he's not just yelling for effect, this is apparently just his regular speaking volume, a battlefield boom that commands attention through sheer sonic dominance.
"Your poison-pill provisions crumbled like the bones of the weak before the onslaught of superior strategy.
Your white knight defenders fled the field of battle when faced with our leveraged buyout offensive.
The Bloodaxe Clan has secured a majority stake in this.
.. companyy..." He says the word like he's tasting something unfamiliar, his tusks clicking together thoughtfully.
"And by the ancient laws of corporate combat, all who dwell within these walls are now subject to my command. "
"You can't— this is— there are procedures—" Gerald sputters, as he attempts to summon the blustering authority that has served him so poorly for years. "I am the Chief Executive Officer of Pinnacle Solutions and I demand to speak with your— your—"
"Your quarterly earnings have declined for seven consecutive cycles," Knox interrupts, and he reaches into his suit jacket to produce a folder that he tosses onto the conference table with a heavy thwap that makes everyone within a three-foot radius flinch.
"Your market share has hemorrhaged like a gut-wound in battle.
Your competitor analysis is laughable, your supply chain optimization is nonexistent, and your employee retention rate suggests that your workers would rather face the unemployment wastes than continue serving under your banner.
" He leans forward, placing both hands on the table, and the wood groans audibly under the pressure.
"You have led this company like a chieftain who has never tasted victory, who fears the sound of his own war drums. I have executed hostile acquisitions of seventeen enterprises across three continents, and you, Gerald Hoffstead.
.." He pronounces the name with contemptuous precision.
"You are the most incompetent warlord I have ever had the displeasure of deposing. "
Gerald's face cycles through an impressive range of colors, white to red to purple and back to white again, before his eyes roll back in his head and he crumples to the floor with the boneless grace of a man whose entire worldview has just been violently restructured.
Several people scream, nobody actually moves to help him because honestly what would we even do, and Knox Bloodaxe straightens up to his full, terrifying height.
"The fallen leader will be removed and processed according to standard severance protocols," Knox announces to the room at large, and one of the Orcs from the hallway, this one in a slightly less impressive but still very nice navy suit, steps forward to efficiently drag Gerald's unconscious form out of the room by his ankles.
Which, technically, is perfectly legal under the Inter-Species Corporate Combat Accords, provided the acquiring clan pays the mandatory medical hazard fees.
I know this because I actually read the fine print of our corporate charter, unlike Gerald, who is currently buffing the hallway carpet with his face.
"His tenure of failure has ended," Knox booms, entirely unbothered by the human resources nightmare he just legally created.
"A new era of conquest begins." His eyes, which I notice now are a deep amber color catches the light like molten metal, sweeping across the assembled employees with the calculating assessment of someone evaluating the potential usefulness of recently acquired assets.
His gaze passes over Marcy, who has gone very still, and Derek, who has given up on the emergency exit and is now hiding behind a potted plant that is absolutely not large enough to conceal him, and the rest of my coworkers who all seem to have collectively forgotten how to breathe.
And then his eyes land on me.
I am still standing, I realize, my tablet still clutched to me and my three highlighters scattered across the carpet around my feet like fallen soldiers.
My glasses have slid down my nose from the impact shockwave of the door explosion, and my bun has achieved a level of dishevelment that could generously be described as "catastrophic," but I haven't moved from my spot since the chaos began.
I haven't screamed, haven't hidden, haven't fainted like Gerald or fled like Derek attempted to.
I've just been standing here, watching, processing, cataloguing information the way I've been trained to do through years of surviving corporate warfare in its more mundane forms.
Knox Bloodaxe looks at me, really looks, and something shifts in his expression that I can't quite identify. The room has gone deathly silent around us, everyone holding their breath.
He raises one hand, and I notice the rings adorning his thick green fingers, heavy bands of what looks like white gold and darker iron that speak to a wealth and power that goes beyond the already impressive statement of the tailored suit.
His index finger extends, pointing directly at me with an unwavering certainty that brooks no argument, and when he speaks, his voice drops from a battlefield boom to something almost conversational, though it still resonates with that bone-deep authority.
"You."
Around me, my coworkers are making themselves as small as possible, as if they can somehow avoid notice through sheer force of will, and I am suddenly, acutely aware that I am the sole focus of an apex predator's attention.
"You are the one who prepared the defensive analysis," Knox continues, and it's not a question.
"The one who identified the seventeen structural weaknesses in the current leadership's strategy.
The one who sent..." He pauses, reaching into his jacket again to produce another folder, this one significantly thicker, and I feel my stomach drop as I recognize the formatting of my own meticulous documentation.
"Forty-three memos. Forty-three detailed tactical assessments of this company's vulnerabilities, complete with projected outcomes and recommended countermeasures, all of which were ignored by the fool I just removed from command. "
I open my mouth to respond, to explain, to somehow justify the fact that my attempts to save this company have apparently been used as a roadmap for its conquest, but no sound comes out. My throat has decided that now is an excellent time to stop cooperating with basic biological functions.
Knox's lips curl in what might be a smile if smiles were typically quite so terrifying, and he takes one step toward me, then another, until he's I have to tilt my head back at an uncomfortable angle just to maintain eye contact.
He's huge, absolutely mammoth, and the sheer physical presence of him overwhelms every other sensory input in a way that my rational brain finds deeply inconvenient.
He smells like something dark and rich, sandalwood maybe and something earthier underneath, and the heat radiating from his body cuts through the perpetual chill of the over-air-conditioned conference room.
"Your strategic thinking is adequate," he announces, which I suspect is a significant compliment coming from a literal Warchief.
"Your organizational systems show discipline.
Your ability to identify weakness and recommend corrective action speaks to a mind that understands the flow of battle, even if you have been trapped serving under a commander unworthy of your talents.
" He reaches down and picks up one of my fallen highlighters, the pink one, examining it with apparent curiosity before tucking it into his jacket pocket like a claimed trophy.
"I am in need of a First Mate of the Ledger.
Someone to manage the bureaucratic campaigns while I focus on expansion and acquisition.
Someone who can translate the language of these spreadsheets and reports into actionable intelligence. "
"I... what?" The words come out as a croak.
Knox's amber eyes flash with something that might be impatience or might be amusement, it's hard to tell when his face is primarily composed of sharp angles and tusks.
"You will serve as my second-in-command of administrative operations.
You will organize my conquest schedule, manage the subordinate assets, ensure that the paperwork of war is filed correctly and on time.
" He gestures broadly at the cowering remains of my coworkers.
"Or I will liquidate this entire floor and start fresh with recruits who show proper appreciation for the opportunity to serve under Bloodaxe banner. "
I look around the room at my coworkers, at Marcy who is silently mouthing please help us and Derek who has somehow gotten himself tangled in the potted plant's decorative moss, at the scattered papers and the shattered door and the motivational poster that has finally completed its slow descent to the floor.
I think about my student loans, my dreams of eventually starting my own consulting firm, the seventeen expense reports I'm still owed reimbursement for.
I look back up at Knox Bloodaxe, Warchief of the Bloodaxe Clan, who is apparently offering me a promotion at the point of total corporate annihilation.
"First Mate of the Ledger," I repeat slowly, testing the words. "What's the salary?"