Join the team! We mine shit!

  -Scrapped recruitment ad for Murdock Mining and Excavation

  Murdock's big corporate building did certainly look like every other big corporate building I'd ever seen: sleek, gray, and lifeless. Admittedly I'd not seen many big corporate buildings in my time, but the attempt at modern angular design trends made it coalesce into a gray, concrete colored blob, and that did very little to dissuade my negative impression. The place was busy, that's for certain. Despite Orson only being a town of about thirty thousand–a helpful statistic supplied by Calydon–there was a near constant trickle of people circulating in and out the building. Guess the best way to stay busy was by owning ninety percent of the business in the town. Not sure how that could ever relate to my life, but you don’t ignore wisdom when it's staring you in the face.

  The interior was about as inspired as the exterior, which is to say it wasn't. That weird dark grey carpet, the unsettling shiny metal furniture, the droning corporate excuse for music. It felt like I had walked into a bank, which was about the exact opposite from invoking a feeling of pleasantry. In complete contrast was the titanic hunk of rusted metal in the dead center of the floor, a tiny plaque labeling it as an “Authentic 19th Century Mine Cart.” What business a 200 year-old metallic box with wheels had doing in the middle of a building was beyond me, but if I had to guess Murdock was a big fan of flaunting its own–probably fabricated–history.

  I walked up to the front receptionist, who just so happened to have opened up after an older gentleman stormed away in a huff. Maybe it was the oppressive corporate atmosphere playing tricks on the brain, but the smile on her face just looked extra fake. “Welcome, how can we help you today?”

  “I’m here for an appointment, actually.”

  “Well, usually appointment waiting rooms are designated to whoever you are meeting, but I’m sure we can find the correct place to point you.” She began typing impressively fast into the computer in front of her, and didn’t even bother to keep eye contact as her eyes went to the screen. “Can I have a name please?”

  Well, that was going to be a problem. I wasn’t exactly keen on announcing myself in grandiose fashion to the masses, but if even a simple receptionist could blow my cover like last night I’d rather keep the number of people who have registered my name as few as possible. A quick glance at a pen in a cup gave me an excuse. “Ah…do you have some paper? It’s a little hard to spell out just by hearing it.”

  The lady obliged, and I had to do my best to write my Samurai name somewhat covertly on the little slip of paper I was handed. Death Punch. Wouldn’t have been my choice if it were up to me, but the name had spread enough across the interwebs for it to fully stick. Unrelated, my handwriting was sloppy. I’d have to remind myself to read a book or take a class on it at some point. I’m sure Cal would love to shill a thousand different choices my way.

  I slid the piece of paper back to her, and her eyes fell upon it casually for a second before subtly widening in surprise. A few glances from her were passed between me, the note, and the rest of reception, but with a clear of her throat she brought her focus back to the matter at hand, spine noticeably straighter and face clearly more engaged. “I’m…I’m going to need some identification, miss.”

  [Cal, would you kindly?] I texted into my augs.

  Gladly.

  Can’t say I knew what exactly appeared on her screen, but something certainly did and it garnered a shudder from the lady behind the counter. Not necessarily one of fear, just shock. Whatever it was, it did plenty to prove my identity.

  “Well…” she said, working to regain her composure with a small cough. “We were given notice that you would be coming later today, but we certainly didn’t expect you to be arriving so soon, Miss Dea-”

  “Max,” I cut her off. “Miss Max is just fine, thanks. Let’s keep this on the down low, alright?”

  The receptionist gave a slow and very methodical nod, clearly going through the modicum of ways a Samurai could absolutely ruin her life. Not that I would, but I appreciated the thought. “Regarding your appointment, it looks like he is currently in a brief meeting, but Mr. Shermanson has been notified and should be out of it in just a few minutes, Miss…Max. His office is on the third floor, Room 317. Right down the middle, you can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I gave a polite nod back before walking over to the elevators, and I couldn't help but huff in amusement at the very audible sigh of relief that came out of her mouth after I turned around.

  [What did you show her, by the way?]

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  A rotating skull with your Samurai name in flashing text, all on a black background.

  [What color was the text?]

  Blood red.

  [Classy.]

  My journey through monochrome purgatory was thankfully quite short, as the receptionist was right in how utterly unignorable the head office was once I had arrived on the third floor. Proceeding it was a long stretch of hallway decorated with all sorts of pictures of founders, board members, and CEOs adorned perfectly along the adjacent walls, with a pair of imposing dark oak doors standing at the end. With how relatively small of a town Orson was it was frankly impressive how much of the decor was dedicated to pointless showboating.

  I gave the door a solid rap. “Professional weedkiller, here for their consultation.”

  A gruff voice answered a moment later. “Come in.”

  Sliding my way through the door, what greeted me was an aesthetic breath of fresh air. Stained wood furniture, not the faux-wood crap but actual lumber, splayed majestically all across the room. All sorts of stuffed animal heads covered each wall, species that had gone extinct within the last few decades and other ones I didn't even recognize. I couldn’t put a name to what exactly was playing, but the sound of an older country song drifted softly through the air, coming from a small radio on the side.

  The room's current occupant was about as close to the definition of gruff as one could get. A thick, grey mustache traveled down to his chin, and eyes sharp as barbed wire locked onto me as soon as I entered. A ten-gallon hat was placed proudly atop his head, and the man's hand strummed across one of the bands of his suspenders in mellow anticipation. This outfit gave off the impression of a rancher more than anything else, but with how different his attire was from everyone else in the building I had no impression that he was a simple farmer bad with directions.

  “Shermanson, I assume?”

  “You must be Death Punch,” he said whilst giving a nod. His voice came out deep and weathered, with a particular western drawl.

  “That would be me,” I replied, giving a very lazy curtsy. “Though I usually go by Max, or Miss Samurai if you want to be more formal I guess. Heard you’re the mayor of this place.”

  “A common misconception, Miss Samurai. By the corporate definitions, my role is to take on the administrative oversight of all Murdock-related businesses.” Both of us stood in silence for a moment, building dramatic suspense for the resolution of that thought. “...But since Murdock owns the overwhelming majority of business and property in Orson, it ain’t necessarily incorrect to call me the mayor.

  “Although, if I may be frank with you, Miss Samurai, the first thing that pops to my mind here is that you don't particularly look the part. I was expecting something a bit more…ornate.” His eyes narrowed in my direction, and I didn’t fail to notice his finger hovering over a button on his desk.

  “I'm not one for the flashy side of the Samurai lifestyle, to be honest with you. Though if you need proof…” I took one of my gloves off, revealing the sleek black forearm beneath. “Hopefully this will suffice. I’m not pulling all my other crap out. I could have my AI send you a cute little message if you want.”

  He visibly eased, falling back into this chair. “Mmm, no. What you've shown me is plenty. Take a seat.” He motioned to the open chair right up against his desk.

  Instead, I chose to lean up against the back wall near the door. “I'm good, thanks.”

  Shermanson stared at me for a solid second, but let whatever disgruntled thought he had dissipate with a huff. “At least you're polite about it. “

  “I could be far less if you want. There's a lot of cuss words I wanna say to people and not a lot of opportunities to say them.”

  That earned a snort from him. “Cute. Let's get to the brass tacks.”

  He move over to the side and with the click of a remote, the back wall was illuminated by a projector, now showing pictures of a mineshaft. “Despite how much the suits would prefer we didn't go through with it for budgeting reasons, it's company policy for Murdock to do thorough safety inspections of our more hazardous work areas. Considering we're a mining company, that’s most of our actual sites, and there’s quite the number we have to go through annually. Most of the time it reveals diddly squat, maybe a misplaced lamp or a slightly worn support beam. Our last check, however, done about two weeks ago, discovered this.”

  A click, and it transitioned to an image of a tunnel. It sure didn't look like any mining tunnel I had ever seen, what with how oddly round the tunnel appeared to be and the complete lack of support beams. No, it looked like something else entirely. Something I had become uncomfortably familiar with over the course of the last month.

  “Antithesis…” I muttered aloud.

  Shermanson nodded. “I was thinking the same. Closed down that area as soon as we could. The boys haven't had a chance yet to really scout it out, namely out of caution, but from what we can tell the tunnel is deep. Real deep.”

  “Has Orson had any Antithesis before?”

  He started to scratch his chin. “Mmm, about a year and a half ago. Small hive was formin’ at one of our old sites north of here. Called up a Samurai in the area and the PMC who we contract out and they were done within the week. We're thinking this tunnel was one we missed in our pass back then.”

  “So…is that what you called me for?” I asked. “Some empty ass tunnel?” For both of us, I hoped it wasn’t.

  “Not empty. Model Threes began to appear in the tunnel about a week ago. At first it was just one, but their numbers have only been accelerating.”

  “How much accelerating are we talking?”

  “It’s now at a pack of three appearing every half hour.”