“…well, sir, it was about, oh, a meter or so tall, looked kinda like if someone had stuck bat-ears, a big-lipped face, skinny arms and legs, a ratty wig, and, er, prominent female features on a big lima-bean of some sort and… …No, no sir, I’m not drunk or drugged, I swear it. As I clocked in and went to begin my shift, it - or she, I guess - was sloppily wandering around the central dispatch area in gaudy jewelry, sunglasses, heeled sandals and what looked like a gold bikini, waving an empty glass around and shouting in a heavily-slurred accent that she wanted more booze… …Yes, sir, that’s exactly why I’m resigning - pardon my bluntness, but seeing crazy shit like that while stone-cold sober is proof I’m nowhere even close to cut out for this job.” – Josh
It took a special kind of person to work in Crypto-control. If someone was going to go nuts over a grade three goblin in a Las Vegas state of mind, they clearly didn’t belong. No matter how unflappable the FBI said they were.
Clearly, it was half-past time to look in other areas for recruits. FBI, CIA and the rest of the secret service alphabet were far too ready to throw their hands up and quit at the slightest glimpse of the strange, the bizarre and the unexpected.
Director Blemisch threw her pile of candidate profiles in the nearest trash can and bought up her favourite browser, then her most secure search engine. She tapped her ideal qualifications into the search engine and crossed her fingers.
She needed someone with unique qualifications.
Able to accept strange new circumstances
Capable with most known weapons
Prepared for unexpected events
The search engine’s progress bar crawled at a snail’s pace. Blemisch left to retrieve a snack and a beverage from the empty and desolate break room.
When she came back, the engine said she might find what she was looking for at a place called M5 Industries.