1
I never knew working at an office job would be this soul-sucking. I mean, everyone said it would be, and I expected some amount of sucking, but not like this.
It’s one of those Tuesdays that feels a little too much like a second Monday. Specifically it feels like one of those Mondays that every little thing scratches against your consciousness like sandpaper on your face. The ticking of someone’s watch. The creaky chairs that complain whenever someone shifts their weight a little. The smell of burnt coffee seeping out of the breakroom because putting the coffee pot directly beneath the drip is beyond some people.
I’ve never been an I-Hate-Mondays kind of person, but I think I might be turning into one, this very Tuesday.
It could just be because the washed out fluorescent lighting is giving me a headache. The conversation two cubicles over, the not-so-subtle whispering about vacation days, is making my eyes roll back in my skull. I can’t focus on my spreadsheets. I’m not used to working with so many other people around. Maybe the reason I never contemplated hating my coworkers is because I wasn’t with them for the whole day before. The only thing I’m capable of thinking about is how much I want to poke my head up over the divider and ask for some quiet.
Suddenly, I get my wish.
All the chatter silences, a sudden hush that feels heavy and old as a catacomb. A feeling like a breeze ripples through the room, as my skin prickles. An unnatural cold wraps around my body, when I see a dark shadow fall over me.
I look up into the hollow cowl of a black cloak that drapes down to the floor.
The spectre hangs near me with an empty stare that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Any messages?” the disembodied voice murmurs, low and guttural, coming from somewhere within the black robes that billow even without wind.
“I, uh, no, but I have a couple things people asked to reschedule,” I stammer, shuffling through my desk for the little paper squares I’ve jotted down notes. I pause before I relay them to him, glancing around. I can see the color-drained faces of my coworkers peering out over their partitions to watch.
We usually do this in my office, but it’s currently being renovated. I mean, I don’t really have an office. I have a desk in the little waiting room outside the Dark Lich Lord’s Grand Sanctum, where I sit and reschedule his appointments, remind him to take his daily blood doses, and really just tell people it’ll be another ten minutes before they can see him.
At least, I used to have a desk. Until an assassin managed to sneak past security and tried to ambush the Lich Lord in the waiting room. It got messy. As in, pretty much all of the furniture was obliterated in the fight messy. I’d stepped away from my desk, only to return to a scorched room and a pile of cinders. Honestly, I don’t even know why we have security if the Lich Lord can just vaporize anyone that comes at him with a poisoned blade.
There was a "chosen hero” or whatever a few years ago that tried to defeat the Lich Lord, but it didn’t quite work out. There were details, but that kind of stuff gets buried in the endless paperwork that is required in maintaining an evil dominion. I don’t think anyone has the real story except the Lich Lord himself.
Anyway, that’s how I got stuck in one of the spare partitioned desks in the accounting department. It’s only until the room is finished being renovated.
I glance over my shoulder and at the whole office still staring, unsubtly, to see what’s going on.
It’s right about then that I realize, most people in the Dark Domain don’t get to see their Lich Lord all that often.
“Um, I’ll bring these to the Sanctum, shall I?” I say, feeling their stares on my back.
Still, their stares are nothing compared to the gravity I feel when I look into the empty depth that is the Lich’s cloak. The constant motion of his cloak is a slow, underwater-like movement that always makes me start to lean towards him. It’s a weird, dizzying feeling. People talk about staring into the void until the void stares back, but that void is always staring.
The cloak’s cowl nods stiffly, but the cold air of his presence feels more like an appreciative caress.
My chair makes an awful screech as I push it back against the floor; the sounds of me packing up my things from the desk are the only noises in the office. I dodge around a few desks and hurry after the Lich Lord to the Grand Sanctum.
Some people really haven’t adjusted to life under the Dark Reign of Terror yet. Some things are different, but honestly it’s all cosmetic. Things aren’t that different from when we had a normal, living CEO.
And the thing about economic collapse and social upheaval is that there’s a lot of room for upward mobility. At least that’s what Janice from HR says, and I guess she’s right, because I used to work in customer service, but now I’m a personal assistant to the Lich.
The Grand Sanctum is an utterly gorgeous room, once you get used to how creepy it is. It’s about as big as a ballroom, but much more cluttered. The walls are lined with old bookshelves stuffed with dusty tomes and piled scrolls, occasionally featuring distilling glasses, crystals and jars of murky liquids. The windows are all stained glass in geometric patterns, all blue and green and purple. They don’t let much light in, but they’re my favorite part about stepping into the Dark Lord’s office.
As the twenty-foot carved door shuts closed behind me, I start reading off the notes for today’s schedule, the missives for him that I’ve sorted through by priority.
I get through maybe two of them before I realize the Dark Lord isn’t listening in the slightest. Usually he interjects, making me take down notes about rearranging things or moving appointments up. I’ve never gotten this far without him at least canceling something.
He’s pacing the lower inner level of the Sanctum, the ritual floor. It’s drawn up in runes and incantation circles, with all his most-used ingredients lined up near the edges, and an altar for sacrifices in the center.
“…And there’s that initiative to bring more women into STEM fields. That’s Sneakiness, Traumatization, Evil Studies, and Misfortune,” I trail off, watching his movement.
Definitely not listening.
“Is something the matter, Soven?” I ask. I don’t usually use his first name, only when we’re in his office together. I think it amuses him that he, an ageless entity with power beyond comprehension, is on a first name basis with a mortal like me. It’s that social upheaval at work.