Page 80 of Ruthless Legacy

Don’t get me wrong, Ilovebeing a woman. It’s the coolest shit ever, but I don’t flit. I’m not genteel. Which is number two on this list, and I’m damn sure not a shiny representative of the house of my origin or familial alignment.

Yeah, they got the wrong girl. I can’t do this shit. Showing up should be enough to get them off of Van’s back, right? Because that’s all I was obligated to do. Show up and try. I’m still within the free trial period.

At the end of this week, when it’s time to put our final signature on the acceptance letter and do our exit interview, I’ll be sure to tell them I’m opting out.

We’re on what can best be described as a military base. I suspect it’s a part of a training center for The Guardians. We’ve been here for four days. Four days of studying, and memorizing and preliminary indoctrinating. They split us into five groups of ten. For almost every lesson, we had to swear an oath, and I refused to do it. I saw the cameras. I wasn’t about to be on record agreeing to anything. That shit’s just as binding as a signature.

Today, they gave us random numbers and building assignments. Two girls from my group walk past me, towards another building, muttering about a disgraceful selectee. That’d be me. Squandering away an amazing opportunity.

I enter my building and stifle a groan. They should’ve warned a girl he’d be here. “What’s up Josh?”

His nostrils flare, but he reigns his temper in. I continue past him and slide into the chair with the place card with my name on it, ignoring the looks I’m getting from the other girls and their fathers. I guess they’ve heard about me, too.

One of the coordinators who’s been babysitting us this week is at the front of the room. “I’m glad you all could join us today. Please sit. We’ll get started shortly.”

He waits as everyone else takes their seats. There are twelve women in this room, including myself. They all seem to know each other. I’m opting out, so I don’t expect to be invited to any team building events.

The door opens again and someone else enters the room, holding a folder in his hand.

“Hello.” His smile is pleasant enough, but I doubt he’s here to be friendly.

“I’m Orson Butler. Today, my team and I will be sitting down with each of you and going over the information you submitted on various documents, such as essays, job applications, scholarship applications, and college applications. We’ve already transposed the relevant information onto our form. Now is the time to add anything you may have left off that you feel is important. Or to correct anything you added to pad it. The information we have on file is what we will use as your official application for The League of the Daggered Raven.”

He pauses to make sure what he’s saying is sinking in. There is no application process. It’s already done.

“There are no penalties assigned for corrective actions today. But once you leave this room, we will dig and validate what you say and what’s already on file. Fair warning, we’ll be recording everything.”

I already peeped out the flashing red light over the door. And the one in the corner over my left shoulder.

“Now, would anyone like to go first?”

The brown-nosing starts immediately. I stay in my seat. They take the family pairs out together, but the girls come back alone, looking out of sorts. Some have tear stains on their faces. Does that mean it didn’t go well for them?

It’s finally my turn. Joshua pushes away from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket and walks into the hall ahead of me.

He’s taken into the office across from mine. Office is a loose description. It’s set up to look more like an interrogation room to me. And there’s only one way to act when in an interrogation room.

“Sit.”

I take a seat in the chair that definitely feels like one you’d find in a police station. The dim light adds to the police procedural atmosphere. The guy stares down at the folder in front of him, letting the air grow heavy and thick with his silence. It’s supposed to make me uncomfortable. I’m ready for a nap.

He finally glances up at me, turns the paper over, then goes back to reading, as if whatever’s in the folder is riveting. He closes that folder and opens another, pulling out a sheet of paper and sliding it across the table. “Before we get started, is there anything you’d like to remove from your application?”

“No.”

“Is there anything you’d like to add to your application?”

I give him the same answer. “No.”

“Are you sure? It’s pretty brief. No hobbies, no references. Nothing but your name, and two dates of birth.” He looks down at the document again. “Why two birthdays?”

“Why not two?”

“You can’t have two birthdays. One of them is obviously false, so I’ll ask again, would you like to remove anything from your application?”

“No, thank you.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

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