Piece Simul ✔

Chapter 14-Guin-Dirty Jobs

--B.T.L.: Before the Launch

--Dura-Chamber Archive Scan * 032121

"It amounts to a golden ticket. Nothing more," Caldwell said.

Guin turned the thick cardstock over. "Funny. I don't see a Wonka signature."

The invitation promised she could help save the world. While people barely held Guin's interest, notoriety did. She had discovered the white square in her office, in the middle of her empty desktop. She had been in other offices, with empty coffee cups serving as ashtrays and papers strewn about. Not her space. Messes were for the weak.

"If you're considering the trip, you're a fool." She could hear the tight frown on her father's overly white face.

"A fool's opportunity. Right up my alley," Guin drawled.

Before dialing the number on the card, she had called Caldwell. It's not because she wanted his advice. Guin was a big girl, and would do what she wanted. However, he was an astute man, and she respected that.

As soon she had shared the details of the offer, she instantly regretted it.

"Stop wasting your time at that..." Caldwell sniffed delicately, "...place. I have a reputable job for you. One where you won't have to wear a mask like a poor person."

She rolled her eyes at the added ignorance. "The International Research Association is reputable, and masks are only required for staff meetings," she reminded him, and not for the first time.

Her father had disapproved of her career track from the beginning, but had begrudgingly given his blessing. Though, his wallet had only relented half way. The other half of her college fund had come from working through school, at bars. Sometimes Guin danced, sometimes she tended bar. Caldwell hinted at her "dirty" jobs, but never bade her quit.

Even after obtaining her PhD, she danced on the weekends. The school debt had been paid in full, but Guin's boredom drove her to the stage. Plus, the side-job allowed her to meet more interesting people than the Association could ever promise.

"Always interested in what's easy, like your mother," Caldwell said.

The statement hinted at deeper ugliness, times two. Her father only mentioned Mamasan when he was truly pissed, or drunk. And he'd been both at the funeral a decade earlier. His eulogy had mostly cleared the church pews. No one had defended Mamasan, not even Guin.

"I'll call you later," Guin said, trying to sound unconcerned and distracted at the same time.

"No you won't," she heard before hanging up.

No, I won't.

On her wristlet scroll, she flicked out the numerical light-pad on her honey-brown arm. Studying the invitation, she input the number.

It didn't matter what the bastards were about. Saying yes would anger Caldwell. That's all Guin needed to know.