You are dead broke, your cabin is unfurnished except for absolute necessities, and you barely know anyone except a Shadow Lord occultist. With time to spare and a burning desire to own more socks, you log in long hours at Epicycle, cleaning and maintaining the equipment, organizing the chaotic inventory system, and running to and from the nearby copy shop to print off flyers and brochures. Udolpho's hours are irregular at best, and people are thrilled that you show up every day at the same time, even if your quietly simmering Rage sets them on edge.
But Udolpho is a serious problem. He gets your hours wrong, gives you incorrect pickup information, and constantly complains about your "mistakes" to everyone who comes in. The weed makes him paranoid, but you're not sure what makes him undermine you every chance he gets.
Still, the customers are friendly and it feels good to sell off old inventory and tidy up the cramped back room. It's on the third week, when you still haven't been paid and your rent is coming up, that you have to sit Udolpho down and have a talk with him.
"Where's my money?"
There, that's the talk.
"Oh," Udolpho says. He shows you how to log in to the previously hidden area of A.R.E.O.P.A.G.I.T.E. to print out your checks. A quick mental computation determines that it's less than what you agreed upon.
"Well, you had to buy all your equipment," Udolpho says. "Wrenches and such."
"So that stuff is mine?" you ask.
"Well, you can't take it from the shop, obviously," Udolpho says, like you're an idiot.
"Fine, whatever." I need this job too badly to pick a fight now.
"Pay me what I'm owed or I'm finding another job today."
"Okay," I lie, trying to sound calm instead of furious, "I'm actually going to have to report this to the labor board." I want my damn money.
If this guy is stealing from me, I can steal from him—cleverly lifting little items and selling them. We'll see who comes out ahead.
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