She never said so, but I suspected the reason June moved to henching in the first place was that the work she tended to get evildoing was generally less unpleasant. She worked for the border patrol, once, to sniff out explosives in the airport (mostly she found coke and contraband cured meats). She was miserable there, surrounded by the smells of body and breath, of everyone coming off long flights, of dirty clothes, of airport food. There was also the aroma of panic and exhaustion. Mostly, though, she hated dealing with cops. Now she helped villains design packaging her sense of smell couldn’t penetrate, or sniffed their drinks at parties to make sure the liquid hadn’t been dosed. In between jobs, she smoked like a chimney, dampening her sense of smell and taste in tiny, merciful increments.
“Let’s get inside,” I said, drinking my coffee and watching her shake.
She shrugged. “Let’s get it over with.”
I pushed the heavy doors open and we walked through them together, the heels of our boots clicking in time on the wet tile floor. The Temp Agency’s reception desk was in a long, bleak room. Smaller, windowless interview rooms branched off of it, reminding me of holding cells. One of the sickly fluorescent lights flickered. My eye twitched.
There weren’t many of us there that morning, barely a dozen, in moody coats and unnecessary sunglasses and sharp-shouldered suits, chipped manicures and threaded eyebrows, all doing what we could to cast the illusion we were intimidating. No one was sitting. Two temp wranglers sat behind the desk: a man in an ill-fitting blue suit who was trying to make himself look less baby-faced by growing a thin blond beard, and a frighteningly neat woman with glossy black hair, pecking irritably at a tablet.
June and I elbowed our way closer to the front of the pack, making a point of taking up space while trying not to look too keen. I smiled at a man in what appeared to be low-key hard-boiled detective cosplay when he glared at me.
“How bad do you think it’s going to be,” I asked June quietly.
“Abysmal.”
“Half of us leaving without work?”
She tossed her head, gesturing to the hench-hopefuls behind us. “At least. I say two-thirds walk out of here with nothing.”
The man in the blue suit stood, and the muttering around me quieted. I stood a little straighter.
“Where are our drivers?” he asked.
Three people stepped forward: a broad-shouldered blond woman with a buzz cut and two young men who scowled at each other, both wearing leather jackets and white T-shirts. Their matching, perfect pompadours trembled as they eyed each other aggressively, like the wattles on a pair of roosters.
“Wore the same dress to the prom, I see,” June said in my ear, and I nearly choked on the coffee in my mouth.
The woman looked up from her tablet; her eyes were shark black. “We need a chauffeur with first-class getaway. Who has a stunt background?”
The blond woman raised her hand. “I’m certified.” She dropped her arm back to her side. Her dress shirt was rolled up her forearms, and her biceps strained the material. It made my stomach flutter. “I have a lot of on-set work, mostly commercials.”
“You got references?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s head out to the track.” The blue-suited man started to walk out of the room, gesturing for her to follow. He paused to glance back at the two men, who looked even more deflated than they had moments before. “Sorry, guys. Next time.”
The two disappointed drivers turned to leave at the same time, and had to endure the awkwardness of stomping out together, both refusing to pause and let the other go first.
“It’ll be a summer wedding,” I predicted. June choked on her coffee.
The woman with short hair followed the blue suit out the back of the Temp Agency; I watched her carefully close the heavy doors so they wouldn’t make too much noise behind her. I imagined her being led to the supercar she’d be driving for the rest of the day. If she was any good at all, I expected the job would be permanent. Good drivers got snapped up, and were relatively rare. I found myself hoping I wouldn’t see her back, that she’d get a good assignment and have a long life span (though I realized with a small pang that would mean I wouldn’t get to look at her well-muscled arms again). I always found it sad when someone kept turning up at the Agency every few weeks, looking for more work. Like me.
The remaining temp wrangler was spitting out assignments, rapid-fire. Most of them were skill specific: a call for a safecracker, another for a network security specialist. That last one made me scan the crowd for a face I knew.
“Where the hell is Greg?” I said, a little louder than I’d meant to. “That’s a perfect job for him.”
June opened her mouth to answer, but then the woman with the tablet said she needed someone with “exceptional sensory perception” and June’s attention swung away from me and toward the promise of work.
They discussed details I couldn’t make out, and after a few minutes June signed the surface of the tablet with the tip of one finger. She walked back looking positively jolly.
“Six weeks on-site, possibility of extension,” she told me, sweeping her box braids back over her shoulder and rubbing the back of her neck to get rid of some of the tension she’d been carrying.
“On-site, though.”
“Yeah, see, I’m not a coward like you.”
“I’m sorry, I am still rather attached to my mortal well-being.”
“Still, eh?”
“Anna Trauma’ed-love?” I glared at June instead of responding and walked to the desk to get my assignment. It was too late to correct the way the temp wrangler had said my name, but it still annoyed the crap out of me. I forced a rictus smile. “We have a remote data entry assignment, if you’re interested.” The tone of her voice indicated she didn’t think I would be, but she was wrong. I was willing to stoop to all manner of soul-destroying work that didn’t require me to put on clothes.
“Just what I’m looking for.”
Mercifully, she didn’t bother making eye contact.
“Sign here. You’ll be emailed login credentials. Sixty hours to start, with the possibility of indefinite extension.” There was something about the way she said it that indicated she felt she’d given out a sentence.
“I like the sound of that!”
She rolled her eyes.
I cringed.
I walked back to June, who grabbed my arm when I showed her my assignment; I could feel her nails through the fabric of my jacket. She would be working on-site for the same villain who’d hired me for remote work. “Let’s get breakfast,” she hissed. “I’m picking the place, though. I’m sick of your bougie white girl bronsch.”
As we walked toward the doors, the temp wrangler announced that there were three other positions available the rest of them would compete for; I didn’t envy the poor assholes the gauntlet of micro-interviews.
As soon as I touched the heavy metal door handle, it was wrenched out of my hand. I wobbled in my heels and Greg, the out-of-work network administrator in front of me, had to draw up short to keep from slamming into us in his hurry to get in the building.
“If you’re here about the security gig,” June said cheerfully, “some rando a quarter talented as you nabbed it.” She took visible pleasure in the crushing disappointment that blossomed on his face.