The City (Another World Might Mean A Job In My Field)

This isn't self-serving navel-gazing but the confusion of a soul watching the news every odd day: economists say the economy is holding steady in spite of the day's strange politics, sociologists say the world is more educated and tolerant, statisticians say it's more peaceful. This world at the precipice of climate collapse, nuclear war and a second bubble economy is the best it's ever been. So why are you struggling? If qualifications were kills, you'd be at the top of the INTERPOL wanted list. So here you are, a natural-born killer. Lethally qualified to work for a major net publication, a think tank, in government or god-forbid, at least being a reasonably well-liked prof adjunct in some mid-level regional college.

Brutally unemployed. Your fingers sink through the corners of the unjustifiably Sepia letterhead, creasing through the Remallian Bold typeface with silver emboss that makes this stupid scrap of ego-inflated paper more certificate of failure than soothe. You fling it at the bin, but didn't crumple it tightly enough. It dances through the air and lands on your fan, sucks in the back and twists, spiraling towards your bookshelves of fantasy and select anime merch (not that kind).

Your lips purse. You suck air. You can't scream until the glow of catharsis comes, having just moved back in with your parents. They'll come see you, ask what's wrong. Act supportive in the way that you feel in treacherous moments has left a knot of learned helplessness that ultimately doomed their bright and academically canny child to a life of green aprons and flavored lattes. Not that there's anything wrong with that. You're not classist.

You just wanted something else.

A number in the corner plots your next move. You grip your phone, run your fingers around the intermittent jags of broken screen and failed screen protector and dial the number of the company.

Dialtones. Not the good kind. You wait to see if there will be clarification.

"The number you are calling is no longer in service."

Your disgusting, introspective, overthinking self wonders if it was a scam. It was obviously a scam. The only other option is that an HR consultant thought your interview was so bad that they should change all the numbers. You're one of the crazy ones, calling for an explanation. A normal person would accept it and move on. Maybe they just changed providers while switching buildings.

Don't kid yourself. You'll tell yourself the rational, sensible thing and as soon as your head hits the pillow, you'll drift off to the worst of all worlds.

You've been waiting for this letter for two weeks, bought a whole new outfit for the interview (your assembly of plaids and tweeds in quirky academic chic more curse than gift at this point). The false sense of security that lead you here, the warm bask of a good interview and the usual smile-and-nod pasty-faced gammons give when they're trying very hard to seem Not Racist, followed by the subskin pins and needles of your own shame. Before that, a loop of long-distance traveling and awkward Skype calls with increasingly dodgy startups that wanted to pay you in stock, semi-legal drugs, cryptocurrency and antiques (from you assume, a murdered grandmother). The secretary gave you a "the interview went really well!" that encouraged you to blow off a chance to write a few articles about weed legalization for Vice. Vice! Well you're out of luck because that girl you got into a Twitter fight with about how Adorno was definitely Not A Racist (he is though) wrote the articles already. Worse yet, they're really good.

Nausea kicks. You stagger to the bathroom and run cold water over your head. Dark locks twist over your forehead until you press them away. Now you're wet and nauseous. Cashew is drawn to the sound of running water and mewls at you. You ignore her and walk back to your room, and fall forward so your pillow lands on the bed, no time for any of this. The cat has followed you and takes that as an invite to knead and sit on your back.

You groan, reach for your phone. No events. No distractions. Except for an area bar you drank at that one time with your two gay aunts on a DINK-powered bender is apparently reopening. Why are you Facebook friends with a bar? Must have been some night.

[ ] "Well that's alright then, it's just one Tube stop from here." Mariya Sutton is from London, England, and gains the benefit of cheaper tuition and more time as a student. She is guaranteed a Master's degree and potentially more.
[ ] "Just one SkyTrain stop and the weather's nice. Fiiine. I'll go out." Mariya Sutton is from Vancouver, BC, and gains the benefit of bilingual education and access to the large Japanese expat community. She is a polyglot fluent in English, French and Japanese, and a smattering of others.
[ ] "I guess I could drive. Nobody's going to pull me over if I swerve a little anyway..." Mariya Sutton is from the small town Wapakoneta, Ohio, and is familiar with firearms and drives most places she goes. Additionally, it will be relatively straightforward to purchase a variety of weapons.

Also cause @Exhack forgot this

[PLACEHOLDER CHARACTER SHEET]