The animal-skin parchment pressed against the jagged aluminum sneeze-guard frame and the scarred wood-grain counter hissed as if it were branded into the metal.
Julian Vance did not flinch. His boots remained planted on the rubber mat behind Register 1, his hands resting lightly on the wood-grain counter. The smell of black wax and ozone drifted through the open frame, thick and heavy with the authority of Floor Seven.
Across the counter, the customer without a face stood straight.
Its charcoal wool trench coat hung in shreds, flaking with white interfacing and grey paper dust, but its hands were locked around the wooden dowels of the 1996 Master Shift Deed.
“You are an hourly employee, Julian Vance,” the Actuary hissed, the sound scraping through the store like a dull saw blade across sheet metal. “Your badge reads CLERK 04 / #044. You clock in on Slot A.
You take a fifteen-minute meal break if the sales floor is clear. You earn eleven dollars and fifty cents an hour, plus hazard differential when the sirens sound.”
The creature pressed the heavy parchment flat against the aluminum frame.
“A clerk operates the register,” the entity continued. “A clerk counts the till. But a clerk does not own the building.
