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I lived within the pages of books. It wasn’t ideal, perhaps even a little unhealthy, but it offered comfort in its predictability. I’d meticulously devoured thirteen thousand, two hundred twenty-two works of literature, each a portal to a different life. In books, I found worlds where emotions had structure, where endings could be known.
Books never surprised me, not like life did. Even the most tired tropes were comforting in their familiarity—like the ridiculous one about introverts being adopted by extroverts. I had always scoffed at it, certain it could never happen to me. Until, of course, it did.
Meeting Paul, with his booming laugh and unstoppable energy, would set off a chain of events that would carry me halfway around the world. I’d laugh harder, cry deeper, and do things I never thought possible. There’d be moments I longed for the quiet, predictable comfort of my books. But stepping into that coffee shop that morning was the turning point—the moment that would rewrite my life’s story in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.
“An Ear Shoot” wasn’t much to look at from the outside – a tiny haven tucked away on a quiet corner of campus. Inside, however, it held a charm all its own. Orange floral wallpaper, faded but endearing, bloomed across the walls, while mismatched beige furniture offered a comfortable embrace.
Overgrown spider plants reached for the sunlight that stubbornly slipped through the perpetually drawn emerald curtains, casting dappled shadows on the worn wooden tables. The faint aroma of roasted coffee hung in the air, mingling with the comforting scent of old books. Unlike the trendy cafes with their blaring music and overflowing crowds. The silence was punctuated only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug. Here, in my usual corner beside a sun-dappled orange plant, I could lose myself for hours in the worlds woven within the pages of my books or fanfiction.
But that particular day, as I entered the café, a jolt of annoyance shot through me. Someone was perched in my usual corner, my beloved love-seat next to the orange plant, a backpack sprawled across the worn orange chair. It was a blatant violation of the unspoken territory agreements all regulars held sacred. Still, I wasn’t one to cause a scene. After all, I did have a secondary haven – the stool near the coffee machine.
Soledad, quite uncharacteristically, spoke to me as she prepared the coffee. “I can tell him to move,” she said, her voice hard and accented.
I shook my head no, then thought about it for a second, and shook my head no again. This was Soledad’s livelihood, and a grumpy customer wouldn’t help anyone. I was an adult, capable of adapting.
Taking a deep breath, I settled onto the stool, a familiar routine replaced with a cold, metallic surface. My fingers hovered over my laptop, the usual comfort of words evaporating in the unfamiliar space. Thirty minutes stretched into an eternity, punctuated only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the murmur of conversations that felt a million miles away. Then, a presence loomed, casting a shadow on my laptop screen.
Paul, I later learned, was having a meltdown of apocalyptic proportions with his laptop. He’d tried the forbidden approach – talking to Soledad. Everyone who frequented “An Ear Shoot” knew that was a gamble, a potential social Siberia. So, the minute I walked into that cafe I was damned, because Paul, with the desperation of a castaway on a deserted island, had had enough of being quietly sitting for half an hour.
A whirlwind named Paul had swept me off my feet (figuratively, of course). He poured out his life story in a torrent of words, each sentence tumbling over the last. Growing up in L.A., coming out at the tender age of nine, attending school with the son of a famous actor whose name he couldn’t quite recall at the moment. He had just moved to Ohio, following his dashing new boyfriend (his words not mine). He talked a mile per second, loudly, punctuating his stories with booming laughter that made me flinch ever so slightly. He was a walking, talking extrovert force, and I, well, I was most definitely not.
By the end of that day, Paul asked for my number, even if I had only said three words to him all day. By the end of that month, we sat at what was now our spot at the coffee shop, Paul typing lightning-fast on his keyboard, joyfully talking about everything and nothing. I read, only half listening to what he said, sometimes something caught my attention and I asked him questions, sometimes I managed to say something about myself, sometimes I even laughed about a joke he made. But it wasn’t until later, the first time Paul took my shopping, that I realized what had really happened. I had made a friend.
So, it was not something out of the ordinary when Paul, never looking up from his laptop screen, said, “I’m signing you up for a job.”
I, accustomed to my friend’s commentary as he worked, didn’t realize he was talking to me until, a second later, my cellphone biped with the notification of a new email.
“What is this?” I asked, clicking on the link Paul e-mailed me. The link took me to what looks like a questionnaire, with an ‘attach CV’ option.
“The company’s opening new positions; I’m signing you up for the recruitment process.” Paul responded, still typing like mad on his keyboard.
“I have a job,” I said.
Paul snorted as an answer.
Over the course of our, albeit short, but strong friendship we talked about my ‘job’ at least once a week.
I had a research associateship with Ohio State University, where I was enrolled in the Doctor of Philosophy in Creative Writing programme. The associateship gave me a full scholarship, health insurance coverage, and a modest sum of five hundred dollars per month. Paul thought it was not enough. I, on the other hand, knew that just on tuition fees and books, the OSU was giving me about $25,425 per year (my dad had told me) apart from the one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get paid for doing something I loved: reading.
“You are going to have your oral defense in – like – a month, you graduate, and then, what are you gonna do? Write novels? In this economy?” he snorted again.
I didn’t say that I was pretty positive that the University was going to offer me a position in the Department of English, maybe even in the Creative Writing Faculty. Though, making a living out of writing novels was my life goal. Again, I didn’t say this to Paul.
Instead, I asked, “Am I qualified to work at your company?” I didn’t even know the name of the company he worked for; I only knew that he could work from anywhere in the world as long as he had access to the internet, that he signed an NDA, and that he got paid ridiculous sums of money.
“Babe,” Paul replied, never stopping the typing, “it doesn’t matter. They’ll train the heck outta you.”
Gnawing at my lip, I thought about it for a moment, the position at OSU was just a possibility, just as getting accepted at Paul’s job was a possibility. For the longest of time, the future had been a clear picture – research team, tenure, published novels. But lately, I had not been able to think about what I would do after college without falling into a rabbit hole of what ifs and descending into a panic attack.
But.
I thought about getting an actual job with an actual paycheck, not being reliant on my dad’s generosity. How nice it’d be to have my own money to buy books, buy some nice clothes. I pictured myself renting an apartment. I loved living with my father, but I knew my father would love some privacy; after all he had a new wife now. I imagined treating Paul to coffee for a change.
Knowing that my friend’s eyes were fixed on his laptop screen, I risked looking at him; noticed his reading glasses were hanging low on his nose, I wondered what the magnification of his glasses was, surely they seemed to have more strength than mine. I sipped my coffee, then looked at my phone screen. Filling out the questionnaire would take me less than a minute, and I did happen to have an updated CV on my phone.
I had nothing to lose in this situation, if I got rejected, at least I’d know the company’s name. If they accepted me, I’d have a job.
I filled out the questionnaire, followed every step of the signing up process, and used Paul’s referral code because apparently he’d get paid if - “when”, Paul stated - I passed the recruiting process.
We talked about the recruiting process, but not too much. Paul didn’t want to make me anxious. I didn’t tell my dad or sister that I had applied for a job, as not to get their hopes up. And I tried not to think that much about the job because I didn’t want to get my own hopes up for nothing. So, I focused on my thesis -even if it was already completed and submitted for revision-, on the last weeks of the semester, and my last weeks as an OSU student.
Then, one day, my phone rang, earning me a stern look from the professor I was assisting. I almost ignored the call when I saw it was an unknown number, but then I remembered that I was expecting a call. I had to excuse myself from the room, earning another stern look, to answer.
It was a woman. She was polite, and to the point. ‘Was I still interested in the job?’ Yes, I was. ‘Was the email address on the application correct?’ Yes, it was. ‘Was I open for a test on Monday at 9 o’clock?’ Yes, of course. A link and a document with guidelines for the interview would be sent to the email I provided and just verified. Have a good day. And the call ended.
Monday, 9 o’clock. It was Wednesday that day.
I didn’t have time to blink, much less to process what had happened, when my phone beeped with the notification of a new email. I didn’t tell anyone about the call or the interview, not even Paul. I found that keeping it to myself made me less anxious. And if I really thought about it, not knowing anything -not even the name- about the company made it easier to ignore the panic that I felt growing in my chest.
Every day after the call, time seemed to pass slower. And it didn’t help that the research I was assisting with was paused due to a cut in funding, leaving me with immense amounts of free time that I didn’t know how to occupy.
On Saturday night, something came to my mind with such clarity that I didn’t know how I hadn’t thought about it before. I sent Paul a text asking, “Do you work for the government?”
“Which government??? Lol” was Paul’s reply.
Monday was quiet, as usual.
I sat at the kitchen table, cradling my coffee cup, my father seated across from me, hunched over his journal. The air smelled of fresh coffee, its rich, bold aroma filling the room. My father brewed the strongest, most delicious black coffee I had ever tasted, and I mirrored his careful precision, measuring out my own grounds with the same deliberation. His pen scratched softly against the paper, a rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Mornings like this were tiny treasures, shared sips of coffee and silence before the world woke up. There was a quiet companionship in the stillness, a tradition that stretched back to when I was a curious six-year-old, perched on a booster seat, trying to decipher my father’s flowing script. Now, as adults, little had changed—except the booster seat was gone, and the silences felt deeper, more meaningful. I cherished these moments, knowing that in the simplicity of their routine, there was something sacred.
The clock ticked relentlessly, each chime echoing the frantic rhythm of my heart.
9:00 AM.
Interview time.
I scanned the guidelines again, the words already burned into my mind. A quiet room—my childhood bedroom stood ready. Strong internet—an extra Ethernet cable coiled neatly beside me. Fully charged device—the green light blinked in quiet affirmation.
Everything was set.
Still, my stomach twisted. I whispered, “No panicking.” Technically, there was nothing to lose. But the thought of landing this job? That was everything.
Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the link in the email – the first step in this mysterious job offer. The screen morphed into a stark white landscape, the blinding whiteness momentarily stealing the air from the room.
A single line of text blazed across the center: “Typing Speed Test – Begin.”
My stomach clenched. I’d braced myself for this, the email clearly outlining the initial hurdle. Still, a knot of apprehension tightened in my throat, constricting my breath. But nerves gnawed at me, not just a gnawing, but a frantic drumming against my left collarbone.
I braced my fingers over the keyboard, the familiar click-clack a grounding sound. Then, the onslaught began. Words materialized in rapid succession – “Verdant... Symphonic... Inconspicuous” – a dizzying mix that pushed my typing speed to its limit. Each correctly typed word was a tiny victory, momentarily pushing back the fear of failure.
“Banana...Ephemeral...Quintessential.”
Sweat prickled on my palms as I hammered the keys, my eyes blurring between the flashing words and the progress bar crawling across the bottom of the screen. The seconds ticked by in a frantic rhythm, the only sound in the room the furious clatter of keys against plastic. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple, blurring my vision momentarily. Was I keeping up? A mistake now could shatter my confidence, a single typo a potential roadblock on my path to the job.
“Pen...Syllabary...Cacophony...Serene...Ephemeral...Dexterous...Stoic...Bibliophile.”
Finally, with no more words appearing, the test ended. I slumped back in my chair, a wave of dizziness washing over me. Sweat beaded on my forehead, a salty trickle stinging my eyes. I had pushed myself to the limit, my fingers a blur as they hammered the keys. “Five hundred,” I rasped, my voice rough from disuse. my fingers were numb, my brain felt like mush, but I did it. I had typed them all.
A surge of adrenaline still coursed through my veins, a testament to the unexpected intensity of the test. The screen flickered back to life, banishing the stark white landscape. This time, a bold line of text dominated the center: “Memory Test.”
What kind of memory test? Just then, a playful animation bloomed on the screen - a series of brightly colored tiles rapidly flipping to reveal numbers, then morphing into a familiar game board. I couldn’t contain a genuine smile spreading across my face. It was a Snap game, a digital version of the classic childhood game I used to play for hours. Relief washed over me, laced with a hint of amusement. This unconventional interview process was certainly keeping me on my toes.
But my smile was short-lived, as the test proved to be more challenging than I previously thought.
Instead of turning cards that showed single numbers, as the animation had shown, the first card that I turned contained a ten digit-number. my eyes darted across the ten-digit number, and then to the timer that had started as soon as I flipped the card, the last test hadn’t had a timer. Panic started to bubble, threatening to replace the playful anticipation I’d felt moments ago.
A deep breath calmed my racing pulse. my fingers flew across the screen in a flurry of clicks, numbers swirling like a digital storm. With steely resignation, I started flipping cards, pairing them. Once I had matched every card, a new, larger group appeared on the screen, and the timer was reset. my eyes scanned the screen, searching. The frantic clicking of the mouse sounded alien—too rapid, too loud.
Soon, I matched the last two cards together, but instead of throwing a new group of cards out, the screen went blank. I blinked at the screen, Was the test over? It couldn’t be; it felt too fast. And yet, my eyes were feeling sore, like I had forgotten to blink during the entirety of the test. Then, just as I was thinking my internet connection was down, little animated fireworks went off, marking the end of the test.
Relief flooded my body; it was over. A new surge of self confidence nestled in my chest, and I actually thought I had done a pretty decent job. Maybe, just maybe, I had a shot at getting this job after all. All I had to do now was try not to panic as I waited for the results. But before I could celebrate, the screen flickered, jolting my back to attention.
With wide eyes and shaking breath, I read: “Data Processing - Begin.”
It didn’t make any sense. Were these the results? The guideline email said it could take up to two weeks. my hands shook with tensed disbelief as I clicked the message, fully expecting to see the results; what the screen showed, instead, were thirteen rows of symbols and numbers. A little sand clock at the bottom right of the screen started marking the passing time.
Was this another test?
Mind racing, my eyes scanned the screen. “Data Processing,” I muttered to myself, trying to make sense of the rows of symbols and numbers. The numbers and symbols were the data, and decoding what they meant was the processing.
“Data Processing,” I repeated. Could the numbers represent... numbers? And the most logical explanation was that the symbols substituted letters, and by this logic, the symbol with more repetitions should be the letter E. I was just making the assumption that de symbols represented Latin characters, given that it was an American company. But without any other clue, I had no choice but to go with it.
The sand clock in the corner mocked me with each passing second. It didn’t show how much time had passed, just the sand dropping to the bottom. Has it been too long? I had just guessed one symbol, but without any confirmation, it was all just a guess. How much longer would it take me to decode thirteen rows of symbols?
This would be easier had I studied linguistics instead of creative writing, I thought wryly, before typing: # = E.
The screen did not change for a second before every # symbol dissolved, replaced by the letter E. And in a sudden, thrilling flash of clarity, it dawned on me that the rows were addresses.
“% = T. $ = H.” I typed with renewed vigor, unable to contain a triumphant smile when all the Ts and Hs showed on the screen.
After that, the task became a blur of practiced efficiency. Each symbol clicked into place, their meaning as clear as day. A satisfied smile touched my lips as I finished the final row with seconds to spare. But my triumph was short-lived. The sand clock pulsed once, then grew rapidly, filling the entire screen with shimmering light. When it subsided, revealing thirteen new rows, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Just symbols. These were unlike anything I’d encountered before - swirling patterns, intricate geometric shapes, and cryptic glyphs that defied any attempt at recognition.
I squinted at the screen, my eyes truly sore by now. Again, I resorted to my earlier assumption, taking a deep breath. “Alright,” I muttered, “Latin characters, English root...” With somewhat tired determination, I identified the most frequent symbol and typed confidently: “# = E.”
The screen remained stubbornly blank. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple. Maybe my initial guess was wrong. I tried another symbol, a twisting helix that seemed to appear in clusters. “# = T,” I typed, my voice barely a whisper. This time, a flicker of change. The helix symbol morphed, its edges solidifying into a familiar letter T. A flicker of hope sparked within me.
But then the change stopped. No domino effect like before. Just the single symbol was replaced. Disappointment gnawed at me. This wasn’t a simple substitution cipher. Frustration bubbled up. The sand clock in the bottom corner of the screen didn’t seem to move and I had no idea how to tackle this test.
I scanned my bedroom, my tired eyes dragging across the towering shelves crammed with books. They seemed to mock me with their silent knowledge. All those stories, all those academic books, I read because I wanted to know it all. my entire life lived vicariously through pages, yet none had prepared me for this.
A tantalizing aroma, rich and exotic, wafted up from downstairs. Coffee. The fragrant reminder tugged at my attention, momentarily pulling me away from the swirling symbols on the screen. But the disruption sparked a new thought. As I stared at a particularly intricate symbol, a connection formed in my mind – a connection that had nothing to do with the sounds of letters.
“What if they represented... concepts? Ideas? Like an aroma,” I thought, the analogy clicking into place.
The lack of grammar and structure lent credence to the theory. How did you decode concepts? I chewed on my lip, my gaze tracing the swirling patterns. Then, my eyes landed on a particular symbol – a simple circle with a line bisecting it. It appeared frequently, often followed by more complex shapes.
An idea, fragile but enticing, formed in my mi nd. Maybe the circle with a line represents a basic action, like “is” or “exists.” Maybe the complex shapes following it elaborated on that action. It was a long shot, but it was all I had. With a surge of renewed determination, I started typing again, this time focusing on the patterns and relationships between the symbols, not just individual substitutions.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, not translating individual symbols, but building connections between them. I looked at the sand clock from time to time. The sand seemed to fall eternally, mocking me with the passage of time. I was afraid of not having enough time to finish the test, but I was terrified of rushing this and getting it all wrong. I treated the circle with a line as a Rosetta Stone, then searched for recurring pairs or sequences that followed it. Did a spiky shape with a wavy tail always follow a cluster of triangles? Did a swirling vortex symbol appear only in conjunction with the circle and line?
Doubt gnawed at her, but the occasional flicker of change on the screen, a symbol morphing slightly in response to my input, kept my hope alive. Hours melted away, the sand clock didn’t show the passage of time, but the hour on my computer did. The click-clack of the keyboard sounded like a thunderstorm in the quiet bedroom. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. My eyes burned, and my wrist throbbed with fatigue.
It seemed to go forever, and just as I was about to give up, a breakthrough. A complex sequence I’d typed, involving the circle with a line, a spiky shape, and the swirling vortex, caused a ripple effect. Several symbols on the screen flickered and changed, not just individually, but together. A sentence began to form, taking shape line by line.
I leaned closer, hunching over my screen, my heart pounding in my chest. The words coalesced, forming a message that sent a jolt through me. I squinted, trying to decipher the meaning of the last symbols... Wait. A flicker of recognition sparked in my eyes. I knew this!
The sand clock pulsed once, then grew rapidly, filling the entire screen with shimmering light. When it subsided, a single word remained: “Congratulations.”
“So they need to do a follow up interview?” Paul asked. I nodded in response, my mouth full of carrot cake. “And it has to be done in Stockholm?” I nodded again and listened as Paul inhaled very slowly through his nose.
“And the position you’d be applying for is...”
“Data Perfection Special Agent II,” I repeated for the tenth time. Paul mimicked his head exploiting then laughed maniacally.
“I don’t even know what department that is!” He paused, considering. “Special agent,” he said in awe. “That’s big, no, no, that’s huge, Flo.”
From the challenging tests I had to endure, I realized that the job was, indeed, huge. I had asked if I was not underqualified for the position, when they called me to tell me I had passed the test, and I had been assured that I was not; and nevertheless, I was going to be thoroughly trained, if I passed the second and third phases of the recruiting process.
“I’m not going to Stockholm,” I said, eyes fixed on my carrot cake. I knew that I was disappointing my friend, he had been happy hearing the news, and I was letting him down.
“If this is about plane tickets, I’ll...”
It was, in part, about the plane tickets.
“No, don’t offer to buy them for me.” My dad had already done that. I touched my left collarbone, where I felt the anxiety had grown by a billion since the end of the call, and finally I confessed to Paul what I couldn’t say to my father: “I don’t believe I’ll pass the next phases.”
“Girl, I swear to God,” Paul exclaimed, then proceeded to convince my to go to Sweden.
A crisp Stockholm wind whipped my hair around my face, carrying the invigorating scent of fresh bread and salty air. The city unfolded before me like a breathtaking masterpiece - colorful buildings lined the canals, their reflections shimmering on the crystal-clear water. Sailboats glided gracefully across the surface, their white sails billowing in the cool breeze. The cobblestone streets teemed with life, a vibrant symphony of chattering voices and rhythmic footsteps.
A wave of gratitude washed over me, a silent thank you to Paul for convincing me to take this trip. And maybe, just maybe, for convincing me to extend my stay.
A car picked me up at the hotel and then proceeded to —from the look of it- cross the entire city center, entering a highway that seemed to go out of the city and into the woods. Were we really going into the woods? Maybe the headquarters were some eco-friendly, tech billionaire’s dream office hidden amongst the trees. A peculiar image, but strangely appealing.
We followed a narrow, tree-lined road. As the road curved near the river, I spotted glimpses of the Stockholm waterfront peeking through the dense foliage. I rolled down the car window, eager to breathe in the fresh air. The symphony of the city faded, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the chirping of unseen birds. Sunlight dappled through the dense canopy overhead, casting fleeting shadows on the winding road. The air grew cooler, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and pine needles.
After about 1 hour 43 minutes, the treeline opened into a clearing, revealing a scene that seemed ripped from a futuristic movie. Seven buildings, all made of steel and glass, gleamed in the afternoon sun. They stood far enough apart to be considered separate entities, yet close enough to create a sense of community, a modern-day college campus. The first building to the left, the closest to the riverbank, was my destination. From the backseat of the taxi, a new thought blossomed in my mind. I wouldn’t mind getting the job, and having to move all the way to Stockholm, if only to experience this scenic route to the office every single day.
I thanked the taxi driver, got out of the car, and walked to the building. I had received guidelines for the next phases of the recruiting process. And in said guidelines, I had been instructed to use a side door. Yet, my gaze drifted upwards, drawn to the building’s majestic entrance. The golden letters against the black background gleamed in the afternoon sun:
Ascendant
Stockholm
Saint Sebastian 138.
It exuded an air of importance, a stark contrast to the utilitarian side door marked with a chipped “Staff Entrance” sign. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself of the cryptic instructions in the email: “For security purposes, please use the staff entrance located on the west side of the building.” Stepping inside was like entering a brightly lit fishbowl; the walls inside were glass as well, offering a clear view of the lobby beyond.
There was a security guard, tall and imposing with a stoic expression, stood posted in front of a glass door emblazoned with the company logo. Behind a long, dark wood desk, two young, blonde women sat; they politely greeted I as I entered.
“Good morgon,” greeted one receptionist, while the other said, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I responded, feeling utterly out of place. The black dress Paul had insisted on felt stiff and unforgiving against my skin, the high heels clicking uncomfortably on the polished floor. I had wanted to wear my own clothes, but I already knew what Paul thought about my style or lack of. So I stayed quiet as Paul took my shopping for the interview. I was also wearing the expensive, white Chanel coat my mother had gifted me for my birthday and that I had never worn because it was not my style.
The two receptionists were also wearing black dresses, but theirs seemed like an extension of themselves, perfectly tailored and effortlessly chic. I felt like a clumsy child playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumbled, cheeks burning as one of the receptionists held out a hand expectantly.
The email I received with guidelines said what I would need and what to expect from the interview, strongly pointed out that my passport was going to be required at the front desk. I had put my passport in a place that was easiest to reach inside my bag, I searched for it there and put it on the desk. my cheeks burned even brighter as the receptionist glanced at the document, a flicker of surprise crossing my perfectly made-up face, I had had a passport for just two weeks now.
“I will also need the QR code you received, please,” the receptionist stated, her voice clipped and professional.
“Of course,” I said, and passed her the copy I had printed. Since the morning I read the guideline email, I had felt baffled by how hermetic the whole situation was. Why on earth would they need a QR code for a job interview? This whole thing was starting to feel more like international espionage than a data specialist position.
The woman scanned it with practiced ease, then, to my utter shock, swiped my passport across a device that glowed an eerie blue light. I stared, open-mouthed, as a digital copy of my passport information materialized on the receptionist’s screen.
“Shouldn’t you need a warrant for that?” I blurted out, my voice barely a whisper.
The receptionist’s smile didn’t falter like I was asked this on a daily basis. “Standard security protocol, Ms. King,” she replied smoothly, my voice regaining its professional veneer. “We take data security very seriously at Ascendant.”
Nerves and anxiety grew inside me with every passing second, I was painfully aware of the armed guard stationed in front of the door.
After passing the first phase of the recruiting process, I received a generic congratulatory email. But it also contained a few lines about what Ascendant did, and it was vague, to say the least. The email said: “Ascendant specializes in facilitating the exchange of unique assets in a globalized marketplace.” An asterisk followed “unique assets”, directing my attention to a disclaimer at the bottom: “For confidentiality purposes, the nature of these assets cannot be disclosed at this time.”
Which was a copy and paste of the information found on the company’s webpage. The information written online was also devoid of specifics.
I had scrolled through Ascendant’s social media profiles, a growing sense of unease settling in my gut. Every post was a polished picture of corporate happiness - glowing testimonials about the “Ascendant Experience,” team-building retreats in exotic locations, and endless photos from a “volunteer day” at a local animal shelter. It all felt staged, a montage designed to hide something deeper.
The mention of a “seminary” last month piqued my curiosity. A seminary for a data specialist position? The absurdity of it only fueled my suspicion. Volunteer time off (VTO) at a children’s hospital was a nice touch, a calculated attempt to paint Ascendant as a socially responsible company. But I wasn’t buying it. This was a government job, I was almost certain. The question was, which one? And what exactly were they trying to hide behind the carefully curated facade?
The guard cleared his throat loudly, and with a jort, I became aware that the receptionist had been talking to me. I had tried to hand my passport back.
“Pansy will be here in a second,” She said with a bright smile. “Do you want a coke?”
Next thing I knew, I had a can of Coca-Cola in my hand, with a paper straw and Pansy was greeting me like a long-lost friend.
The air hung thick with the scent of expensive cologne and polished wood as I finally entered the lobby. I felt relieved, like the reception desk was another, secret phase of the recruiting process. Ascendant’s lobby felt more like a high-end hotel lounge than a place of business. The exposed brick wall, a clear attempt at industrial chic, clashed with the plush leather couches and ottomans arranged around sleek wood and metal coffee tables.
Overhead, a network of black wires snaked around exposed ductwork, resembling an industrial jungle gym. Pendants with Edison bulbs dangled precariously close to the oversized furniture, casting an uneven glow over the space.
Through the expansive glass wall facing the river, sunlight streamed, highlighting the dust motes swirling in the air. A glassy counter, topped with black metal stools, snaked along the window, offering a view that was at odds with the self-consciously cool decor.
The overall impression was one of forced effort, a hodgepodge of styles that screamed “we hired an expensive interior designer” rather than “we have a cohesive company culture.” I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of unease. This wasn’t just about aesthetics; it was a microcosm of the company itself – trying too hard to be something it wasn’t.
After the brutal assault on the senses that was the lobby, the testing room was a slap in the face with sterility. Bare white walls, seemingly made of cardboard and devoid of any decoration, stretched endlessly under the harsh glare of artificial lights. The fluorescent bulbs hummed faintly, hurt my eyes. A cheap plastic table and matching chairs completed the picture of clinical efficiency, the only attempt at life a potted something vaguely resembling a ficus, also plastic from the sheen of its unnatural green leaves.
Four small black discs nestled discreetly in the corners of the ceiling finally caught my eye. Security cameras. Their presence sent a jolt of nervous energy through me. Were they recording my every move? Every thought reflected in my eyes? The purpose of the test suddenly seemed less important than the feeling of being watched, judged, and analyzed.
I was looking up at a camera when Pansy instructed me to sit. “Where?” I asked, to which Pansy smiled.
“Wherever you want,” said the woman.
I sank into one of the chairs, the cold, hard plastic biting into my skin. It occurred to me that perhaps all this was a montage too, to make me feel uncomfortable. And if this was a test I didn’t want to fail it.
Once I was seated, Pansy put a laptop in front of me and then rounded the table to sit across from her, with my laptop already opened. I looked at her, shocked, I thought this was going to be an interview.
“Start whenever you’re ready,” She instructed with a smile.
I touched the laptop’s mouse pad and the screen lit up immediately, the familiar message of ‘Typing Speed Test — Begin.’ almost put a smile on my face.
The tests were exactly the same, but if the first time I’d done this was a sprint, this time it was a marathon. While familiarity offered some sort of tranquility, it didn’t mean it was easier this time, even if I already knew what to expect. It was, actually, worse because different from the first time I had done the tests, now I was aware not only of the time passing with agonizing slowness, but also of Pansy’s vigilant eyes. I felt like a lab rat under observation, my every keystroke scrutinized.
As I was matching card numbers in the Memory Test, a thought wormed its way into my mind. It started as a seed of doubt, but it quickly blossomed into a poisonous vine of anger. I paused, the clatter of the virtual cards stopping abruptly.
With a slow, deliberate movement, I raised my head to meet Pansy’s gaze. My voice was flat and even, devoid of any tremor, as I said, “You think I cheated during the online assessment, don’t you?” The accusation hung heavy in the air, a challenge thrown down.
The woman’s response came a beat too quickly, a stark contrast to the composed demeanor I’d maintained throughout the tests. A tremor in her voice, barely perceptible, betrayed a deeper panic that flickered in her eyes for a fleeting moment before she slammed a mask of composure back into place. “Excuse me?” she stammered, her carefully constructed facade fracturing for a split second.
I understood then. Why they had asked me to go across the world to do a job interview, why Paul hadn’t known the position they were offering me. With renewed focus, I directed my eyes back to the screen. Every number matched, every pattern identified, was a silent victory. They wanted to see how I cheated? Fine. I’d give them a performance they wouldn’t soon forget.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, a blur of controlled chaos. If their goal was to mess with my head, they’d made a critical mistake. They’d underestimated me.
As I deciphered the final symbols on the Data Processing test, a nagging question wormed its way into my mind. Did I even want this job anymore? This company, with its manipulative tactics and veiled threats, left a bitter taste in my mouth. Would they even offer me the position after all this? Or perhaps, voicing my accusation had been a mistake, a reckless gamble that might backfire spectacularly.
With a determined click, I finished typing the last word of the complex symbol sequence. The screen flashed with a completion message, a small victory amidst the growing unease. Turning to Pansy, my voice held a steely edge, “I didn’t cheat,” I declared, the accusation now a statement of fact.
Pansy’s voice came with a tint of sweetness, “I believe you,” she said, before getting up from her chair and then out of the door.
My mind reeled. Pansy’s sudden sweetness felt as calculated as the tests themselves. Before I could dwell on it, the door creaked open again, revealing a new face.
An Asian woman, immaculately dressed, strode into the room, a folder clutched in my hand. “I am Dr. Su Liang,” she introduced herself, taking the same seat Pansy had just vacated a moment ago. “I have a lot of questions for you, Ms. King,” Dr. Su Liang continued, her voice calm and professional. “But I’ll start with the one that’s most pressing.” She cleared my throat, her gaze unwavering. “Are you on the Autistic Spectrum?”
Sitting very still on my chair, I slowly directed my eyes to Dr Liang’s left ear, the closest to the face I dared, before answering, “Yes,” my voice was quiet but firm. The single word held a weight of unspoken stories, of challenges overcome and identities embraced.
“Thank you for your honesty, Ms. King,” she said, her voice gentler now. “Now, if you’re comfortable, let’s talk about why you’re here, and why Ascendant might be interested in someone like you.”
My autistic superpower was that I had a very good memory. Contrary to popular belief, this did not make me a genius. I could forget simple things like what I had for breakfast, yet entire fictional worlds resided in my mind, perfectly intact; millions of authors and their works were etched in my memory, every word.
Dr. Liang, however, wasn’t interested in my processing speed or pattern recognition – the usual tests for autistic intelligence. Instead, I seemed captivated by my memory. The physical exam, a term I found increasingly ironic, became an exploration of my unique ability. Dr. Liang presented me with a series of memory challenges: strings of numbers that flashed on a screen for a fraction of a second, lists of random objects displayed in a specific order, even entire paragraphs recited at a rapid pace. I, initially apprehensive, found myself drawn into the tests. With each challenge, a sense of purpose bloomed within me. Perhaps Ascendant wasn’t looking for a genius, but for a different kind of mind – a mind that could store information in a way others couldn’t.
When Pansy returned, was to take me to another room. The sterile white walls and harsh fluorescent lights of the interview room felt like a prison cell by comparison as Pansy opened the next door. I blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift in environment.
The new room embraced me in a gentle hug, the walls, painted a calming shade of sky blue, were adorned with soft, botanical prints. Sunlight streamed through the glass wall that faced the riverside, casting a warm glow on the plush, woven carpet. A vibrant Ficus tree, its leaves a healthy shade of green, stood proudly in a ceramic pot beside the wall. There stood a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Claudia.
And finally, after I had spent almost an entire day at that building. My job interview actually started. When it was over, – and oh my – it felt like it took forever, Claudia made me an offer. Everything that happened after that felt surreal, like watching a movie where the sound was muted and the colors were washed out. Filling out endless questionnaires, signing documents with hands that felt numb – it all blurred together in a dizzying haze.
Even Pansy’s gracious offer of food barely registered. I politely declined, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. my gaze drifted down to my expensive, white coat. Reaching out, I pinched the fabric between my fingers. It felt like a buttery soft caress against my skin, a stark contrast to the harshness of the day. Unconsciously, I clutched the coat tighter, as if anchoring myself to a life raft in a sea of uncertainty.
Had I really just accepted this job?
The question floated in the vast emptiness of my mind, unanswered. Bidding a silent farewell to Pansy’s gracious face, I climbed into the waiting taxi. The rumble of the engine vibrated through her, but it felt distant, like a faint echo. The woods and the riverbank, once a vibrant tapestry of colors and sounds, had become a muted dream. Once we reached the city, traffic lights bled into a smear of red and yellow, buildings warped and stretched into surreal shapes. Even the cool evening air against my skin felt strangely unreal.
Part of my mind registered the driver’s mumbled goodbye, I wanted to thank him but my mouth was shut and the other part of my mind remained stubbornly quiet. At the hotel, I went through the motions of ordering food, my movements slow and robotic; the food tasted bland, a textureless mush on my tongue. A hot bath, meant to chase away the cold that had settled in my bones, Just made me sleepy and I laid on my bed for about three seconds, before I fell deep into dreamless sleep.
At the airport, I moved through the motions on autopilot – checking in, security checks, boarding the plane. The roar of the engines faded into a dull throbbing; the fear of flying abode the Atlantic, which would normally have sent my heart racing, barely registered.
Paul materialized in the arrival hall like a beacon of normalcy. A toothy grin stretched across his face as he rushed towards I, his arms outstretched. Relief warred with a strange sense of unease in my gut. Before I could react, he swept me off my feet, spinning me around like a rag doll.
“Florence! There you are!” he boomed, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. “I was worried sick! How was it?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The whirlwind of the interview, the sterile environment, the weight of my decision - it all pressed down on her, threatening to suffocate me.
Sensing my hesitation, Paul lowered my back down, his smile faltering slightly. “Come on,” he said, his voice gaining a forced cheeriness. “Let’s celebrate! You must be starving. How does the most expensive restaurant this airport has to offer sound?”
I managed a weak nod, my stomach churning with a mix of emotions I couldn’t quite define. As they approached the fancy eatery, Paul flagged down a waiter and ordered a bottle of their ‘finest champagne’. I flinched at the extravagance.
“You’ll have all the cash to pay me back later,” he said, winking. “Consider it an advance on all the good times we’re about to have.”
Paul clinked his glass against mine, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. “Here’s to you not being poor anymore!” The toast hung in the air as I stared at the golden liquid swirling in my glass. Weeks of pent-up anxiety, masked by the whirlwind of travel and decision-making, suddenly surfaced. A suffocating sense of doom rose in my chest, constricting my lungs.
The cheers, the clinking glasses, the celebratory atmosphere – it all felt surreal, a distorted version of reality. This wasn’t just jetlag, I realized. This was the slow realization that the job offer, even if it was the escape from my financial hardships, could come at a terrible cost. Before I could even process the thought, a wave of nausea washed over her, the first tremor of a full-blown panic attack shook my body.
