Promotion by Creampie: God Company's Dirty Secrets
First, I calm down my excited little buddy, then steady my mind as much as possible.
I nod. "Come to think of it, there wasn't really anything I needed to give you guys to use or whatever."
I quickly exit the chat room and click the (?) next to employee activity score.
◎ Human
· Samia Kira Gos (face photo) = 3 points
◎ Bloodshark
· Siron Redpearl (face photo) = 113 points
Just two photos sitting there plain as day.
Samia Kira Gos. Didn't know the name, but the photo jogs my memory. One of the slave hunters who grabbed me.
And the cute Siron.
"But what's a bloodshark?"
Her teeth do look pointy like shark teeth. Guess she's not your average human after all—some shark-human hybrid. And not just any shark; that "blood" prefix sounds badass as hell.
"What the fuck. But what's the scoring system here? If you're gonna tell me, at least explain it properly. Why make it so goddamn cryptic?"
More questions piling up, I hop back into the chat room quick.
What the hell is this, some busted mobile game VIP system? Why's everything locked behind paywalls?
O Bloodshark. Name (face photo) = score.
// Something like that.
I'm planning to chill in the room quietly till Siron gets back, so yeah, time's all I got.
What the actual fuck kind of company did I sign up for? The endgame is tracking down and knocking up only the strongest bitches from every race? My head's spinning.
I rub my eyes at the chat text.
"Holy shit."
Too shocked, words slip out loud. No aging?
I exit the chat, close all the annoying windows cluttering my view. Vision clears up, and I finally haul my ass out of the tub—
Clank!—!!
The bathroom door flies open rough. Siron stands there outside, staring at me with utter pity in her eyes.
"Hah... you fucking idiot. Even if the tub's nice, how the hell are you still in there?"
"Nah, Siron, I just dozed off. Sigh. Look, even drooled."
"...Cut the bullshit and get out. Lunch is here."
"'Kay."
Siron shuts the door and leaves. I stretch out my prune-pruny body—way too long in the tub—and stand.
"Wait, lunch? Fuck. Feels like I came straight in after breakfast."
At least four hours soaking. No wonder she gave me that look.
I rinse off quick, towel dry thorough, and head out. On the floor sits a paper bag that wasn't there this morning.
"Grabbed some random shit. Try 'em on—if sizes off, we'll swap later."
"Cool."
Rustle.
I pull out the clothes from the bag and freeze. These look small as hell.
But bitching without trying's lame, so I wriggle into 'em.
"Huh, better than expected?"
Underwear pinches a bit, but overall solid. The white shirt looked tiny but stretches smooth, fits perfect no resistance. Black pants cling like spandex in my head, but got good room—squatting, moving, no issues.
I plop on the bed next to Siron reading what looks like a newspaper.
"Siron. How's it look?"
"Hm... not bad."
"Heh, yeah. Underwear's tight, but it'll stretch."
"That's what you call tight?"
"Tight as fuck."
"..."
Siron eyes my crotch with a deadpan look, then nods like it clicks, turns back to her paper.
"Whatcha reading anyway?"
"Newsletter."
"Can I see?"
"Whatever."
I sit close, pull her into a hug, rest my chin on her left shoulder.
A bit different from what I expected, but damn, didn't know this existed.
Wait. Four years guild errands, roaming the city—how'd I miss newsletters?
"Siron. Glad I met you."
"...The fuck outta nowhere."
Heh, she's blushing.
Knock knock.
Knocks from outside the room.
"Go grab the food."
"Heh, sure sure."
"...Hmph."
Meat-packed lunch is pure honey. We digest a bit after our two-day break, then finally head out.
"Hm, feels kinda heavy."
Waiting alone at the inn entrance for Siron returning the keycard, stares feel extra intense today. Before it was curiosity; now it's hot, hungry.
"Ahem, you there."
Should test Holy Artifact Creation sometime. Hard with Siron around.
"AHEM!! You!! Black hair over there!!"
"...Black hair? Me?"
Was zoning, but that's calling me? I eye the mature, loaded-looking woman.
"Yeah, you. Bambino staff?"
"Bambino? No clue, but nope."
What the hell's Bambino? Shitty name.
"Really...? Then your owner's nearby. Fetch 'em."
"Sorry, no idea where my owner is."
Frontier guy = slave trope's old news. And honestly, dunno where my branch chief who bought me even is. Four years, no face time—what's keeping her so busy?
Anyway, I stick to truth polite-like, but she ain't buying.
"A slave mocking me now?"
"No mockery. Really don't know."
Pretty boy sidekick too—why hassle when you're busy?
Puzzling what to do, prickly vibe stabs my back.
"Idiot. Told you stay put, now what bullshit?"
"Uh, Siron."
Siron sneaks up post-keycard, glares pitifully. I'm innocent AF.
The bitch crosses arms, thrusts her half-ripe-melon tits, steps at Siron.
"You this slave's owner?"
"Who the fuck you calling bitch? Piss off, don't bother us."
This my girl? Badass.
"Hah... Explains the slave's manners, seeing your trash vibe."
"Said piss off."
"You!! Do you know who I—"
Thud!—!!
Dull thump, dust puffs up. Silence falls. Dust settles...
"H-Hiiik—?!"
"Ughhhh..."
Her noggin's kissing floor hard, right in our view.
"Bitch. Had to say it three times."
Nah, Siron, twice. But pointing that out gets my skull smashed too—shut up smart.
Won't guards nab us? Peek around—nope. Patrol guards in the crowd laughing their asses off. They catch my eye, cough big, straighten up, approach.
"Ahem. Good work."
"We get the gist—handle the rest."
"You two come too."
Guards drag the forehead-gushing bitch into the crowd.
"What, idiot."
"Just... you're so fucking cool."
"...No bullshit. Stick to my side. Got it?"
"Yeah yeah."
"...Hmph."
I grin; Siron huffs, turns snooty, marches ahead.