Surviving the Amazons #2
“Hey, my friend Jo! What's with all the boxes this early in the morning? Where you headed?”
It was early morning. As I was about to board the elevator in the company building, a familiar face called out to me. It was Marquius, the chief of the Safety Management Team—one of the most powerful departments in HQ.
“Carrying that many boxes without losing your balance? Wow, I gotta hand it to you, Jo. This Marquius officially acknowledges your skills! A capable guy like you excels at everything!”
Marquius had a habit of showering me with praise at the drop of a hat. If I tripped on the street, he'd probably compliment my form. At least thirty percent of the achievements I'd unfairly claimed on my path to becoming HQ section chief were probably his doing.
Still, it was nice to see a friendly face for once.
“I'm on temporary transfer to another department. The new deputy promotion system says only those who've honed versatile skills across various work environments can make deputy.”
“Tough break, huh? Back in the day, getting on the good side of the Wives' Club was enough for a deputy spot. Now they say even the threshold's out of reach for anyone without real talent.”
“That's what makes it great.”
“Great? Well, for someone like you, Jo—who can handle any department or task perfectly—it's no issue. Hell, it'll even let you show off a range of skills.”
Not even close! I planned to demonstrate utter incompetence across every role. As I steeled myself for that, the elevator dinged to a stop, and we all piled in.
Press. I hit the button for the 44th floor, and Marquius's eyes lit up.
“Temporary post on 44? What's the team?”
“Welfare Team.”
“...What? For real? No way.”
Marquius had been a thief in life and now ran one of HQ's powerhouse departments with ruthless efficiency. For a guy like that to tense up and darken his face? Suspicious as hell.
“Why the Welfare Team?”
“Just rumors, but single guys sent to Welfare? It's basically desk removal.”
Desk removal meant yanking the desks of impending fire victims and leaving them with nothing to do—a punishment. You might think no work means free paychecks, but people start treating you like a ghost. The humiliation and wasted time eat at you until you quit on your own. Company version of being sidelined from your cohort.
“Jo, you sure it's Welfare? Feels off. You, of all people, on temp duty there? Weird.”
Marquius, the king of laid-back jokes, looked dead serious for once. If single men in Welfare got the desk removal treatment, his expression and tension suddenly made sense.
“Maybe payback for poking at some married woman's dirty secret over the Wives' Club mess?”
Whoa, watch your mouth! Anyone hears that, and I'm toast. What married woman did I poke?!
Ding. The elevator hit 44. Marquius clapped my shoulder.
“You'll probably breeze through this too. Just stay alive, yeah?”
Slide. The doors closed, leaving me alone on 44.
First thing that hit me was the faint, sweet floral scent tickling my nose.
Cosmetics? I'd deliberately not researched the Welfare Team or its people. Figured I'd dive in blind, like a header into raw dirt. More room for screw-ups that way.
What's this place that it's hell for single guys? Even with my intent to fail, I felt a twinge of nerves. If I were the “work hard, climb the ladder” type, my heart would've been pounding, maybe even puking.
I reached the Welfare Team office on 44.
Click. Door open, and the layout hit me at once. Desks and partitions neatly arranged—no different from other departments I'd seen. Except for all the decorations everywhere.
RUS paintings? The crayon art from Icarus I'd met recently was framed all over, adding splashes of color. A far cry from the grim skull decor in Audit or Happy World's Penalty Execution. Nice change. Perks of Welfare, maybe?
“New guy's here.”
“Who was coming today?”
But as they rose one by one—two, three—I knew something was wrong. All women. Out of nearly 100 staff, three men. 97-to-3. Stronger than espresso.
Turn back? Even I'd survived death's edges, but my feet wanted to retreat. Why? Lately, tangling with women never ended well for me!
But the women I'd dealt with recently were mostly married. These Welfare ladies? Mostly single, by the look.
Not married, so maybe different.
Step. I advanced.
“Jo Iseo, section chief newly assigned from Audit Team 1 to Welfare. Temp posting, max two weeks, but...”
—please take care of me. My mouth froze mid-sentence. Opportunity goddess just showed me her bald forehead. Grab it!
“...I have zero plans to get along with you all. Temp or not, I'm an elite of elites from Audit—not some idle Welfare drone.”
“Huh? What the hell are you saying?”
Instant backlash. Silver bob-cut like a pearl flower, arms crossed with muscles thicker than mine. Nameplate: Deputy Panthesilea.
“What's wrong with an idle team? Think you're hot shit from powerhouse Audit, so you diss Welfare? Act that arrogant, you'll regret it!”
First impressions matter most in society. I'd deliberately botched mine. Nailed it. Women's faces twisted in unison—clear as day.
“What an ass.”
“Throws his weight around day one.”
“Total jerk.”
Whispers too, thinking I couldn't hear. Aah— Their curses an orchestra sweeter than symphony. Opening doors to weird tastes. Even if flop Crowzer got zapped awake as Orpheus and belted a tune, it wouldn't hit this hard.
Then—
“Section Chief Jo! Roof for a smoke?”
Tap tap. Shoulder clap.
###
Extreme female-heavy department, sure, but men popped up like beans in drought.
“I'm Section Chief Hippomenes of Welfare. Heard about you from my wife. You dismantled the Wives' Club that tormented her?”
Hippomenes. Greek myth clicked. Hunter princess Atalanta story.
Atalanta: tomboyish, fun artsy type, huge with guys. But vowed virgin, so her challenge: “Beat me in a race, marry me! Lose? Die—for real!”
Many tried, lost, died. Then a guy with three golden apples. When she pulled ahead, he'd drop one. Distracted picking it up, he won and married her.
“You the golden apple Hippomenes?”
“Yup. Lucky guy who made the myths with a capable woman—that's me.”
Shocking. Their marriage ended tragic. His apples? From love goddess Aphrodite. Post-honeymoon bliss made him forget thanks. Cursed: both turned leopards pulling gods' chariots forever.
“Why not leopards?”
Come to think, the Atalanta from Wives' Club wasn't leopard either. Huh.
“Gods on Earth love EVs now. Animal-pulled chariots lost appeal. All that animal welfare talk... Got us cut.”
EV trend freed them from leopard duty. Fun tale. But Hippomenes scolded me like it was minor.
“Jo, heard about your temp due to new deputy system. But this path? Disaster!”
“Disaster?”
“Won't get good evals here. First impressions crucial, and you just declared war. But not too late.”
Rustle. He handed a long scroll.
“What's this?”
“My secret manual: factions in Welfare, who's enemies with who, all the intrigue mapped out.”
Book-thick scroll.
“You charted this solo?”
“They tease me as househusband living off wife, but I've hustled women since past life. Survival know-how.”
He downplayed as kept man, but HQ section chief? Not wife perks alone—I knew better.
Rustle. Detailed: women by faction, hobbies, tastes.
“Tons of 'clubs' that are factions.”
“Welfare culture. Encourages clubs, funds them.”
“But over 300 factions?”
“One person in multiples. Employee A in faction with B and C, also with D and F, etc.”
100 people, 300 factions. Memorizing hell. To survive as man in female-heavy Welfare? Know all ties. Brain-melter.
“Jo, you helped my wife with Wives' Club, so I'll help full throttle. Tips—”
“Nah, I'll handle mine.”
Survival tips from 300-faction vet? Essential for man in estrogen world. Exactly why skip. I left worried Hippomenes, back to office.
Screamed to all: “I'm here now, so from today, Welfare unites as one family! Abolish all clubs, cut funding!”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“Abolish clubs?”
Murmurs rose. I yelled hotter: “My calcs: scrap clubs, efficiency doubles. Then 300%+ bonuses for all!”
Pure lie. No calcs.
“Fine, Section Chief Jo. One week. Dismantle all clubs and factions.”
Corner woman spoke. Stiff tone, simple suit on bronze skin, brown ponytail gleaming oiled-slick. Chief Hippolyte. Welfare's big boss.
Hippolyte rang familiar. Amazon queen from myth.
Stunner. Probably married. As Panthesilea uncrossed arms, brow arched.
“Sis! Dismantle clubs? You sane?”
“One week trial. If efficiency rises like Jo says, great. No results? You'll answer—in Amazon way.”