There was something about registry offices that captured the essence of VA waiting rooms, regardless of the dimension. The Victorian woodwork and brass fixtures were a clear upgrade from the institutional beige walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs that veterans endured for hours on end, but bureaucracy had a way of transcending aesthetics.
The magical lamps mimicking natural sunlight beat the fluorescent hell of those VA clinics. Those lights somehow made every medical condition feel worse during those endless waits for a case manager who’d inevitably report that the paperwork had been lost. Again. And yes, the thick carpeting muffled sound better than linoleum tiles ever could, but it didn’t change the fundamental truth that this was where time came to die, one ticking second at a time.
The one consistent variable about purgatory was that it always ended eventually. Progress had been slow, but after an hour in, the pile of potential candidates had narrowed from a hundred to fifteen. Better than expected, but with the same sense of futility that came from knowing that finding the right staff would be like finding a decent meal in a forward operating base – technically possible but realistically improbable.
Cole sighed and flipped through the pages.
Most candidates looked the same after a while: professionally bland, carefully inoffensive, trained to fade into the background. Not what they needed. They needed people who could handle the fact that their employers had literally fallen out of another dimension, people who could adapt to them. They needed people who would notice things without gossiping about them. Discretion, adaptability, competence – Cole had requested basic qualities that apparently fell short of whatever grand expectations the registrar had built up from legends and noble households.
Winthrop, he’d called himself. Middle-aged with that permanently straight spine one only got from years of dreading a superior officer’s inspection. Cole had laid out his requirements earlier with zero fanfare: someone to run the household who could actually manage people, and staff who’d dealt with foreigners before.
That last one was the most crucial of all. They obviously weren’t gonna find staff who’d worked with otherworldly heroes before, but those who’d served foreign dignitaries? Well, they’d at least be used to different customs and unexpected behaviors.
The registrar had looked like Cole had just ordered a generic burger at a five-star restaurant. As far as Winthrop was concerned, heroes were probably supposed to demand personal musicians and sommeliers. Unlike the nobles he must’ve dealt with in the past, they had no need for such things.
When Winthrop suggested a chef versed in multiple cuisines, Cole didn’t dismiss it the way he had with most of the man’s theatrics. He actually paused and considered it. The castle kitchen had been good, surprisingly so, especially for temporary accommodation. The Japanese dishes that had filtered into Aurelian cuisine, represented a lot more than just familiar flavor profiles. They were context, memory, and displacement made edible.
It was then that Miles entered, resting bitch face dominating his visage. It wasn’t a mask so much as a habit – one he defaulted to when given nothing immediate to engage with. Despite the residual psych eval slump in his shoulders, Cole knew he didn’t hate the sessions. He didn’t mock the process, either; he just didn’t trust it to get anywhere faster than action would. Or distraction. Give Miles something to do, and he’d recalibrate on his own.
And right on cue, the shift came as soon as his eyes landed on the files. Thin stacks of preselected candidates, scribbled notes, half-formed hierarchies – just enough structure to qualify as a problem worth solving. Reflex summoned a smile, distant stare fading away.
“How’s the search?”
“Mostly garbage.” Cole handed him some of the files. “Narrowed it down to fifteen, but hey, if you ever wanted a personal sommelier, now’s your chance.”
Miles picked up one of the documents, flipping through it. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, then spread into a full grin as he spotted some detail in the pages that would inevitably become ammunition for giving Cole shit.
Cole braced himself. “What?”
Miles looked up from the papers. “Surprised you ain’t jumpin’ on that. Might need to learn which fork to use when your elf girl comes over.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Cole shook his head, smirking. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not even what sommeliers are for, dude. They handle like… wine tasting, not table etiquette.”
“Eh. Same shit.” Miles shrugged. “Rich folks payin’ someone to tell ‘em how to do what normal people figure out just fine.” He set down the document, pulling up a seat. “But seriously, you tellin’ me you ain’t pickin’ these people with her in mind? Not even a little?”
Cole glanced at Miles. True as it was, it wasn’t something he’d readily admit. “What are we, in high school? Man, I’m just tryna find good matches – people we’d be okay living with, people who’d be okay living with us, foreign as we are.”
“Sure, boss.” Miles had completely abandoned all attempts at hiding his smirk. “So them fifteen candidates, then. Any actually worth talkin’ to?”
“There’s a handful. I’ve got four, but this is the one I’m most confident in.” Cole pulled out four files from the stack and handed one of them to Miles. “Lisara Embreau, half-elf. She’s a cook who worked for some diplomat – Viscount Halven. Guy used to entertain ambassadors from all over – Verdanian Alliance, Brithean duchies, Sannuki Emirates, you name it. Says here she also picked up Aurelian cuisine after some Japanese hero got summoned there almost forty years ago. Not to be confused with the Japanese hero they’ve got runnin’ around right now.”
“Huh.”
Cole tapped the paper. “Point is, she’s used to adapting to strange requests and foreign customs. If there’s anyone who can replicate pizza and buffalo wings for us, it’s her.”
Miles held up a hand. “Say no more. I’m sold on the cook. How ‘bout the others?”
Cole was about to answer when the door swung open – Ethan, Mack, and Elina stepping in. Ethan caught his eye first, expression refreshed, like the eval had finally cut him some slack. S~eaʀᴄh the NovelZone.fun website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
“We’re really doing this, huh? Getting servants,” Ethan said, half a grin creeping in.
Cole gave the group a nod. “Yeah, y’all made it just in time. We’re going over candidates right now; I’ve got four I think we should interview, and a few more we can potentially decide on.”
“You’ve begun?” Elina noticed. “You should take care, Sir Cole. One does not appoint servants as one might engage a clerk. A misstep here reflects not on them, but on the house itself.”
Cole pulled up a seat for her. “You know, you’re welcome to join us.” Of course, that could mean the selection process – or an invitation to live with them. He left it hanging, a perfect opportunity to see what Elina would do with the opportunity.
“Oh, am I truly?” Elina blinked, hesitating now that the ball was in her court. “Well… The quarters granted me are tolerable enough, if rather austere. I had indeed thought to seek a more suitable residence, once my station here permits it.”
She settled into the seat, bringing herself closer to Cole. “I cannot deny the convenience; both in logistics and in fostering unity. Still – for the present, I intend to remain near the infirmary. The men of Kidry shall have need of me.”
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Cole nodded. The victims from Kidry – what was left of them, after K’hinnum’s control – were soon to be under lock and key, guarded like warheads. From what he’d heard, the prognosis wasn’t hopeful.
Elina continued, picking up one of the files. “But I should be glad to aid in your selection. When at last the time comes, I’d rather not be a stranger at my own threshold.” She offered a smile. “And I suspect you’ve need of my expertise in these matters. So… who might these four candidates be?”
Cole smirked. “Appreciate the help. These dossiers start to blur after a while, but I think you’ll like my picks. First one’s already got Garrett’s seal of approval. Lisara Embreau. We just finished going over the file, actually.” He turned to Mack and Ethan. “She can cook Japanese food, apparently.”
Like Miles, that was all they needed to hear. Elina wasn’t convinced so easily, but she caved in once Cole brought up the prospect of new recipes from Earth. In the end, reviewing the cook’s file again yielded the expected result – unanimous agreement.
Mack leaned on Cole’s headrest. “So we’ve got the cook covered. Who else made your shortlist?”
Cole pulled out the second file. “Mrs. Tenna Guinnosa. Fifty-something, human woman. Head housekeeper for Viscount Halven – just like the cook – until his passing last spring.”
Elina’s ears perked up at the Viscount's name. “A tenure with House Halven speaks well of her. The Viscount had never suffered mediocrity – nor condescended to incompetence. We’d do well to interview her as we shall Miss Embreau.”
Ethan leaned over their shoulders. “The Viscount… That’s the previous Foreign Minister, right?”
“Yeah,” Cole replied. “Thirty-three years of service. Lady Halven wrote this recommendation herself.” He tapped the file. “Managed and hired staff, handled security, schedules, almost everything.”
“She’s clearly qualified,” Mack said, “but I wonder if she’d be comfortable with us. We’re not her usual… client.”
Miles snorted, patting Mack’s shoulder. “Hell, speak for yourself. Poor gal might take one look at your room and walk right back out.”
“You say that as if that’d be the worst she’s ever dealt with.” Mack might’ve been on the verge of rolling his eyes and walking away, but he smirked instead. “If there’s anything that might faze her, it’d be the experiments you make in the kitchen.”
Miles raised his hands. “Alright, s’pose that’s fair ‘nuff, but hey – that’s the price of progress. Still tryna figure out how to use all them alien ingredients.”
Ethan turned to face Miles. “I thought we had a cookbook somewhere?”
“Well, can’t say we don’t, but where’s the fun in that?” Miles replied with a grin. “Those recipes are for tourists. Call it… special reconnaissance.”
Ethan grinned, finding his own opportunity. “I’m gonna keep it a buck with you, Garrett, my good man. You call it special reconnaissance, I call it a non-permissive environment. That kitchen’s hostile fuckin’ territory.”
“Like I said, price of progress,” Miles defended, though his expression suggested he knew exactly how bad it had been. Even Phoenix Wright and Saul Goodman combined couldn’t have gotten him out of this one. “Sometimes, you gotta fail spectacularly before you succeed.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how cooking works,” Mack said.
Cole laughed. “This is exactly why we need staff who can handle our little peculiarities. Tenna Guinnosa – we’d probably seem tame to her.”
“Oh, believe me,” Elina chuckled, “you’re charmingly manageable. A woman such as her would have already grown accustomed to suffering the insufferable. I was once privy to an account of the Sannuki ambassador dismissing three servants over – you’ll not believe – a napkin fold he deemed personally offensive! By contrast, your eccentricities scarcely warrant comment.”
“See?” Cole nodded, adding Tenna’s file to the interview pile. “We’re practically low-maintenance.” He moved on to the third candidate. “Darin Lars as a retainer, or something. General helper or butler. Basically our age; could even be one of the homies. Works with the Alexandria Commerce Association, but the government’s willing to move him around as needed. Started as a runner, worked his way up to handling priority deliveries for major trading companies, like Duke Alvak’s.”
“So he’s resourceful,” Ethan said, leaning back in his seat. “That’s a plus. And unlike some stuffy butler, he won’t have a heart attack if we track mud through the foyer after a mission.”
Mack shrugged. “Well, that Tenna woman might.”
Cole smirked. The way they were talking, it almost seemed like they’d already decided – even before getting a chance to meet with them face-to-face. The candidates were the crème de la crème on paper – immaculate references, distinguished work histories, and credentials that checked every necessary box. But even the most impressive dossier couldn't reveal whether someone would blend seamlessly into their unconventional household or flee screaming the first time Miles experimented in the kitchen. The file might be flawless, but the fit was another matter entirely.
Ethan nodded along. “Mm; fair point.” He turned to Cole. “And you’re saying he’s the best on the list?”
Cole flipped through the other eleven files – the ones he’d set aside as alternatives to his preferred roster. “Well, it’s either him or those ‘stuffy butlers’ who, by the way, lack Darin’s experience out on the streets.”
“Youth is oft more pliant than older minds allow, but I must admit… I wonder whether he’s quite prepared for the weight of proximity.” Elina glanced at Cole. He hadn’t gotten the chance to ask what she meant when she continued, “Tenna and Lisara, though of common birth, are steeped in discipline – trained to serve within noble houses, and well-accustomed to the manner of command. He, I think, is not. After all, Heroes cast long shadows in the common mind.”
Cole looked around, everyone already nodding along. It was a fair point – a starstruck employee probably wouldn’t perform that well, but he couldn’t just assume that without even meeting the guy. “Fanboying aside, he might have some good insight and connections when it comes to people outside of OTAC and the nobility. I think we should interview him, see if he’s up to it.”
“Worth finding out,” Mack said. “Add him to the pile.”
Cole placed Darin’s file with Tenna’s and Lisara’s. “Alright, last guy: Melnar Hartwell. Forty-something. Groundskeeper for General Aldam Galahad. General’s willing to part with Melnar, as a gift, or something.”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “Gift?”
Cole didn’t quite pin it either, so he just shrugged. “Yeah, probably in return for the tips and tricks we’re gonna give his military. Anyway, Melnar here can maintain our property with minimal supervision. Guy prefers simplicity and function over ornamental excess.”
“So he’ll show up, do his job, and leave us alone,” Miles said. “Perfect.”
Mack gave him a light jab. “What, you don’t want someone who’ll turn our hedges into dinosaurs? Or statues of the great Captain?”
“Y’know, I wouldn’t be surprised if that other pile legit has someone like that.” Cole gestured. “Have at it.”
Mack glanced at the stack, already frowning at the first file. “Uhh… Maybe not.” He took Melnar’s file instead, skimming through it.
“Melnar is an apt choice,” Elina said. “A discerning groundskeeper elevates a residence beyond mere shelter. Too many see the role as menial, yet the state of one’s grounds speaks – oft more plainly than the occupants would wish. And should our hedges lapse into disarray, I daresay it would not be long before the King dispatches some poor attaché to confirm our descent into barbarism.”
Cole suppressed a laugh, though he couldn’t quite keep the amusement from his eyes. They’d been talking about a groundskeeper, and somehow Elina had made it sound like they were appointing a royal minister. Still, beyond that embellishment of hers, she wasn’t wrong.
Image mattered here – probably more than it should. Back home, nobody cared what a Delta operator’s yard looked like, HOA Karens aside. Here, they were heroes, baronets, and whatever other titles got heaped on them. As much as he might detest the fact, appearances were part of the job description.
“Yeah, I guess we wouldn’t wanna upset the neighbors,” he agreed, more diplomatically than he felt. The whole concept of titles, servants, and social standing was still a mental adjustment. But if unmowed grass could affect how seriously people took them when demons came knocking, then sure – they’d hire a groundskeeper. “All right, Melnar makes the cut.”
Cole gathered the four files, stacking them neatly. “So we’re agreed on these four? Nothing on the other stack?”
With everyone’s confirmation, Cole approached Winthrop. “We’ve made our selections,” he said, handing over the files.
The registrar flipped through the papers before setting them aside. If he’d made any judgment, he sure as hell didn’t show it. “Understood. I shall issue the summons at once. Have you a preferred window for the interviews, or shall I assume earliest convenience?”
“Tomorrow morning works for us.”
“At your residence, I presume?”
Cole nodded.
“Very good. I shall schedule each candidate at one-hour intervals, beginning at nine o’clock with Mrs. Guinnosa, followed by Miss Embreau, then Mr. Lars, and lastly, Mr. Hartwell.”
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