Alex Thorley Interviews For a Job

Link to article: Alex Thorley Interviews For a Job.

:root {
     --header-title: "Department of Unreality";
     --header-subtitle: "Making the Unreal a ㅤㅤㅤㅤ";
     --lgurl: url('http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/unreality-hub/Unreality%20Header%20Logo.svg');
}

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[[module CSS]]
:root {
     --header-title: "Department of Unreality";
     --header-subtitle: "Making the Unreal a ㅤㅤㅤㅤ";
     --lgurl: url('http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/unreality-hub/Unreality%20Header%20Logo.svg');
}
[[/module]]

[[include :scp-wiki:info:start]]
**Alex Thorley Interviews For a Job**
**Author:** [[*user Matthgeek]] ([https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/matthgeek author page])
[[include :scp-wiki:info:end]]
 
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There is a door on the wall. It isn't always there, and it's never in the same place.

The door has a plaque. It reads “Alex Thorley, Department of Unreality Liaison”. A piece of grease-stained pizza box cardboard has been taped under the plaque. Scribbled on the makeshift sign in fading marker are the words “help wanted”.
 
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Today it does exist, despite all of your wishes to the contrary. Standing outside this door, you take a deep breath, using the delay to reassure yourself. You have the qualifications, you have the experience. Now if only you had the confidence.

Before your mind settles on one course of action over another, a knock breaks the silence. It echoes down the hallway until the carpet and acoustic tiling suffocate it. You draw your arm back and examine the appendage which extends from it. Your hand has betrayed you and announced your presence. Now, the fingers wiggle on command, but you still glare at them suspiciously. True fingers would not take such a drastic step without consulting the rest of the body.

It's too late now. You have made your presence known, and the door drifts open with a sigh of stifled disappointment. The office within has two chairs, a fishbowl, and a Rubik's Cube. There is probably a desk, but your focus is on the person in the far chair.
 
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You size up the disaster who has just entered the office. It's not hard, there isn't much worth noting. From the blandness of their turtleneck sweater to the blindingly unremarkable sneakers on their feet, there is an enraging meekness. They stand before you, their weak eyes goggling pleadingly, their mouth a small line.

The room is silent as you wait for them to make the first move. In your mind, you scream for them to leave, to spare you from the tedium they carry. On the outside, you settle for a dead-eyed stare. You reach forward, adjusting the nameplate on your desk which reads “Alex Thorley, Liaison” to a more severe right angle. They remain mute, terror peering out of trembling irises. You eventually cave in, breaking the room’s peace with the first question.

“Can I help you?”

You cling to the hope that they’re here for something else. Maybe they just need to drop off a package. Maybe you won’t have to endure interviewing this waste of space. The frail, stammering words shatter those dreams.

“I’m… here about the position.”

With a sigh drawn from the depths of your soul, you pick up a pen and click it, bracing yourself for the banality which is to come.
 
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“Name?”

A scream of panic tries to force its way out of your mouth, but you smother it so only the smallest exhalation escapes. You tell the scream that it’s alright. There is no need to panic. You can fake it well enough and long enough. Reluctantly, the scream agrees to reserve judgment and settles into your throat.

The interviewer glares at you. Your eyes slide down and examine the pen held in their clawed hand. It's sharp, angular. Better suited as a knife than a pen. An image flashes before you, of them reaching over and plunging it into your flesh. You find the idea ridiculous. Not because they couldn’t, but because that would indicate you were worth stabbing.

“My name is Alex Thorley.”

The interviewer notes this down with a “hm” that conveys skepticism, but not complete disbelief. 

Not yet, anyway.

It’s quiet as the form is filled out, and you explore the room’s carpet. It’s a color too neutral to have a name, except where coffee has been spilled near the desk, leaving a stain in the shape of a face. Somedays, the face is smiling. Now, it screams in silent sympathy. It is no comfort, so you return your focus to the face across from you and weather its distaste.

“How much experience do you have?”

The answer comes out quickly this time, rolling off your tongue as it has so many times before: “Twenty-six years.”

The interviewer's left eyebrow shoots up, and the rest of their face follows. “Our records say twenty-seven.”

The scream begins to build again, and you swallow to keep it down. Your gaze darts from that piercing stare to a slice of decaying birthday cake, but is pulled back by the magnetic anger in those eyes. “It might be. I'm not good with dates.”

There is silence as the pen that should be a knife meanders across the paper, each cut leaving behind sharp black lines. You can't read the result, but no doubt it notes your failure to remember such a simple thing.
 
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You want to reach over and scream at them, to tell them to grow a spine. But that would only result in more cowering. Your jaw clenches, driving teeth into each other and creating a pressure that almost frees you from the stupor this person has brought into your office. The paper beneath your pen gapes wide, threatening miles of questions yet to be waded through. The next question arrives, eager to delve. You give it voice and resign yourself to what must follow.

“What qualifies you for this job?”

The downcast eyes tell you everything you need to know. They aren’t qualified. It’s obvious they are pretending. But they can’t fool themselves, and they can’t fool you. You eventually receive an answer, and it sloughs down your ears like gravel.

“I have twenty-six- twenty-seven years of experience.”

Within the sludge, a glimmer promises an escape. You dart forward, seizing the opportunity with your next words.

“That’s it? You have nothing else to recommend yourself?”
 
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The scream is writhing, reaching for your mouth, for freedom. Its vanguard escapes your lips as a faint “eep”. You order your lips sealed, biting into them to prevent further escapes. But the scream keeps searching for a way out, and you can feel it leaking out from behind your eyes. Blinking keeps it at bay, for now.

You glance up, and watch satisfaction make its way across your interviewer's face. You know then you'll never be given this responsibility. And that's fair. Why should you be trusted with something so important? So many people have given so much, and you've squandered it all.

You want to leave, but your legs revolt, no longer willing to obey such an uninspiring commander. Across the desk, your interviewer reaches for the note that has been there since the beginning of the interview, as of five seconds ago. A message from on high, here to condemn you. Why else would someone take the time to address the shambling wreck of your presence, if not to be rid of it?

Loyal to the last, your eyes once more seek the floor, sparing you from watching your sentence be read. As your sight peruses the carpet, each second of silence winds tighter. Building to the inevitable release of rage.

When the words eventually lash out, your shoulders are already taut.

“My apologies, I was mistaken.”

Muscles unclench, and you raise your head. The chair across from you has been vacated, and now widens its arms to welcome you.

“The job is yours.”
 
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
Tentatively, Alex Thorley rises from the seat in front of the desk and takes the much more comfortable seat behind it. They look around and see their erstwhile interviewer has receded to a corner of the office. Not exorcised, but at least reserving judgement for a future error.

Out of curiosity, Alex reaches for the note that decided their fate. It lays on the sparsely populated desk, forlorn. Inside is only one line:

“Applicant exemplary. Qualifications unnecessary.”

Warmth suffuses Alex's chest, and they set down the note.

Next to the note, a pen glints, its angles softer on this side of the desk. Alex picks it up and rolls it between their fingers, its brass fittings reflecting their soft smile. They drop it into a mug, and it lands with a clink, settling down to join its fellows. 

Alex sits back, satisfied.
[[/div]]

Alex Thorley Interviews For a Job

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