── ❝dear diary,
what hides beneath those indigo eyes?❝
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 .ᐟ
──you bring your diary with
you to inazuma to document your
experiences working as
the eighth of the fatui h...
❝ what blinds an oracle?❝ —aidas, house of earth and blood
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‿︵‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿︵‿
FROM THE rumors that were being whispered among the other...opponents, perhaps? the interview was going to take place today.
Perhaps these Fatuienjoyed implementing the element of surprise into their job interviews, because they hadn't said a single thing about when the interview was going to take place.
At this point, I was just going to assume that these people were going to randomly stride into the hotel, wearing some sort of lavish clothes worth ten-billion Mora, and drag us away, saying something along the lines of Okay, interviews start right now. Goodluck!
Since we'd arrived on Yashiori Island, only one person—a pale-skinned, blond-haired female wearing a long dress that seemed to match that of the Liyue-style clothes—approached, and spoke, to me, although our encounter was fairly awkward and brief.
If anything, she was trying to get a feel for the competition, as she'd asked me quite a few questions about my work ethics, past jobs, etc. Really no one was trying to make friends here—not when all of the other potential interviewees had the opportunity to snatch away the open job role.
If this were another low-paying job, no one would really care. But it wasn't. And it was likely that the majority of people that were strewn about the granite-tiled room needed the money—desperately.
Her conversation with me honestly felt like an interview in itself—one that I wasn't willing to answer the questions to without being allowed to ask her questions of my own.
From our conversation, all I'd gathered was that she was 27 years old, from Liyue—which I had already determined from her attire—and that she was some sort of not-so-well-known clothes designer.
She didn't seem to know much about the job, either, and couldn't recall every sending in a job applcation. Strange.
At least the hotel was somewhat nice—there was even a bar in the lobby, though I was too young to just saunter up to the place and ask for a drink without some severe questioning. Plus, the thought of having a hangover on a possible interview day was probably a shit idea.
I'd never become drunk, or even tipsy, in my life, as I'd been too busy stressing about the many jobs I worked—or the assignments I'd had while being a student at the Akademiya, but from experience with other, less responsible individuals, I knew that, while being drunk oftentimes put you on a temporary high, the after-effects made the entire experience fairly regrettable.
Others hadn't considered how horrible getting absolutely wasted was, though, because, while I'd been documenting my day in the small diary while lounging in one of the plush sofa's in the lobby, I'd seen quite a few people that I was pretty sure had applied for the job with nearly ten empty glasses of what had to have been alcohol—unless the bar served fucking Fonta, which was pretty unlikely—each.
