The Onboarding Process

The first thing Chloe Miller noticed was the smell. It was a robust bouquet of unwashed bodies, horse manure, and impending heatstroke.

The second thing she noticed was that she wasn't in the breakroom on the 14th floor of the Millennial Tower in Seattle. She was standing on a wobbly wooden crate in the center of a dirt square, wearing a corset that was definitely violating several OSHA regulations regarding lung capacity.

"Do I hear two hundred?" a man with a handlebar mustache bellowed next to her. He was sweating profusely and holding a gavel that looked suspiciously like a meat tenderizer.

Chloe blinked, her contact lenses feeling dry—wait, she wasn't wearing contacts. She had 20/20 vision. And smaller hands. And significantly more cleavage than she remembered purchasing.

*Okay,* her HR brain processed rapidly. *Situation Assessment: I am hallucinating. Possible carbon monoxide leak in the office. Or I finally cracked under the pressure of the quarterly budget review.*

"Two hundred for the girl!" a voice shouted from the crowd.

The crowd was a sea of Stetsons and dust. Men were spitting brown tobacco juice onto the ground. Women in bonnets were clutching their pearls.

"That's Dolly!" someone whispered loudly. "Old Man Jenkins drank himself to death, and now she’s gotta pay the tab."

*Dolly?* Chloe looked down at her attire. Red satin, black lace, and boots that offered zero arch support. *Oh no. I’m an NPC. I’m a background character in a Red Dead Redemption simulation.*

"Three hundred!"

The voice came from the front row. A man stepped forward. He was short, oily, and wore a suit that looked like it had been cut from a velvet couch. His smile was missing several teeth, and the ones that remained were yellow.

"Mr. Salyard bids three hundred!" the auctioneer shouted. "Going once..."

Chloe felt a cold shiver of genuine terror cut through her modern detachment. She didn't know who Mr. Salyard was, but her gut instinct—honed by years of identifying toxic middle managers—screamed *Danger*. He was looking at her like she was a discounted ribeye steak.

"Excuse me!" Chloe piped up. Her voice came out higher than usual. "Is there an HR representative present? I’d like to file a grievance regarding this hiring process. I have not consented to a transfer!"

The crowd went silent. The auctioneer looked at her like she had grown a second head.

"She’s delirious from the heat," Salyard laughed, stepping closer. "Don't worry, darlin'. I'll put you to work at the Gilded Lily. You'll work it off on your back."

Chloe recoiled. *Sexual Harassment. Level 10.*

"Going twice..."

"Five hundred."

The voice was low, deep, and sounded like gravel grinding against steel. It didn't shout, but it carried across the square with terrifying clarity.

The crowd parted. It wasn't a polite shuffling; it was the scramble of prey avoiding a predator.

A man walked into the open circle. He was massive—easily six-foot-four—with shoulders that blocked out the harsh Arizona sun. He wore a dust-coated duster coat, a low-slung gun belt with a very large iron on his hip, and a black hat pulled low. A jagged white scar ran from his cheekbone to his jawline, disappearing into a few days' worth of dark stubble.

Jericho Ford. The name whispered through the crowd like a curse.

Salyard paled. "Now, Jericho, be reasonable. You don't even like women."

Jericho ignored him. He walked up to the auctioneer, reached into his coat, and pulled out a heavy leather pouch. He tossed it. It hit the auctioneer’s podium with a heavy, solid *thunk*.

"Five hundred," Jericho said. "Gold."

The auctioneer fumbled with the bag, opening it to see the glimmer inside. "Sold! Sold to Mr. Ford!"

Chloe stood on her crate, staring at her new owner. He looked like the final boss of a video game. He looked like the guy who killed the hero’s dog in the first act.

Jericho stepped up to the crate. He looked up at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and shadowed by the brim of his hat.

"Get down," he grunted.

"I need to see a contract," Chloe stammered, crossing her arms over her heaving chest. "I need to know the benefits package. Is there dental? What are the hours?"

Jericho blinked. A flicker of confusion crossed his scarred face. He didn't answer. instead, he reached up, grabbed her around the waist with hands the size of dinner plates, and hoisted her off the crate.

He threw her over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Chloe shrieked, batting at his dusty back. "This is highly unprofessional! Put me down! I want to speak to your supervisor!"

Jericho walked toward a massive black stallion tied to the hitching post. "I don't have a supervisor," he muttered, mostly to himself. "I have cows."

\---