ORSON Scott Card was known best simply as a cleanup guy. Simple, polite, professional, he would come in after anything went sideways just to fix the memories of bystanders, witnesses, and/or important figures whose opinions needed a little encouragement to change. He was not a fighter, and certainly he was not a grunt, dubbing himself far too important to be used for such menial work, but a leader? Him? Unlikely. His type simply wasnât cut out for it; he was far too temperamental.
Yet, when the time came to step up and gain further influence in the remnants, Cardâs time under Fitzgerald honing his ability was put to good use. It did not take any time at all for him to become a faction leader. Such a position, he learned, would require more than just a fancy ability to retain, though, especially as people donât seem to enjoy when one invades their headspace for personal gain. As such, he was stuck with what perhaps was his least favorite part of this new role: speaking to superiors about grievances.Â
Clearing his throat and glancing absentmindedly across the list in his hand, Orson spoke with detached coolness. â Mr. Steinbeck, sir, Do you happen to have a moment free? I need to discuss with you some issues among my division; if not addressed, it could lead to defectingâ neither of us want that, I believeâ so I suggest, in my so humble opinion, you not take these lightly. âÂ
Truth be told, Steinbeckâs not sure if heâs cut out for leadership at allâbut the thing he finds himself thinking every time his mind drifts in that direction is, Do I really have a choice? Picking up the remnants that Fitzgerald left behind, now the remnants that chose to stay away from him and his new Guild, was a daunting taskâis a daunting taskâand every passing day seems to add more weight to his shoulders.
And people... people have always been his weakness, too. Fights, violence, that sort of thing? That was easy. That was mechanical. But dealing with people when he feels so little connection to any of them...
The sound of a throat clearing catches his attention, and he offers a small, almost apologetic smile. âJust Steinbeck is fine.â But not John. Never John (for anyone, now). Storm blue eyes drop towards the paper Card holds in his hand before lifting back up to his eyes. âDo you want to sit down to discuss this?â
He nods to the seats beside themâaround the table used just a minutes before for a faction leader meeting.
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