District 12, GHH station – yet another morose October 12558 morning. Different district, same crowded office, same Blandine LeJeune. Interviewing wannabe GHH recruits had been her life for years – decades even. She was barely 60, yet felt a hundred years of frustration and broken dreams weighing down her petite shoulders. However, she’d settled in that exhaustion and boredom – in a such a way that slumping down, sat behind that worn out desk, glaring at the wall clock over her long and pointy nose, ready to mentally snipe at whatever pretty young face had the misfortune of walking into her office had become a part of her, if not her defining state of being.

The three meetings she had scheduled from 8 to 9 that morning were all girls, described by their profile sheets as a tight-knit group of high-school friends. This promised to be cheesy. They all had very different profiles, too, unmistakable for one another even without pictures – her usual guessing game wouldn’t be any fun. Tsk.

The first girl the lot of came in. She was slender and tall, bore wavy blond locks, and her face looked like the DON’T side of a makeup tutorial : Porcelain pale skin smothered in powder, round cheeks redder than a doll’s and lipstick that didn’t follow the shape of her lips, but rather that of a circle. Her eyes were wide open and her hazel irises strained, making her tiny smile all the more uncomfortable. Despite the ridiculous makeup, she seemed carefree and confident as can be, as though she looked perfectly average. LeJeune didn’t even need to review the profiles ; she had to be the S rank.

Quanta, Canesem. The interviewer was somewhat looking forward to hearing how that mess of letters was actually pronounced. The second thing that stood out to her about the blonde’s profile was her place of birth; she wasn’t born in the capital at all. It’s not as if every newbie was, but it was still unusual enough to take note of. She’d never heard of that village either - if it even was a village ; Could’ve been a town, for all she knew - or of any other ‘Canesems’. For someone like that, who’d come fresh out of nowhere, to be S ranked during their student years had become very rare in the last few years. Reading further into the profile gave a perfect explanation : her ability.

Pocket Dimension

User summons a portal (maximum diameter of 3 meters, no minimum) through which a seemingly unlimited amount of matter can pass at any time. The matter in question is contained in a ‘pocket dimension’, which no witness has been able to describe.

Matter contained within will begin to decay after a minute. Extended containment will fully consume all tested materials (see page 5 for details.).

Up to 3 portals may be opened at a time. All portals supposedly link to the same ‘pocket’.

It was certainly remarkable – but by all means did it sound boring to test. If everything happened on some other, theoretical plane, how was she supposed to argue to her supervisors about property damage? Plus, that lanky, porcelain girl freaked her out.

The interviewer had never liked her job, but time had made her actively resent it. She’d barely dodged being fired during the post-Alexander cleanup, which almost seemed like a missed opportunity. Even if she was contemptuous in her modern misery, there was something existentially dreadful about seeing generations of starry eyed kids walk into her office, leave ready to achieve their dream, slowly lose their drive overtime, and often time end up jailed for this or that reason. All the while, she stayed right there, never expecting anything else to happen, and never being surprised.

Quanta tip toed over to the desk, glancing around the room with curious, darting eyes. She slipped into the chair, cleared her throat, inhaled, opened her mouth for a few silent seconds, and…

“...Sooooo... what am I supposed to say?

- ...hello. Just introduce yourself in a few minutes.

- Ah!” She clapped her hands together and held them close to her chest. “I’m Quanta.”

A good ten seconds passed before LeJeune realised the blonde wasn’t planning on saying anything more. She simply stood there, perfectly still – the interviewer could swear she wasn’t even blinking. She sighed, and reset the timer. “Well aware. You’re supposed to go into more details about yourself than that. Try again.” The blonde nodded without losing face.

“I’m Quanta, I’m seventeen, I’ve studied in a school, I can speak English, I have an ability, two parents, various allergies, I do competitive motocross, I like kiting, fishing, I collect knives, I’ve been described as assertive, bright, spontaneous, cheerful, utterly mental, my last name’s Canesem, I can take care of animals, take them out, cook them, clean them up-

- That… That will be enough.

- Oh! Neat.” The interviewer squinted. What sort of bird shit filled up that girl’s head?

“Do you realise what this is?

- The hiring interview for a hero position in the GHH - specifically, mine.

- Then why would you describe yourself like- that?

- Well, you asked for details - I listed them as they came to mind. Seemed the fastest way to go about it.

- Do... any of them have any relevance to the position you’re applying for?

- Oh! None, I reckon.

- Then. Why. Woul-” Quanta’s crystalline voice cut her short. Her tone was akin to that of a dramatic reading, though it apparently came to her naturally.

“Honestly, I don’t really get this part of the interview. It doesn’t matter so much who I am - just what I do, and how I do it. So if you ask me, ‘Tell me about yourself’, that’s just a vague and generic question - how am I supposed to know it’s related to the hero work I want to do?

- Because this is your interview into the GHH. You’re expected to sort that out yourself.

- But you agree it’s a vague and generic question. Right? Am I right?” LeJeune laid a hand on her forehead, slowly descending it across her face. Breathe in. Breathe out… Sigh. S-ranks couldn’t be turned down without a critical reason. She had no choice but to play along.

“...Fine. Introduce yourself - within the context of hero work.

- So, ‘What kind of hero are you’, is what you mean?

- If. That. Suits. You.

- Well then you should’ve asked that.

- Get. On. With. It.

- I can’t. I don’t know. I haven’t been a hero yet.” Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out… and to hell with this. She’d just have to make up for it with the questionnaire. For both of their sakes, it was likely best to end the introduction here. Sadly for the irritated woman sitting behind the desk, the rest of Quanta’s interview was no less tiresome. She jumped the gun and shifted subjects with utter nonchalance, and questioned common sense and standard protocol with unrivaled confidence. It didn’t seem like she was being annoying on purpose, either – LeJeune knew those types. This was simply how Quanta Canesem acted, with all the good will in the world. Whatever village she had crawled out of, it was likely inhabited by ghosts, carnies and escaped maniacs. And in spite of that… objectively, she hadn’t failed the interview. With deep regret, the interviewer would have to let this eldritch personality through, and into the world. Yet another sin she’d take to her grave. She gulped as Quanta left, still tip toeing like a ballerina. Creep….

The next girl entered. Petite, but curvy, with freckled, cold brown skin and a large but pointy and symmetrical nose. Her hair, black with slight blue hues, generously thick, yet well kept, cascaded all the way down to her hips, waving elegantly as she moved. But her most striking feature was her eyes. Deep, large emerald pools framed by fluffy eyelashes. She was certainly a sight to behold, but the interviewer didn’t care too much. Right as the girl entered, two things caught her attention ; one, the girl looked so sad and unsure, she might’ve been crushed down into the crust of the earth under the weight of her own wobbliness. Second, despite it being late autumn and nearly 15°C outside, she was wearing open-toed shoes. Great lord, this one’s left brain was missing too. She started to worry that the three girls’ friendship may rest on a shared insanity. Regardless… Such a pitiful pile of emo-moe had to be the C rank.

Minty Yona. Nothing notable, really. A late education, and being born in District 10 rather than 12, wherein she was applying. A bore.

The long haired girl dragged herself to the chair and sat, quiet as a rock. One minute later, still mute. The interviewer sighed internally. “Hello.

- H-Hello! My name is Bonnie. Bonnie…” she sighed, looking even sadder somehow, “...Trofeo.” LeJeune blinked. Wait, that – that was the Trofeo kid? She was left astounded for the first time in years – which, although refreshing, hurt her pride a little. She hadn’t been working in District 12 long enough to know the other Trofeos first hand, but this was just… bollocks. That tiny bag of puppy-eyes, without a muscle on her bones? Had her family run out of protein supplements or something? Ugh… this wasn’t fair. This- it didn’t count. It didn’t play by the rules of her game.

Dejectedly, she tossed aside Yona’s profile and fetched the correct file from her drawer. Bonnie Trofeo, A rank, consistent schooling, examplary behaviour, and her ability… Oh. Well that explained her exposed toes. The interviewer looked back at girl, who seemed confused as to why the stern and professional woman suddenly looked so worked up. Now that she was paying attention, she could tell, a little. The girl had thicker body hair than most cared to maintain, and some light stubble. Not that it got in the way of her appearance at all; in fact, it rather complimented it.

The girl fidgeted with her hair all throughout her presentation, though she spoke clearly and within the timeframe. The interviewer had barely been listening anyway - she was a Trofeo. The interview was even more of a symbolic procedure than usual. The only part of the it LeJeune was interested in currently was seeing her ability first hand.

“Rapid hair and nail growth” promised to be entertaining - although the mention that it had to be “cut manually” was certainly not an exciting prospect, she didn’t care so much about the hassle it would be. Moreso… it was quality hair, in great quantity : A welcome addition to her monthly pay. She’d find a buyer, no question there. She had… experience.

The protocol to test Bonnie’s ability was more elaborate than most. It was divided in two parts : one for the hair, and one for the nails. The first was intuitive ; using a 1 meter square cardboard box and a stopwatch, determine how quickly she could fill the entire box with hair. The second was more specific ; she was given a lock, which she would break by inserting her nail into the keyhole before growing it, breaking the mechanism from the inside. Apparently, Bonnie herself had devised this use for her ability during her school years. The interviewer unfolded the box and laid it down on the desk - she’d specifically picked out the least damaged one she had on hand. She cleared her throat, and handed the girl a few elastic bands. “Tie away your hair, except for a single strand. Lay that strand right on the edge of the box. When I start the timer, grow the strand until the box is filled.” The girl shivered.

“...Miss?

- You can’t grow only one bit. Your nails and all your other hairs will grow equally. Correct?”

Bonnie nodded.

“Not an issue. We have clippers and scissors.” The long haired girl didn’t seem reassured at all, but nodded nonetheless, which satisfied the frustrated interviewer. She knocked on the box, glaring at the girl. Bonnie gulped, an annoyed glare flashing across her face for just a second as tied back her hair, and bent forward, a single strand of hair dangling in front of her. She pushed it until its tip was inside the box. “Go-”, started the interviewer, before quickly shutting her mouth close, horrified by the tsunami of hair headed towards her. Gulping, she set her attention back to the box. Despite the hair ties, differentiating the strand from the rest of her body and scalp’s hairs was becoming harder by the millisecond. Before she’d even had time to exhale, the box was filled. She stopped the timer, and carefully cut the strand at the root, careful not to accidentally hurt the girl that was hidden in the amorphous black blob. She shoved the box away. Sure enough, it was overflowing – in barely more than 2 seconds.

“Could I have those clippers, please?” Her voice was even quieter than before, insulated by the wall of keratin. Hesitantly, the interviewer pushed the clippers into the mass, which pulled them inwards. Bonnie’s now-clawed hands reached through the hair, emerging from the organic mass, the left one holding the clippers. For the next half a minute or so, the old woman watched mesmerized as this faceless, long-nailed blob somehow clipped her own nails with precise, calculated motions. “Scissors. Please.” The right hand made a beckoning motion. Being engulfed into a 10 kilogram mass of her own hair had tripled her assertiveness. Regardless, the interviewer was too terrified by this horror movie monster to complain, and swiftly slipped her the scissors. Her long fingers felt the scissors all around to judge how long they were, then got to work. In about 2 or 3 minutes of frantic cuts, the wall of hair had become a sea of hair, and Bonnie’s chair a stranded island. The girl’s hair was now shorter than before - her body hair had tripled, however. Seeing her all fluffed up, the interviewer - now reassured to have the cute and meek girl’s face in front of her rather than that dark, bulging keratin slime - felt compelled to ask her a few things. ‘Your nails didn’t grow nearly as much as the rest.

- Yeah… everything grows at the same time, but not at the same speed. Facial hair is by far slowest.” It seemed believable. Even now, her stubble had merely become a subtle mustache and coily beard. “It’s quite a messy ability. Are you quite sure it’s fit to be used on the field?

- My ability isn’t the problem. Ah, I have, you know… practice. People… at home… help me practice. Is this the questionnaire yet, or?

- No. We’ve only tested your hair. Your nails are next. Altough, I’d like to clean this place up first, before we end up eaten alive by lice.” The girl frowned and gave a cute pout.

“My hair is quite clean.

- It wasn’t a serious comment, miss.” Bonnie’s eyes widened and her cheeks blushed, as she felt a deep shame overtake her. She bowed her head forward, and muttered :

“M-may I help with the clean-

- Yes.

- Aright! Typically, I would call Quant-

- NO- Please. Don’t. Call anyone else. This is- the cleanup is part of your test.

- Ah… so… sorry. I... wasn’t aware.” Bonnie clearly wasn’t convinced, but once again, she seemed to ‘know her place’, in a sense. The interviewer sighed. Close shave. Sure, the blonde’s pocket dimension would’ve made quick work of this, but the interviewer intended on keeping the hair untouched - and more importantly, on never seeing Quanta ever again.

The two spent the next 20 minutes collecting the hair into more and more boxes, which they then moved into the back room, one by one. The interviewer sighed, feeling her lunch break slowly slip away from her with every extra minute she had to spend on this interview. Likely, the actual ‘Minty Yona’ had already died of stress by now, with Bonnie’s interview dragging on so long. Some part of LeJeune hoped she actually had passed away somehow, if only to clear her schedule. Alas, she never did get lucky. While they worked, Bonnie seemed troubled by something.

The floor was… relatively clean, enough that a vacuum could finish the job. Blandine pulled a tiny lock out of her drawer, and handed it to Bonnie - whom she’d made wear a plastic protective suit usually meant to protect from acidic abilities, but used here in an attempt to control the dark keratin mass. The only parts of the suit she wasn’t wearing were the gloves - for the test’s sake - and the boots - for the boots’ sake, as Bonnie insisted they would be stabbed right through by her toenails, and the interviewer didn’t want to chance it.

LeJeune cleared her throat, ready to explain the test - but Bonnie was faster. “Oh! They told you about the lock-picking! This is what this is, isn’t it?” The interviewer growled. “Yes. Get to it.” The girl’s meekness seemed to have temporarily evaporated, and she excitedly oblidged.

Applying the tip of her pinky finger to the keyhole, then moving slowly downards, she adjusted her nail’s position - in short, she aimed. Taking deep breaths, the interviewer felt her pulse accelerate - a sudden fear had been drapped over her. What if the pressure from the hair’s sudden growth ripped through the suit? And as the horrid image of a hair-explosion LeJeune’s mind, Bonnie used her ability. She’d held the lock in such a way that her nails growing wouldn’t hinder it : by passing the handle onto her right hand’s middle finger, while her left pinky aimed for the hole, she wouldn’t slip and drop the lock. Her nails grew slowly, compared to her hair, but surely, and the interviewer stared, mesmerized once again, as the lock shattered from the inside, falling to pieces onto the ground and revealing the misshapen nail that had grown to vaguely match the key’s shape, through grotesque layers of yellow-ish keratin, not unakin to dirty candle wax. Ew.

After some more clipping, cutting, and vacuuming, the room was clean once again, the suit only slightly stretched, and 35 kilo of hair stored away in cardboard boxes. Despite her newfound fear of hair-based monsters, the prospect of the price she’d snatch from selling it all put LeJeune in a good mood, and she was fairly lenient with her questioning. Soon, came the end of the interview. Bonnie seemed surprised. “Ah… this is the end?

- Thankfully so. Did you expect something else?

- Well… heroes are supposed to work in teams. I… I kind of expected some tests on cooperation… or something…

- Interviews are solo. The washrooms are at the end of the leftmost hallway. Clean up after you shave.

- O-Okay. ...Good day.” And she left, still wobbly and sad, but now coated in flocking.

In came the last girl of the trio. Squarish, strangely wide yet thin, with a neutral grin and sleepy, piercing eyes. She had an uneven square cut of straight, fuzzy, grey-ish hair, and equally grey eye-bags. She seemed… calm. Normal. Chill. The interviewer internally sighed with relief. She pulled out the C rank profile once more. Minty Yona, District 10, C-rank… Minty Yona. Minty Yona? She’d heard that name before - or at least, it was oddly familiar. LeJeune squinted. Oh, for god’s sake. Anonymity. An anagram - in other words, a fake name, without a doubt. Yet these were definitely legitimate school profiles, so she likely had fake papers too. She’d ran into similar issues before. Underground kids who’d rather not be associated with their parents, for the most part. It always pissed her off, even more than teenagers did by default. Especially on-the-nose examples like this one. The arrogance dripped so obnoxiously from anagrams like these, her hands felt damp touching the file. But for once, her frustration had an outlet : ‘Minty’ was ranked C. If she did poorly enough – just below average, really - she could turn down her application easily without her higher ups batting an eye. She hinted out a smile. This shaped out to be a funner game than usual.

The introduction went fine. She never went into heavy details, but she was agile enough that it didn’t sound especially fishy. She seemed more legit than Quanta, in all fairness. She focused on school, as expected in a job interview. The ability test was when her facade begun to crack. Voodoo dolls, read the file. It explained that, specifically, she had the power to make them - and they could then be used by anyone else. The profile stated that the quality didn’t matter much ; the doll didn’t have to be a perfect likeness, the ‘spell’ - a meaningless placeholder term used to describe complex abilities like this one - was achieved through sewing the target’s full, birth name into the figure. The toy itself could be rather vague. ‘Minty’ highlighted a specific aspect of her ability : it could be used on vehicles, by sewing in the license plate number. LeJeune had longed stopped trying to understand how abilities worked, but that was certainly one of the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard. The girl seemed to believe this was the most useful aspect of her dolls, and was miffed to find out the nature of the test didn’t rely on it. Instead, it was as follows ; make a doll of her interviewer, and saw her name into it - the profile stated this was without risk, and included a specific method to destroy the figure afterwards. But Blandine remained… sceptical. She kept her lips shut on the proper protocol, for once, and proposed her own version of the test to ‘Minty’ - who wouldn’t know better, since she didn’t have access to the GHH’s paperwork.

“Make a doll of yourself.

- Eh?

- A box of the materials you use, according to your school reports, was provided. I have it, right here. And you claim you’re quick at making your dolls, so there goes.

- Never made a doll of myself. Why would I, really. So it might not work.

- I’m asking you to try.

- But- ...well, I can’t.” The interviewer raised an eyebrow.

“Pray tell – why?

- I… already made one. I gave it to my brother.”

So she’d already caught her lying. That didn’t take long.

“I don’t see anything here about doubles. I feel they would have mentioned it, if only one doll could be made of any specific individual. The GHH is quite throughout.

- Well, not throughout enough. Clearly.” Given that this girl had made it this far in life without being exposed, Blandine couldn’t help but agree.

- Unless you’re lying.

- I’m not. My brother has my doll.

- Not about that. About the doubles.

- I’m not!

- Prove it.

- Sure. Well, I’ll need your name for that.

- Not happening.

- ...I don’t think this is how interviews are supposed to work.” The interviewer kept quiet. There was no ‘Minty Yona.’ Simple as that. This was in the bag.

The girl nonetheless insisted on sewing up a doll of the interviewer. Sure enough, it worked, and the grey haired girl had her fun ‘accidentally’ making her faceplant into her desk. Four times. The old woman pocketed it, swearing to store it away in a safe as soon as possible. She cleared her throat, and moved on to questions.

“Where were you born?

- District 10. I told you already.

- More specifically?

- The hospital, geez.

- There’s no such thing as a single hospital in all of District 10.

- Ah? Wouldn’t know. Didn’t live there too long.

- It says, ‘moved to District 12 at age 10’.

- Yeah. 10 year olds rarely remember hospital names.

- Perhaps your parents could’ve enlightened you.

- Never did.

- Name your three biggest qualities.

- Adaptable, modest, critical.

- Flaws?

- Well… Stubborn. Workaholic. Undecisive.

- How honest would you rate yourself? Out of ten.

- Solid 8. It’s the basis of any solid relationship, professional or otherwise.

- Right. How attached are you to the idea of becoming a hero?

- ...it means everything to me. Seriously.” The interviewer lady blinked. Well, that was the first thing that hadn’t sounded like a lie. Her voice was genuine - almost sad.

“A shame, LeJeune added, after a minute of tense silence.

- Eh?

- I don’t have the final word (As far as Cs were concerned, she did, but ‘Minty’ didn’t need to know that), but I wouldn’t expect much, if I were you.

- ...Well. I’d like to know why.

- You didn’t pass the ability test, and you’ve lied every chance you get.

- Excuse me? I didn’t figure my family life was relevant. I wanted to leave it out. That gift to my brother was the only thing I wasn’t entirely honest about.

- These interviews aren’t recorded, “Anonymity.” I may not have the authority to prove it, but I can tell these things. Get your act up to speed, or don’t expect to be accepted into the GHH – or any job – ever.”

Minty’s desire to slap LeJeune across the face was even more blatant than her lies – but she kept her temper at bay, and a disenchanted scowl sketched itself across her face.

- ...how unsympathetic. I may not have much authority either, but, well. Don’t expect anything good to happen to you in the next few days.” With those parting words, the girl left, slamming the door behind her.

Finally, her break. The interviewer was yet again further convinced of her life’s philosophy : she hated teenagers, and they terrified her.