Title: New Job
Description: "Sylvanas picks up the Butcher at his new job - as a deli clerk."
Notes1: Although this particular chapter was inspired by my experience at orientation following the new job as a Jewel-Osco deli clerk (you'll only find it in the Midwest), all those conversations are fictitious and, obviously, never happened. Although crazier things have happened in my household, considering I've had to break up arguments between my parents over how to spell 'macaroni', the way toast comes out of the toaster, the cat having free roam over the whole house, and the sudden existence of Dad Phoenix including the softball (which he named Wilson) as a family member. This is normal behavior, by the way, so to some degree First Impressions is also inspired by some of the insanity that goes on here (mostly through Dad Phoenix).
Notes2: Songs, too, are what gives some of these chapters a foundation to stand on. I usually walk around waiting for my ride, as it's twenty minutes away from where I live, and on the first week at the new job I heard Ricky Martin's 'Livin' La Vida Loca' playing over the speakers. I thought, 'Man, this'd sound pretty ridiculous if I put this in a chapter' or something of the like. Sometimes, like with the Unexpected chapters, they even come from Grand Theft Auto, but just about anything I hear is out of a matter of preference than following the latest, trendy music (I go against the grain!).
Notes3: My apologies, flowslikepixelz, for not elaborating on the term 'default sector': it's a phrase I use in my original, non-fanfic (and offline) writings that mean where a person is originally from (where dimensions/universes are concerned). For example, since Banshee Queen!Sylvanas is the first of many Sylvanases to come through the Nexus and the first to (read: forced to) sign up for the Hero League, she would be considered the default Sylvanas. I always likened Ranger-General!Sylvanas to be from a universe that may or may not (but most likely did) avoid the Third War and, thus, her death and reanimation.
Notes4: Some quick bits to answer your things: 1) You - and anyone else - can suggest prompts so long as characters do not overtake the story's premise, i.e. this fanfic is about SYLVANAS, not BRIGHTWING; I don't want another Lucario fiasco, but I already added the DDR battle prompt to the dump doc. 2) The 'leather pants' remark is a jab at the Draco In Leather Pants trope. 3) I laughed so hard at #NovaNeedsADrink that I'm going to use it as part of a horse-racing/animal-racing prompt in the future. 4) Only Classic!Nova is loony and has the childlike innocence due to past events in How Does That Even Work?. I like to think Spectre!Nova didn't go all the way with Tosh at the time of her being pulled into the Nexus and Sylvanas just so happens, through tropes and her own (if unavoidable) sex appeal, to cuckold him across space and time. I'm not really one for NTR, but that's how I see it and it'd be hilarious if he does end up in HotS. The idea that all the Novas, and all the girls Sylvanas gets in contact with, is pretty much a tongue-in-cheek thing in regards to how authors pair Sylvanas with original female characters, hence why she makes comments about people falling head over heels for her regardless of the morally questionable things she's done.
Notes5: Last but not least, to cut the notes a little short, I have considered other spinoffs for this fic, HDTEW notwithstanding. I don't want to make these things too long, but I have some ideas in mind I'm going to put up a poll later so you guys and gals can decide what interests you and want to see me write the most. I know for sure that I'll be doing a couple stories set some thousands of years after First Impressions through the eyes of a Riftwalker (you may remember seeing this word from several chapters back), but everything else will be determined depending on how many votes (or PMs, those count, too) the choices get. Of course, even if I don't get any - and it's very possible - I'll still do them, anyway, but that's a last resort.

"Nova, turn that music down. I can't concentrate!" said Sylvanas, her focus on the cell phone wavering.

"But it's 'La Bamba'!" the girl said from the passenger seat. "You hardly hear this on the waves anymore!"

"Nova," said Kerrigan from the back, "this is 'Livin' La Vida Loca' by Ricky Martin."

Nova blinked owlishly. "Oh…W-Well!" she rebounded. "I thought Ricky Martin sang 'La Bamba'!"

"That's Ritchie Valens!"

"You mean that guy who died in the plane crash?"

"Yes, that guy!"

"OOOOOOH!"

"I'm-a 'La Bamba' both of you out of the truck with my foot up your ass if you don't PIPE DOWN this instant!" Sylvanas sniped. "I have to let the Butcher know we're here."

Nova grumbled. "Okaaaay~" She turned the dial, and Ricky Martin's svelte voice about living the crazy life became a little more bearable for Sylvanas's delicate elven ears. "I'll just download it off the net, anyway," she added under her breath, and leaned back in the seat to watch the traffic come and go. Kerrigan just shrugged, nonplussed, studying the people coming and going from the parking lot.

Jarimander and Orland was a market that had been in business for millennia, long, long before their competitor, Hub-Mart, sprang up across the Nexus. Supposedly (as the story goes, according to the locals of the Weald) Jarimander and Orland got into some major spat over this piece of concrete-paved land of cars, trucks, colorful horses and ponies, life-sized exosuits, farting Wonder billies, and anthropomorphic clouds, vying to outbid the other in a bidding war that went on for, quite the opposite, a very, very short time. Red tape and legal battles there were not, but (again, according to locals and in-betweeners who claimed to have been present) a hodgepodge council of literary colleagues, bankers and financial investors, shaman mediums and excavators, and an octopus in a tank had been called in to write up the pros and cons of having two separate businesses, who and what would make more money depending on the needs of the people, the advantages and disadvantages of constructing buildings on what may or may not be hallowed ground, and who would win in the King's Crest Dimensional Rugby Bowl during an aether storm. (History states that the octopus was undecided and, out of frustration and general consensus, was launched into the Spaces when not a single person could decipher the ink blots it made in its tank. The blots, however, were preserved and kept locked behind thrice-reinforced glass at the museum to be studied and translated. Meanwhile, legend has it that the octopus could still be seen to this day, having either catching the gravitational orbit of some far-and-by satellite to dictate the path of wayward meteorites or becoming a constellation, the Eight-Legged Daydreamer.)

It had been a very short time, see—about twenty minutes, full of shouting, ink-stained tables and broken chalk, and fisticuffs, until someone—no one knows if it was a literary colleague or banker or financial investor or shaman medium or excavator or even Jarimander or Orland (it certainly wasn't the octopus, but it seemed to have gained memetic status and the nickname Winky in recent years)—stopped what he or she was doing and posed the most important question of all: "Why not just combine Jarimander's supermarket and Orland's clinic into a supermarket-clinic?"

And so, seven millennia and four thousand near post-apocalyptic disasters later, here they were, on the Jarimander side of the parking lot, Ricky Martin's voice causing the subwoofers in the stereo and the leather interior of the truck to vibrate. It was enough to drown the mechanical trundle of shopping carts being pushed through the plastic-covered shaft adjacent to the entrance.

Sylvanas perked up from her stupor at the sound the phone made. She read the message. "Butch is coming out," she said, and sat up. She unlocked the steering wheel, turned the ignition, and moved the stick shift into drive. She drove the truck past the cart corral up front, went up to the grassy edge where a row of dead-looking trees and thin shrubbery stood, and made a left to go around.

"You know, I can suspend my disbelief on just about anything," Kerrigan began, "but I'll be the first to admit that I still have a hard time seeing an elf ride anything that isn't an animal."

"My world's full of schizophrenic technology," said Sylvanas. "We just happen to have the pleasure of sabotaging each other so much we can't make our own spaceships."

"What about the Exodar?" asked Nova.

"Che! That thing's supposedly been repaired and ready to go since the Cataclysm. Maybe when the Legion finally rips Azeroth a new one, they'll finally do something about it. They have this habit of dicking around Azuremyst and Bloodmyst Isles, stagnating and doing nothing of the sort. Same with the Sindo'rei; I hear they still have those fel crystals Kael'thas so kindly installed all over Silvermoon all those years ago, and yes, he did put them there, don't let him tell you otherwise!"

"Didn't you say once that your Regent-Lord removed them once Kael'thas came back as a demon and died a second time?" Kerrigan asked.

"He said he was going to, but they're still there! I don't know what they're waiting. Infrastructure aren't done in one day, but it's been years since that blowhard died and, if my legitimately-assured Warchief counterpart is anything to go by, surprisingly hasn't reformed in the Nether."

"Woman, do you want him to be the kind of nuisance that'll repeat the same thing over and over just to get his kicks seeing your reaction?"

Sylvanas's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "On second thought, he can stay dead for all I care. He has no one to blame but himself for becoming a joke."

"What about the genius creation gods that led to the idea of his conception and eventual birth?" Nova asked.

"Them, too. They pandered that little brain of his and now he's living the rockstar celebrity lifestyle. Talk about bullcrap. Whatever so-called memes I've conjured during my time here in the Nexus must surely sound a helluva lot better than that garbage he loves to spew. At least people have the balls to love me and remember not to sweep all my war crimes under the rug! Every topic they have on their internet forums eventually devolves into a cesspit of crack ship pairings, vehemence towards the rise of human bias, and who owns Lordaeron even though I've very clearly stated, several times, that it's in the hands of the Forsaken, but nope—people don't listen! People are stupid, and they use their forums as an echo chamber that either goes unheard or gets shilled so hard that they scream even more because it wasn't what they wanted."

"Is that why you're the way you are?"

Sylvanas shrugged a shoulder. "Meh, one of the reasons. I just hate everyone equally."

"I'm still top dog, though."

"I guess. Just don't say it in front of Doodle and the Pack; they, uh, they hit hard when they wrestle." Sylvanas absently touched her ribs where, not two years ago, they had risen from the snow puffs and jumped on her, armor and all.

"Hey, people do the same to me all the time," said Kerrigan. "I'm proud to be a bitch. The Bitch, mind you. I have as much of a reputation to uphold as you do…or did." She smirked. "Heart's getting ten sizes too big for that bust. Maybe you should ask Tyrande for some assist—"

"No," said Sylvanas, reached over the seat divider and unlocked the passenger door Kerrigan was not occupying. Returning, she honked the horn once, causing a flock of seagulls dawdling by the truck to squawk and scatter.

The Butcher looked up at the sound and bared his teeth in a…well, it wasn't quite a grin or a smile; with a mouth like that, rotted, yellowed, and with scars over his lips, it would always look like a maybe-it-is-maybe-it-isn't kind of smile. "Nyarr!" he said, and entered the truck once Kerrigan opened the door.

"Hey, man, how'd orientation goes?" Nova asked.

"Yarr! Rarrr-graw!" said the Butcher, gesticulating.

"Wait, just you?"

"Rar!" He nodded.

"You mean to tell us that you were the only new hire they had in the deli department?" Kerrigan asked, pressed up against the window. "And they were excited to have you, a notorious serial killer and cannibal, on board?"

"Nyaar!"

"What a small world!"

"When do you start?" Sylvanas asked.

"Grrrrr! Rawr-yeeeert-gaw!"

"Two weeks? Oh, that's plenty of time for you to get ready…and to stay out of trouble."

The Butcher gave her a grotesque grin and chuckled.

"No, really, you gotta at least keep your business within the Hero League. I know the Nexus is desperate and woefully incompetent, but they don't just take convicts and drug users off the streets, give them a cleaver, and say 'hey, go slice us some meat, and by 'meat' we mean animals, not humanoids and anthros.'"

"Nyagh? Gree-roaaa-ra, mrrro-argh!"

"Dude, you're always going off hunting or pillaging places for breathing on you the wrong way or you taking something out of context," said Nova. "At least this way you'll get to channel your aggression and manliness through chopping and slicing the hell out of meat and cheese without legal consequences. You get to refine your passions so you can kill people more painfully and efficiently!"

The Butcher growled, tapping a thick finger ponderously against a pockmarked scar. "Nyaaar? Rawr! Rooo-gyaar!"

"But remember," said Kerrigan, "you'll have to serve customers side dishes, too, and most of those include vegetables."

His head whipped toward her, eyes wide and frightful. "VE-GE-TA-BULS? EEEYUK!"

"It's part of the job, man. People want something else to go with their meat. You're gonna get your carnivores and obligates, your herbivores, eipscotarians, and omnivores. You gotta distribute a little bit of everything if you want to make money for the company."

The Butcher stared down at his hands folded in his laps, grumbling. Then, pausing, he looked back up, asking, "Vrooo-geh? Nyaar-geh?"

Nova and Kerrigan recoiled away from him, throwing up their hands defensively. "Not that kind of vore!" Nova cried. "Nooooo-ho-ho!"

"Why would you even think that?" Kerrigan asked. "Go to the Shadowlands if you want that kind of meat! J&O is a family-friendly market, not a fetish fuel station!"

"Gyeh!" The Butcher snapped his fingers in defeat.

"I'm just going to pretend I didn't just hear that on top of those kinds of people existing," said Sylvanas, and turned onto the highway when traffic had passed. "Fruitless as that may be," she mumbled under her breath. "Still," she added aloud, "you'll learn to deal with it. You're already a natural at, well, butchering and eviscerating at a precisely anatomical level. Just…imagine these vegetables to be the enemy team or something. Like…Valla. She has all that 'meat' in the stables. You just need to get out of the way."

"Gyaar-eh?"

"Every beast but Doodle. Even if I let you, and I won't, you'd never catch him. He's too fast for you, just like the rest of the Pack."

"Nyaar!"

"Oh, you could try, but you won't. I'll be right there, waiting for you." Sylvanas narrowed her eyes at him through the rearview mirror, challenging him. The Butcher chuffed and rolled his own beady, yellow eyes. "No, but seriously, go to the stables or butcher's block or somewhere to hone your skill while they get your schedule ready and put your name into the system."

"Don't forget the bank! He needs direct deposit!" said Nova.

"Gyaah!" said the Butcher, shaking the folder stuffed with documents he had in one hand.

"On top of butchering refinement, he's going to need to practice his penmanship," said Kerrigan. "No offense, man, but it looks like ass."

"NO!" The Butcher exclaimed.

"More ass than Illidan's face?" said Nova.

"Way more ass. Your penmanship is ass with a capital A."

"LIAR!" he refuted, but his words, which were always garbled, sounded like RAI-AH!

"I'm just saying it needs a little more work."

"She means way more work," Nova added.

Kerrigan scowled. "You're not helping."

"We'll work on that, too," said Sylvanas, applying more pressure on the gas pedal. Vehicles, beasts, and magic carpets flew by on the opposite lane. "It'll take time, anyway. We don't need to rush."

"Yaaaargh!" said the Butcher, nodding agreement.

"So it's settled: we improve his writing and he gets to practice slaughtering us more efficiently than Morales doing life-saving surgeries on the fly. Deal?"

Kerrigan shrugged. "Yeah, sure, why not?"

"I can't wait to become giblets!" said Nova, then blushed. "A-As long as it's Sylvanas assisting you, that is."

"Nyaar-geeh-graa, raar-murr-yeearrt." The Butcher turned his palms up in a maybe-si, maybe-no gesture.

Sylvanas snorted. "Don't get me going, Nova. I have my limits, too." Her ears quivered, catching the sound of Kerrigan reclining in the back and muttering, quite so smugly, "Big heart, tiny bust, big heart, tiny bust"—almost like a chant. She imagined the Bitch Queen as a little, snotty brat, and herself reaching over to belt her over the head several times while she got scratched by her tiny, spiky wings and, hell if she knows, a puppy-sized version of Torra latched to her head with his teeth. It put her at ease, and she slowed to a stop at the red light (instead of slamming on the brakes just to hear Kerrigan's head slam against the back of the seat) and put on the turn signal. Generosity bites, sometimes.

They sat in silence, waiting for traffic to pass and the light to change.

"Hey, I just thought of something," said Nova.

"What's that?"

"How do we even understand what the Butcher's saying, anyway? Is it the—"

"Transition," said Kerrigan and Sylvanas simultaneously.

"R-Really? You mean, we don't need to get universal language translators or some sci-fi gadget that's in the six-figure price range to decipher a few grunts and growls into full-on rants and conversations about, I dunno, anything that may or may not be related to the topic that is being discussed?"

"I mean, you could. It's not guaranteed a person will be granted full knowledge of, er, 'demonese', but…well, why would you want to when you have—"

"The transition," Sylvanas finished for Kerrigan. "That's all there is to it."

"Nyaar!" said the Bucher.

"What they said."

"Huh. I, uh, guess that works. Boy, are we lucky." Nova made to sit back, then paused. "You mind if I turn the radio on?"

"Go ahead," said Sylvanas, and made the turn.

Nova turned on the radio.

"Para bailar La Bamba
Para bailar La Bamba
Se necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba, ay arriba
Ay, arriba arriba,
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere!"

Nova cackled and clapped her hands. "Speaking of lotteries…jackpot! CHA-CHING!"

Kerrigan banged her head softly against the window. "Oh dear god," she said, not quite groaning and yet not quite unfazed.

"I need a nap," said Sylvanas, suddenly tired. She tapped her fingers on the wheel.

"Gyaah!" said the Butcher, and flopped back against the seat to relax.