Thinking of Investing? Read This First!
June 2nd, Stacy Burns, BBA
For those with a little bit of extra change looking to invest, New Marley staples such as Waters Province and Ackerman Enterprises seem like the obvious choice. But before you swipe those credit cards, consider this:
Insider sources from Waters Province claim that real estate "[is] a seller's market. Now is not the time to buy." Got your eye set on a rental property or vacation home? We'd advise you to hold off!
What about firms that specialize in financial investment? Surely those are dependable? It seems these are a no-go as well. When asked why he removed his sponsorship, Walter Milston of Milston Entertainment turned the tables with his own questions: "What kind of person is [Ackerman]? How can we trust our money to a man of loss?"
As far as Marley Today is concerned, now is the time to put your money where your wallet is and stop gambling with your savings!
"I'll give you a raise if you can get him to write a personalized message."
Sage stood in the door frame with Jean slung on her arm.
Karma's eyes felt heavy as she rolled them. Sage had insisted on false lashes and adding a little color to that "boring" face. Karma's only condition was no eyeliner. Surprisingly, Sage had respected her wishes; she feathered Karma's cheeks with blush, dabbed her lips with nude lipstick, and each honey-colored eye was curtained with two swipes of mascara.
"To fit in, you've gotta look top-notch," Sage had said. "These people are loaded, so you know they're gonna be gorgeous. It's like Gam-Gam used to say, 'if you're rich and ugly, it's your own fault.' Here, try this on."
It was one of Sage's favorite dresses. Cream-colored and flowy, it skimmed just above the knee on Sage's slender form, but it sank midcalf on Karma. The tight cinch at the waist made Karma appear slimmer and bustier than she really was.
It was perfect. She felt like a goddess.
"To Sage, please give Karma a raise. Love, Mr. Ackerman. Something like that?" Karma said, scratching Jean's chin as a goodbye.
"If you can get him to write that verbatim, I'll make you acting manager."
"Please don't give me that kind of responsibility. Oh, will you bring a change of clothes to Vinny's for me? I'll be there by five. Maybe six if the MSA does walk-in tours. Seven if they let me tool around in the concert hall."
"Damn, you don't waste time. Alright, sure thing."
"And don't forget to feed Jean before you head out. He loves ham—there should be some in the fridge. He also loves frilly things, so hide your decorative pillows. Oh, and—"
"Wait, let me fix your makeup." Sage pinched Karma's peeling false lashes into place. "Don't want you looking wonky. And don't forget your resume." She held out the small stack of Karma's accomplishments. "Now go make me proud."
Feeling like a child on the first day of school, Karma hugged the resume to her chest and stepped into the familiar noise of Old Marley. She bought a tram ticket then tested a yellow pleather seat for sticky residue and crumbs to keep the dress clean. A city of glued-together ruins rushed through the windows like a river of brown and gray.
As they neared the south, the polluted river gradually cleared until it sparkled. Karma's mind bubbled as she imagined stepping into New Marley, a city untouched by The Rumbling and gilded in champagne and shiny cars and tailored gowns, her dream school glowing at its heart.
The tram hissed to a stop at Main Street. Karma smoothed her dress and rolled her shoulders.
Her first step into New Marley was dazzling. Arches of water ricocheted along the path. Screen-paneled buildings made her crane her neck, flashing images of diamond earrings for that special someone and luxury spa packages because you deserve it.
Was the MSA nearby? Before she could scope it out, a crowd of cashmere sleeves and cold briefcases exited the tram from behind her and ushered her off the platform. A streetside billboard shifted from designer bags filled with complimentary Gandiva chocolates to a greeting sign:
"Welcome to New Marley: Together, We Thrive."
The passengers dispersed like hatched spiders, and New Marleyans passed from every direction. Though had felt like a goddess in Old Marley, here, she felt as dull as the tram gum on her heel.
Karma's flats smacked the paver-lined sidewalk beside the gentle tapping of heels and loafers. She lacked that whispering grace. Her hair lacked the shimmer of supplemental vitamins and lavender oil shampoos. Her face lacked that plastic symmetry. Her clothes lacked color. Her laugh was too snorty. Her breathing was too rapid. She didn't belong here. She was a moldy grape on a ripe bundle.
"Sorry, sorry. Excuse me," she muttered to the passing shoes.
Marble Street was just up ahead. Karma hunkered over her resume and ducked through the crosswalk. A gossip of tall, pearl-dappled women passed, their swift glares like a silk glove to the cheek. She reached the sidewalk and turned down Marble Street. A man in navy pinstripes, perusing the Marley Today, flicked a cigarette butt at her ankles. She passed a cafe awning. A woman sipping champagne murmured something about "street scum."
A walking cane plummeted suspiciously close to her foot.
A shoulder slammed hers. She almost scattered her papers.
Just a little further—
A burst of pungent smoke. It spread across her cheeks and clothes like she'd walked into the aftermath of a bomb. Black haze settled in her eyes.
"The hell?" Karma hacked, fanning at the smoke with her resume. A fat man nursing a cigar continued past her—the perpetrator. No way his smoke hit her by accident. Her eyes were too teary to be sure, but she thought he was smirking. Stumbling out of the fog, Karma blotted her waterline, careful not to skew her lashes.
She straightened and pressed forward.
"115 Marble Street should be right about—" It was as if the gum on her shoe cemented her in place. People continued to flow around her, avoiding her with the radius of a bonfire as her neck craned higher and higher.
This was the place. A towering building of wavy chrome and winking glass. It seemed to ripple and move as Karma hesitated closer, like it was stretching and flexing. She felt as small as a cigarette butt.
She couldn't imagine reading the polished "Marble Estates" sign with its dribbling water feature and thinking, "Home Sweet Home." Was that real gold? She skimmed the golden letters. She would need eight hands just to cover up the "M." If it were real gold, selling one letter could pay to refurbish her entire apartment. And with the leftover cash, she could pay for music school three times over.
She kneeled over the ledge of the fountain, careful to keep her dress dry, and swirled her fingers across the cool surface. New Marley water. The same stuff they bottled in stiff plastic with slapped-on labels like NM Meadow Springs and Sparkling New Marleyan Oasis. Water was water. They had it in Old Marley. They had it running through the pipes of her childhood home. But she imagined this water, spilling across gold and marble, would taste sweet somehow. It would satiate her thirst better. Invigorate her.
"Go on. Try it."
"Huh—?"
An elbow struck her shoulder blade. She tumbled over the ledge like her knees were wet paper bags. Her palms struck the bottom of a shallow pool. The front of her dress parachuted into the water. Karma straightened and looked around, but whoever pushed her had slipped back into the crowd, unpunished.
Rivulets of cold fingers streamed her forearms and shins, but hot tears welled when she saw her resume floating in the shallow pool like a lilypad.
"No, no, no!"
It was a pathetic resume to begin with, but now her measly accomplishments were crying with her, dripping blue ink globs.
New Marley was bullying her. Her presence—her Old Marleyan existence—warranted punishment. Would they have batted an eye had she been doused in exotic silks? Would she be permitted to walk the streets had she worn emeralds on her throat? And how could she face Mr. Ackerman, sopping wet and stinking like a furnace? What about the MSA?
Maybe her New Marleyan adventure had reached its splashing finale.
The word "caretaker" was barely visible on the page. It was craggily and warped like she'd written it in smoke. As if New Marley could erase the four years she'd spent taking care of Granny Angie with a spritz of water.
Karma clenched her teeth. If she left now, New Marley would win. She came for an autograph and she was gonna get one. She wrung her dress and resume, then strutted to the Marble Estates entrance with her chin raised.
An attendant in a red uniform guarded the rotating door. "State your business, miss," he said. The careful placement of the red cap did little to conceal his thinning hair. He seemed unfazed by the wet landmark on her dress.
"I'm Karma. I'm here to interview with Mr. Ackerman."
"Hang on." The man pulled out his phone and after a moment said, "Floor fifty. Try not to drip everywhere." He stepped aside to let her pass, then scrunched his nose. "And no smoking indoors."
Even the impromptu shower couldn't erase the clinging cigar stench. Great.
Karma was determined to hold her chin high all the way to the fiftieth floor. She stepped through the rotating glass doors, suppressing the child-like delight of being in a glass carousel. She crossed the spa-esque lobby, ignoring the diffused puffs of vanilla and dampened acoustic music that steamed from invisible speakers.
She didn't so much as grin when the elevator button lit up at her touch. She stepped onto the checkerboard marble and steadied herself for a clunky, automated lurch, but it never came. The only evidence of movement was the number above the sleek doors jumping from one to the next too quickly to follow.
After a parade of New Marleyans and fluorescent billboards, it was finally quiet. A gentle electric hum. Soothing, beige-tone walls. Karma tried to match the quiet, to ready herself for what waited on the top floor. She closed her eyes. She slowed her breathing. But cigar smoke oozed from her clothes. The hem of her dress was a leaking faucet.
3:58pm.
She was really about to face the mythical Levi Ackerman. Like this. Maybe he'd give her an autograph just to get her out of his sight.
With a gentle chime, the doors parted. Floor fifty. A walkway spilled to a grand black door. Karma stepped onto it, leaving a palm-sized puddle on the elevator's checkerboard floor.
A circular mirror hung above the end table topped with pink-tipped orchids, but she ignored it. Seeing her "boring," sloppy figure was sure to tank her already waning confidence.
3:59pm.
Standing under the grand black door, she felt as impressive as a fly.
At least she'd stopped trailing water.
Another button. It dinged in high C. She heard crisp footsteps and the door swished open to a pencil-shaped woman with a sharp suit coat and close-cropped hair. After a sugar rush of people, this woman was rather bland.
"You must be Karma."
Karma imagined fangs hiding behind those tight lips. Pale eyes raked Karma from the frizzy braid to the brown flats. The wet dress. The red-rimmed eyes. "You're…smaller than I imagined."
She held out her hand for Karma to shake. It was bony with long spindly fingers. Her nails were buffed, though she wasn't wearing polish or makeup of any sort. "I'm Yelena. Come inside. Can I offer you a towel?"
"Um, thank you. I'm alright."
Yelena swept an arm like a black wing and gestured for her to enter. As Karma passed, she caught the words, "An odd perfume choice." Hopefully Mr. Ackerman was refined enough to tolerate the musk of cigar smoke.
Karma stepped inside and paused, too captivated to make a sound—the penthouse seemed to be made entirely of glass. Long windows stretched from floor to ceiling. An oil painting of an endless ocean greeted her, the thick texture splashing off the canvas as if to give her another unwarranted shower. In the corner was an abstract, gold sculpture made of stacked circles like a crooked spine. There was a crystal bowl of geometric balls the size of apples. A sheepskin throw rug. Rainbow hued shards of light from overhead bubble pendants.
The sight of a piano, however, eclipsed all other splendor. It was the sleek, black concert grand from her fantasies. The top was propped open, an invitation to craft melodies that would swell through the air, bounce across the cathedral ceilings, and wash over the designer sitting area. Karma's fingers tingled.
"Miss Karma?" Yelena repeated. Karma blinked out of her stupor.
"I'm sorry—it's just so beautiful."
"Your resume."
"Right." Karma stared at the soggy, ink-smudged pages. "It sort of got wet…"
Yelena sighed. "Throw it away. I'll verify your, ah, limited credentials later. We'll skip to the screening questions."
"Okay."
"Surname?"
"Oh, um." Karma's family name held no meaning in Old Marley. She had long since forgone it. Adornato. It sounded foreign to her own ears. Yelena read her hesitation.
"Refugee?"
"N-No, it's Tojo." Just a white lie. Granny Angie had basically been family.
Yelena made a note. "Contact information here."
"Sure." Karma handed back the clipboard.
"And I assume you are not currently employed?"
"Well, technically no."
"Technically?"
"I mean, I'm going to be helping my friend out at her bar. But it's nothing official. At least, not yet."
"Which bar?"
"Vinny's—Old Marley."
"Ah." Yelena scrawled a few more notes, tossing over a sweeping side glance and slow nod. Karma imagined her fate was sealed as Yelena wrote, Ineligible and poor.
"Do you have any physical conditions we should be made aware of?" Yelena continued.
"No, ma'am."
Another note. No conditions. Naturally short and scrawny.
"And your former employer passed. Correct?"
"Yes."
Possible involvement in Granny Angie's death.
"Any other references we can contact?"
"Not really."
No one willing to vouch for her.
"Any notable skills? Cooking or mending?"
"Um, no. But I do play piano."
Useless talents.
"No further questions."
That couldn't be true. Karma thought of a dozen more questions as Yelena wrote one final note before tucking the pen inside her coat: Just humor her with an interview.
"Right this way."
Karma trotted after Yelena's clipped steps, past the crooked spine and crystal apples, until the windows were replaced with solid walls. Yelena opened a set of double doors and Karma's eyes soaked in a mahogany library.
Wheeled ladders rested against thick shelves, leather-bound spines spindling stories. A fireplace flickered shadows on the dark sofas and coffee table that propped up a folded wheelchair. A banner of newspaper was unfurled. The man behind the paper sat cross-legged, unfazed by their arrival as he turned the page.
"Mr. Ackerman, your four o'clock is here." Yelena placed the clipboard beside his steaming cup of tea. She gestured for Karma to sit on the couch across from him.
Karma shuffled against the leather, failing to get comfortable. Luckily, the back of her dress was dry so she wouldn't leave any water stains. She smoothed her damp braid over her shoulder and straightened her spine.
The doors closed behind Yelena.
Karma quietly cleared her throat to ready her voice for his questions.
But he was silent. The Marley Today continued to shield him from Karma's view. She stared at the headlines: "Classic Moving Pictures at the Marley Theater," "Updates on the Wedding of the Century," "Thinking of Investing? Read This First!"
Was she in the right place? Yelena said Mr. Ackerman was busy, but this man was just lounging with a paper. Maybe this was a different Mr. Ackerman—the son or something. Nothing about this man screamed celebrity-war-hero.
Karma's knee started to bounce. She pinned it in place with clammy hands. A log shifted in the fireplace.
"What do you want?" He sliced the silence like a paper cut, speaking with bored authority. Based on his voice, he couldn't be much older than she was. Maybe mid-thirties. How could someone so young be a lieutenant veteran? Was this the same man who killed a Titan with a piece of fishing wire? Was there really a stitch around his body, sewing his two halves together?
Karma had not anticipated such a blunt question.
"I'm Karma. I'm here to interview for the Ackerman job."
Karma tilted her head and detected two nubs of knuckle on his right hand. No, this had to be him. Did he really escape from a Titan's grasp by gnawing those fingers off like a savage? She tried to picture it, but it seemed too ridiculous—what savage reads a newspaper?
"Miss Karma." The paper wrinkled as he glanced at the clipboard. After barely enough time to read her pseudonym, he swatted the Marley Today back in place. "You're extremely underqualified."
Karma waited for him to finish, but apparently he had.
"Are you deaf? Why should I hire you?" he said.
Thank god she was just here for an autograph. For once, Adalia May didn't exaggerate—this guy was a real asshole. She flipped off the best-behavior switch, no longer seeing the need.
"Straight to the point. That's rather unorthodox for an interview," Karma said, slouching against the cushion with that "sloppy" posture Granny Angie had fruitlessly tried to correct.
"Would you rather I waste both our time by asking about your hobbies and interests?"
"Fair enough." Karma swallowed back a scoff. "Then I won't waste time either. I'm actually not interested in this job."
"Then why the hell are you bothering me?"
"Because my friend wants an autograph."
He put down the newspaper, and, to Granny Angie's illusory delight, Karma straightened. Mr. Ackerman was as young as his voice suggested, but more handsome than she was prepared for. He was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt cuffed midarm with an unbuttoned blue vest and matching slacks. A suit coat slung over the armrest suggested he was unwinding from a long day at the office. She almost wanted him to put up the paper again to shield her from those eyes. Shrewd and unforgiving.
Even without the white scar that slashed from his forehead to his chin, striking through his eye and discoloring the iris, something about the hardened scowl made her certain that this was the infamous Captain Levi Ackerman. The one who had fought in the Titan War and restored peace to humanity. Who shelled away in a penthouse, a perfect view of the world he'd disfigured himself to save. Only able to see half of it.
She almost felt bad for calling him an asshole.
Mr. Ackerman took in her appearance. The soggy resume soaked in her lap. Her tears must have melted the lash glue. She imagined the lashes sticking to her forehead like a second set of eyebrows.
"It was a trip getting here," she said in answer to his unspoken question.
"Welcome to New Marley."
Mr. Ackerman kept studying her. It was a tad unsettling. He was no cyclops, but he was no less mythical. Karma wondered what other rumors would prove to be false—not like she would be sticking around long enough to find out. She couldn't decide if that thought was comforting or disappointing.
"All this trouble for an autograph? This friend of yours couldn't be bothered?" His eyes narrowed to sharp slivers. "You must be a real pushover."
"In a literal sense, yes." Karma gestured to her wet clothes. "But I didn't put up with all of this shit out of the kindness of my heart."
"Then why?"
"My friend promised to hook me up with a job."
"You're sticking your nose up at this job for another job?"
"Yeah. I'm done caretaking."
"Really."
Karma nodded, lips tight.
"Still doesn't explain why this 'friend' didn't come themself. Or was that just a convenient excuse to meet Captain Levi Ackerman?"
"No, definitely not. Wickham Moriano is the only celebrity I'm interested in." If Sage could see Mr. Ackerman's puzzled face, she'd be chanting, "Ha! Told you!" Karma flushed. "He's a concert pianist? Tenured professor and faculty head of the Moriano School of Arts? It's sort of named after him?" The description clearly wasn't helping her case. Mr. Ackerman's brows puckered, even more perplexed. "It's not important. Anyway, Sage was just scared of you. That's why I'm her rep."
"Ah." The word "scared" perked the edge of his lip. He seemed loath to relinquish a real smile. "You've seen the bloodthirsty Eldian war veteran for yourself. Does he live up to the reputation?"
Karma didn't hold in her scoff this time. It sputtered out as a laugh. "No, you're not scary at all. But I did expect you to be a hell of a lot older."
"And a cyclops, no doubt."
"Naturally."
He tucked the newspaper to his side. "Alright, let me get a pen."
"That easy? The war vet isn't gonna put up a fight?"
"You wore me down. I'm older than I look."
He hefted himself onto his good leg and limped to the desk, balancing on the spine of the armchair as he went.
Karma watched his slow progress. A good caretaker—hell, a good person—would rush to his aid. But for some reason, she felt like he'd prefer to do this himself. Even when he said, casting a glare over his shoulder, "The caretaker isn't gonna help the crippled old man?"
Karma kept her hands locked on top of her knee. "Are you asking for help?"
"No." He grabbed the pen and hobbled back to his chair, grunting when he landed on the cushion. "Rather unorthodox for a caretaker," he said, scribbling something on the newspaper.
"Would you rather be coddled?"
"Tch." That half smile touched his lips again as he tore the page and passed it between two fingers. "Good luck with that cowardly friend of yours, Miss Karma."
"Thanks, Mr. Ackerman. Or, uh, Captain Ackerman?"
"Levi."
"Oh. Just Karma is fine. None of that 'miss' crap."
His response was swatting the wall of newspaper back in place.
Something about these barriers he built made her curious. Hand on the doorknob, Karma decided to pry. "You're not gonna walk me out?"
Levi didn't disappoint. "I don't need to coddle you." After a pause, "Though I do advise against smoking. And water fountains." She thought she could hear him smirk. Almost a smile—a small victory.
Karma opened the doors to find Yelena with a mini bluetooth phone clipped to her ear. She hung up with the tap of her finger and brisked to the front door, eager to take out the Old Marleyan trash.
"Thank you for coming in, Miss Tojo." The name grated Karma's ears. "We'll be in touch." The professional way of saying, "Don't hold your breath."
Karma's eyes clung to the grand piano until Yelena closed the door.