‘The Germans have such spectacular words to describe human emotion.’ thought Yohanja “John” Schneider.

He couldn’t help but admit to a slight bit of narcissism in that statement, his half Germanic heritage showing in his family name. But taking such pride is only foul if it leads to too much arrogance or is placed in “facts” untrue. The Germans did have wonderful words for describing emotions, and his level of arrogance was finely maintained to be noticeable and yet not too snobbish, so John felt no need for further self inspection.

Problem being, there was nothing else to do besides self inspection. His only form of entertainment was the more extreme boredom he saw in those going through this ordeal for the very first time. Schadenfreude.

He was sat at an auditorium, looking at faces he’d have to learn for a year or three and promptly forget, listening to a speech he had heard so many fucking times it felt as though it took a piece of his soul with every bloody word. But he had to focus. He had to suppress his impatience. This was the year. Whether success or failure, he’d finally be done with this operation. He could leave this godforsaken country, and never ever talk about his years working as a high school teacher to his fellow operatives.

He could pretend it was something brutal and grim, like the company’s recent trip to a heavily radiated war zone. Or he could treat it as something utterly dull and boring, like the many lipstick missions that were taken up by operatives with less noticeable scars and more normal appearances such as himself.

Nothing more mind numbing than pretending to be interested in a noble woman's rants about books she’s pretending she has read for enough balls and parties and gatherings until she decides you’re good enough for a quick rump and dump behind the husbands back. But at least then he could be mildly drunk, or fill himself up on food too expensive for pleasant consumption on ones own wallet.

None of that here, no perceivable perks to be found whatsoever. Just hours upon hours of standing in a room, talking about old plays and operas with a bunch of hormonic teenagers too busy gossiping about dicks or derrieres to actually fucking listen. But in the end, he couldn’t blame anybody except himself. He had accepted the mission.

Second Amendment of The Company: no member shall be ever forced or threatened to take upon themselves any task, unless that task is a direct defense of Daggerfort. Or, well, something along those lines with far more pretentious wording.

So here he was. Finally chosen as an English professor in the brand new Academy of Knoxfort, after two years of sucking up to everybody in the industry. And as he listened to the Principals soul killing “speech”, he reminded himself:

He had one year, 365 days.

To find himself a Princess.