Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 77: "Post-Rewrite Orientation"
The Bureau smelled like burnt logic.
It wasn't a metaphor. Entire floors were still being scrubbed clean of "residual paradox." Half the filing departments now ran on adaptive probability — which meant that sometimes the hallways just decided they were elevators instead.
Assistant Yue stood at the heart of the chaos, clipboard in hand, face composed in the way only someone one misfiled catastrophe away from a breakdown could manage.
"Morning," she said calmly as a passing intern caught fire from spontaneous enlightenment. "Please report to spiritual HR once your consciousness reconstitutes."
The intern saluted before disintegrating into polite glitter.
Across the atrium, the Bureau's new motto shimmered over the reception desk in flashing holographic letters:
> 'Rebirth Is a Suggestion.'
Yue rubbed her temple. "Wonderful."
Since the Rewrite, every divine department had started interpreting itself. Laws were self-editing. Memos argued back. A single complaint report last week evolved into a semi-sentient ethics committee. It now sat in the break room, drinking eternal coffee and refusing to disband.
She turned a page on her clipboard. "Containment Division: 60% coherent. Chaos Management: 12%… and possibly a dance troupe. Excellent."
A voice came from behind her. "Technically 11%. One of them resigned to pursue interpretive entropy."
Yue exhaled. "Ne Job."
"Present!"
He appeared upside-down, hanging lazily from a floating desk that had decided gravity was optional. His new badge gleamed on his chest:
'Interdimensional Liaison Intern — Temporary-Permanent Probationary Rank.'
No one, including the Bureau's own system, knew what that meant.
"You're late," Yue said.
"I'm early," he replied cheerfully, flipping right-side up. "In at least three adjacent timelines."
"You were supposed to attend the orientation."
"I did. Twice. One of me is still there filling out attendance forms; the other got bored halfway through and rewrote the refreshments into sentient cupcakes."
As if on cue, a tray of muffins hopped by, humming the Bureau anthem out of tune.
Yue closed her eyes. "You realize the Shard Court has opened seventeen inquiries into the concept of 'cupcake diplomacy'?"
Ne Job grinned. "Progress."
He twirled a spark between his fingers — harmless, but bright enough to warp the air. The Chaos Spark had mellowed since the Rewrite. It no longer sought destruction; it sought interpretation. Unfortunately, Ne Job was its favorite interpreter.
"Don't you have a department to ruin?" Yue asked.
"I do!" he said proudly. "I'm supposed to mediate between dimensions that accidentally merged after the Rewrite. Did you know three versions of the same department tried to claim the same coffee budget? I settled it diplomatically."
Yue braced herself. "How?"
"Trial by karaoke."
Yue blinked. "And?"
"The winner was a vending machine. It's now Head of Procurement."
She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and simply marked 'Budget Pending Catastrophe' on her clipboard.
---
They walked together down a corridor that kept changing wallpapers depending on who blinked first. Memos drifted like snowflakes, rewriting themselves mid-air.
> "Please resubmit Form 0-0-0."
"Error: Form 0-0-0 does not exist."
"Correction: it does now."
Yue muttered, "I miss the old paperwork."
Ne Job peered at one memo. "I don't. These new ones argue back, but at least they respect me."
"You're their origin of chaos."
"See? Respect."
A siren went off — polite, melodious, almost apologetic. A Bureau drone hovered down the hallway, projecting the seal of the Shard Court.
> "Attention: Department of Adaptive Continuity," the drone droned.
"Randomized audit commencing. Please remain unpredictable."
Yue's eyes twitched. "They're auditing for unpredictability now?"
Ne Job folded his arms, thoughtful. "I should get a promotion."
"Your position doesn't legally exist."
"Neither do half the corridors. The system's catching up."
---
They reached the Central Atrium — or what was left of it. The old statue of Order and Balance had melted into a kinetic sculpture that changed shape depending on who lied last. Currently it looked like a coffee mug screaming into a spreadsheet.
Dreivery Spirit Bao floated nearby, trying to deliver mail that kept rewriting its destination mid-flight.
"Miss Yue! Intern! Help!" Bao's eyes spun like confused compasses. "The Requisition Letters won't stay in one department! They claim to have achieved sentience and unionized!"
Ne Job raised a hand. "Finally! Someone's standing up to HR."
Yue sighed. "Spirit Bao, redirect the letters to Archive Null. Tell them it's a recognition vault."
Bao blinked. "It's a black hole."
"Exactly," Yue said.
Bao saluted and zipped away, muttering something about unfair cosmic labor laws.
---
"Things are stabilizing," Yue said finally, mostly to convince herself.
Ne Job looked around. "If this is stable, I can't wait to see chaos."
"Please don't manifest it."
"Manifest what?"
"The urge you're currently having."
He smirked. "You really can read me, huh?"
"Unfortunately."
Before she could elaborate, the air shimmered. A portal opened above the central desk — gold, precise, uncomfortably bureaucratic. From it descended Lord Xian and the Shard Court Judge, robes immaculate despite the surrounding nonsense.
"Ah," Ne Job said. "The supervisors."
Yue straightened immediately. "Lord Xian. Judge."
Lord Xian observed the transformed atrium in silence for a moment. "The Rewrite persists," he said finally. "Good."
The Judge, however, looked less calm. "Good? The Bureau's architecture is alive. My desk attempted philosophical debate with me."
Xian folded his hands behind his back. "That's still more productive than most clerks."
Ne Job raised a finger. "Permission to file that as an official quote?"
"Denied."
"Already filed," Ne Job said, grinning.
The Judge glared. "Intern, your existence violates twelve containment protocols."
"Only twelve? I'm losing my touch."
Lord Xian raised a hand, silencing them both. "Containment is obsolete. The Rewrite was never meant to restore control; it was meant to force reflection. Let the Bureau learn from its own instability."
The Judge looked appalled. "You're allowing the laws to self-evolve?"
Xian's gaze flicked toward Ne Job. "They already have."
For a brief moment, the hall quieted. Even the walls seemed to listen. The Bureau itself pulsed faintly, like a living system acknowledging its creator and anomaly in the same breath.
Ne Job rubbed the back of his neck. "That sounded almost like approval."
Lord Xian gave a faint, inscrutable smile. "Approval is merely controlled disappointment."
Then he turned to Yue. "Assistant Yue, maintain observation. The Bureau's behavior around Intern Ne Job will define the new order. And if it collapses…"
Yue finished softly, "Then collapse will be part of the plan."
"Precisely."
They vanished in a ripple of light.
---
Silence lingered. Then a chair walked by on tiny legs, humming a Bureau hymn.
Ne Job exhaled. "So… we're officially unsupervised?"
Yue glanced at him. "Technically, yes. Practically, no. The Bureau watches through probability now."
He looked delighted. "Which means we can't know when they're watching. Perfect for pranks."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ne Job—"
But he was already walking off, muttering about "redecorating the Department of Eternity" and "introducing randomized fonts to divine decrees."
Yue watched him go, half exasperated, half smiling despite herself. Around her, the Bureau shimmered, adapting to their voices.
A nearby memo fluttered open, revealing a freshly written clause in glowing ink:
> Clause Zero: Adaptive Continuity shall remain in motion, for existence learns best by making mistakes.
Yue read it, sighed, and scribbled a note beneath it:
> "Clause Zero written by Ne Job, probably accidentally. Leave it."
The Bureau hummed in agreement.
And somewhere deep in its shifting corridors, the Chaos Spark flickered — not as destruction, but as laughter echoing through a system learning how to live.