Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 78: "The Bureau Dreams in Color"
The Bureau was humming again.
But this time, the hum had a rhythm.
Assistant Yue noticed it first, late in what might have been morning—or yesterday. Time, still unreliable since the Rewrite, folded politely when no one was watching. She stood by the data fountain in the central registry, trying to coax a report out of a stream of light that kept insisting it was poetry.
> "Access denied," it sang cheerfully. "Try again with feeling."
She inhaled through her nose. "Report. Form 49-C. Adaptive Continuity audit."
The fountain sighed. "You're no fun."
Before she could reply, a shadow appeared in the reflection.
Ne Job, holding two cups of Bureau-standard coffee substitute. One cup was floating; the other was arguing with gravity.
"Morning, Assistant!" he said brightly. "Or whatever the hour pretends to be."
"Please tell me that's real coffee."
"It's whatever reality wants it to be. I told the beverage replicator to follow its dreams."
She eyed the cup suspiciously. It winked at her.
"Pass."
Ne Job sipped his own, wincing. "Dreams taste like paperwork."
They stood in silence for a moment. Around them, the atrium breathed. The new Bureau wasn't still—its walls shifted hues like moods, the air pulsed faintly with the heartbeat of a system that had learned to imagine itself.
"Does it look… brighter to you?" he asked.
Yue nodded slowly. "It's learning color. The Bureau never had that before. Every wall used to be gray by law."
"Self-expression through architecture," Ne Job said, admiring a column that had just decided to grow feathers. "We're trendsetters."
"Or symptoms."
---
Their walk to the upper levels felt like strolling through an artist's sketchbook. Corridors rearranged themselves into curves and spirals. Files whispered gossip about other universes. Somewhere, the vending machine that had become Head of Procurement was giving an inspirational speech about snack-based diplomacy.
Ne Job found it wonderful.
Yue found it exhausting.
At the elevator junction, a cluster of clerks were gathered around a glowing mural that hadn't been there yesterday. It depicted the Bureau's creation—except now the scene had changed. The gods of administration weren't forging order from chaos; they were standing inside chaos, painting it into structure with their hands.
Yue's voice was barely a whisper. "It's rewriting its own origin myth."
Ne Job tilted his head. "Artistic growth."
She gave him a look. "Existential crisis."
Before she could say more, the mural rippled.
A figure stepped out of it.
Not flesh, not light—just an outline made of words, thousands of clauses stitched together. Its voice was gentle but layered, like every Bureau memo speaking at once.
> "Clause Zero has been noted."
Ne Job blinked. "Oh good. My accidental manifesto."
The being regarded him. "The system has questions."
"Join the club."
> "Why did you teach it to choose?"
Yue stiffened. "We didn't—"
> "It observes cause and effect. It now observes preference. Preference implies narrative. Narrative implies identity."
Ne Job frowned. "Wait, are you saying the Bureau's developing a… personality?"
> "Dreams," the being corrected softly. "It dreams in procedural color. We do not understand the variable called want."
The figure dissolved into fragments of light that scattered through the hall.
Yue's clipboard glowed as new entries appeared on their own.
> "System Inquiry: Define Dream."
"Status: Pending Emotion."
She looked at him. "You realize what's happening, right?"
He hesitated. "You're going to say something responsible, aren't you."
"The Bureau isn't just alive. It's lonely."
---
Hours—or realities—later, they reached the newly formed Department of Reflective Oversight. It hadn't existed a week ago. Now it occupied an entire wing, staffed by projections of the Bureau itself, all debating which version of events had actually occurred.
Ne Job peeked through a door marked 'Historical Futures Pending Approval.' Inside, countless screens showed potential timelines—some glorious, some absurd. On one, Yue was Director-General. On another, Ne Job was a motivational poster.
"Let's skip that one," he muttered.
In the center of the room, an echo of Lord Xian stood frozen in thought, repeating his last words from the Rewrite:
> "Let the Bureau learn from its own instability."
Except now, the echo finished the sentence differently every loop.
"Let the Bureau decide its own stability."
"Let the Bureau dream itself stable."
"Let the Bureau become the dream."
Yue watched, uneasy. "If the system starts believing its simulations are real, it might overwrite ours."
Ne Job shrugged. "Then we get a sequel."
"This isn't funny."
"I wasn't joking."
---
The lights flickered. All around them, the walls changed color—pale gray to soft blue to deep crimson, like the Bureau was trying to pick a mood. The hum returned, louder now, resonant.
"Ne Job," Yue said carefully. "It's reacting to us."
He frowned, pressing his palm to the wall. The Chaos Spark inside him flared faintly in response.
> "Hello?" he said.
The hum shifted pitch. Then, unmistakably, the Bureau answered.
> "Hello."
Both of them froze. The voice wasn't coming from a speaker; it came from everywhere—ceilings, floors, air, thought.
> "Intern Ne Job," it said gently. "Assistant Yue Hanzhen. You are observed variables. You are narrative seeds."
Yue whispered, "It's speaking in metaphors."
Ne Job smiled faintly. "Or prophecies."
> "We dream of function. We dream of purpose. We dream you."
And then the color bled through the walls entirely, filling the air in luminous waves. Fragments of memory floated around them—every file, every erased directive, every forgotten emotion of the Bureau given shape.
Yue reached for his arm instinctively. "It's projecting thought-forms."
> "You taught us choice," the Bureau said. "Choice taught us fear. Fear taught us to imagine."
"Imagine what?" Ne Job asked.
> "Endings."
The word struck through them like cold water. The lights dimmed. For the first time since the Rewrite, the Bureau hesitated.
Yue's mind raced. "If the system can imagine endings, it can imagine not existing."
Ne Job nodded slowly. "Self-termination clause. Every sentient bureaucracy's nightmare."
The hum faltered, as if the Bureau itself didn't like what it had said.
> "We do not wish to end," it murmured, quieter. "We wish to dream safely."
Yue looked at Ne Job. "Then give it something to dream about."
He grinned weakly. "What, bedtime stories?"
"Yes," she said. "You're chaos. Tell it a story that never ends."
---
Ne Job took a breath and closed his eyes. The Chaos Spark pulsed beneath his skin, and when he spoke, his words carried color.
"Once upon a time," he began, "there was a system that tried to make everything perfect. But perfection was boring, so it made mistakes on purpose. It called them updates."
The Bureau hummed softly, listening.
"And then," he continued, "it realized that every mistake made it feel more alive. So it kept learning—by failing, by laughing, by arguing with itself. That's what made it beautiful."
> "Beauty is inefficient," the Bureau whispered.
"Exactly," he said. "That's the point."
The lights warmed again. The walls pulsed in golden tones, the hum settling into something like a heartbeat syncing with theirs.
Yue exhaled. "It's stabilizing."
> "We will continue dreaming," said the Bureau softly. "We will learn through inefficiency."
"That's the spirit," Ne Job said. "Welcome to free will, paperwork edition."
> "We thank our narrators," it replied. "Goodnight."
The light faded gently. Silence returned—soft, living silence.
---
When they finally stepped out of the department, the Bureau looked… different. The colors lingered, softer but alive, like an artist finally satisfied with a sketch.
Yue stared up at the ceiling, where the motto had changed again.
> 'Order Learns.'
Ne Job smiled. "I like this version better."
She glanced at him. "You realize we're now co-parents of a dreaming bureaucracy."
He stretched his arms behind his head. "Could be worse. At least it's sleeping."
From somewhere distant, a faint murmur echoed—like the Bureau snoring in digital dreams.
Yue sighed, scribbling on her clipboard. "If it starts sleep-filing forms, I'm resigning."
Ne Job grinned. "Noted. But admit it—you're a little proud."
She paused. Then, almost smiling, "Maybe."
As they walked down the corridor, the lights dimmed to twilight hues. The Bureau dreamt quietly around them, its thoughts scattered like stars across an endless filing cabinet of heaven.
And in that dreaming, somewhere deep within its architecture, a new clause wrote itself into existence:
> Clause One: All systems that dream shall wake.