The next few days, or rather nights, at Aegis Academy passed in a delightful blur of mundane tasks punctuated by subtle acts of cosmic puppetry. I, Kazuo Tanaka, perfected the art of looking perpetually bewildered while simultaneously orchestrating minor miracles and/or acts of benign chaos. I fixed a perpetually malfunctioning food replicator in the staff lounge by "accidentally" bumping it at precisely the right nanosecond to reset its faulty protein synthesizer (it now produced surprisingly good blueberry muffins instead of grey nutrient paste). I "tripped" over a loose floorboard, "dislodging" a hidden surveillance camera clearly planted by a rival hero school's espionage department. Small things, really. Appetizers before the main course.
My primary focus, however, the little seed of glorious mischief I was carefully nurturing, was Dean Von Hammerfaust's "paperweight." That obsidian cube. It sat on her imposing desk, an innocuous blot of darkness against the polished faux-wood grain, pulsing with energies that tickled my currently suppressed omniscient senses like a forgotten language. Most beings, even those with impressive superpowers, would likely register it as nothing more than an odd, perhaps slightly unsettling, desk ornament. To me, it hummed a siren song of interdimensional potential.
Klyptorian Incursion. The phrase itself had a certain ring to it. I imagined beings of pure, geometric improbability, speaking in algebraic equations, with a penchant for redecorating realities in fractal patterns. It sounded like a Tuesday that would definitely not be boring.
But direct incursion felt… unsubtle. Too much, too soon. I was enjoying the Kazuo persona, the gentle art of the nudge rather than the shove. No, I needed something more refined. Something that would cause confusion, amusement, perhaps a touch of existential dread among the faculty, but nothing that would immediately point a giant, flaming finger at the new night janitor.
Singing chalk. The idea had struck me as I was (Kazuo-style, with much sighing and leaning on my mop) cleaning a classroom blackboard, still bearing the spectral remnants of a lecture on "Ethical Applications of Chrono-Manipulation (Beginner Level)." The chalk dust, it occurred to me, was an excellent medium. Ubiquitous. Unassuming. And ripe for a touch of the absurd.
My opportunity came during Dean Von Hammerfaust's weekly late-night "Strategic Review and Existential Threat Assessment" meeting, which she held with her senior faculty in the main conference room. I knew this because the schedule was posted, with typical Aegis Academy bluntness, on a public notice board under the heading "DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS REALITY ITSELF IS UNRAVELING (AGAIN)." Perfect.
While they were busy strategizing how to prevent the inevitable heat death of the universe (or, more likely, arguing about budget allocations for new training dummies), I, Kazuo, was "diligently" cleaning the Dean's office. It was surprisingly spartan, dominated by that massive desk and a collection of commendations for things like "Successfully Negotiating a Truce Between the Mole-Men of Sector Gamma and the Sentient Slime Mold Empire." Impressive, in a very specific, niche way.
And there it was. The obsidian cube.
I approached it with Kazuo's usual hesitant shuffle. Up close, the carvings were even more intricate, shifting slightly if you didn't look directly at them. The thrumming was stronger here, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in my very bones (or, rather, the bones Kazuo was currently borrowing). I reached out a gloved hand.
Now, the sensible, omnipotent Me would simply will the cube to do my bidding. But Kazuo? Kazuo would be curious, perhaps a little clumsy. He might "accidentally" touch it.
So I did. My fingertip, clad in cheap, grey janitorial cotton, brushed against its cool, unnervingly smooth surface.
Nothing exploded. No Klyptorians materialized demanding directions to the nearest tesseract. Instead, a faint, almost inaudible chorus of… something… echoed in my mind. It wasn't sound, not exactly. More like pure, concentrated information, structured with the melodic complexity of a Bach fugue played by a thousand super-intelligent space crickets. It was, I realized, the cube's operating system. Or its soul. Or possibly just its equivalent of a screensaver.
"Fascinating," I (the real Me) thought, while Kazuo just blinked, a mildly puzzled expression on his face, as if he'd just remembered he left the iron on in an apartment he didn't actually own.
I didn't need to understand the cricket-fugue language. I simply… impressed my desire upon the cube. Not a command, more of a polite but firm suggestion. "All chalk. Within a fifty-meter radius. Upon contact with a writing surface. Barbershop quartet. Something jaunty. Perhaps a sea shanty about the perils of improper punctuation."
The cube pulsed once, a faint, internal luminescence flaring for a microsecond. Then it was still. The mental chorus faded.
I, Kazuo, then proceeded to meticulously dust the cube with a feather duster, humming a tuneless ditty about the joys of window cleaner. Mission accomplished. The trap was set. Or rather, the choir was warmed up.
I spent the next hour "cleaning" the classrooms and lecture halls on the same floor as the Dean's office, paying particular attention to the chalk trays. I even "accidentally" dropped a few fresh boxes of chalk, ensuring they were well within the cube's newly imbued sphere of influence. The anticipation was making my borrowed synapses tingle.
The first indication that my little experiment was a success came around midnight. Professor Grumblesnatch, emerging from the marathon faculty meeting looking even more Grumblesnatch-like than usual, headed straight for the nearest empty classroom, presumably to sketch out some new, terrifyingly complex combat maneuver on the blackboard.
I was, "coincidentally," polishing the door plaque of the classroom opposite. Close enough to hear, far enough to feign ignorance.
I heard the scrape of chalk against slate. And then…
"Oh, a capital 'C' is a wonderful thing, so round and so bold and so freeeeee!"
It was a surprisingly robust baritone, joined a split second later by a reedy tenor, a booming bass, and a slightly off-key alto, all harmonizing with gusto.
"But use it with care, or else you'll ensnare, your sentences in grandiloqueeeeeee!"
There was a clatter, as if Professor Grumblesnatch had dropped something. Possibly his jaw.
"What in the blithering, blathering blazes?!" he roared.
The chalk quartet, undeterred, launched into another verse about the proper use of the semicolon, complete with complex vocal runs and a surprisingly catchy bridge.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop Kazuo from bursting into laughter. I pictured Grumblesnatch, a man whose very aura screamed "NO FUN ALLOWED," being serenaded by his own writing implement. It was beautiful.
He stormed out of the classroom, his face a mask of apoplectic fury. "Tanaka!" he bellowed, spotting me. "Did you hear that? Singing! From the chalk!"
I, Kazuo, blinked slowly. "Singing, sir? From the… chalk? Are you quite alright, Professor? Perhaps you need a lie-down? Or some… non-salty coffee?"
He glared at me, then back at the classroom, where the chalk was now apparently attempting a complex yodeling solo. He looked, for a moment, like he was questioning his own sanity. Then, with a strangled growl, he stomped off towards the faculty lounge, presumably to find witnesses or a very strong drink.
The phenomenon spread. Throughout the night, as other late-working faculty or early-bird students attempted to use chalkboards, they were met with impromptu vocal performances. The themes varied. One piece of chalk in the Advanced Thaumaturgy lecture hall insisted on singing mournful ballads about lost magical artifacts. Another, in the Basic Heroic Posing seminar room, performed enthusiastic, if slightly pitchy, motivational anthems. The chalk in the detention hall, I was pleased to note, sang exclusively in passive-aggressive limericks about the consequences of rule-breaking.
The academy descended into a state of bemused, slightly unnerved chaos. Whispers followed me as I did my rounds. "Did you hear about the singing chalk?" "Old Tanaka must have cleaned it with something weird." "Maybe it's a new student prankster? 'The Cacophonous Calligrapher'?"
Dean Von Hammerfaust cornered me near the main stairwell, her expression unreadable. "Tanaka," she said, her voice dangerously even. "The chalk. It's… vocalizing."
"Indeed, ma'am," I replied, with Kazuo's best attempt at concerned helplessness. "Most peculiar. I did dust it, as per regulations. Perhaps… an atmospheric anomaly? Or… sentient dust bunnies with musical aspirations?"
Her left eye twitched, that tell-tale sign of immense internal pressure. "Sentient dust bunnies," she repeated, as if tasting a particularly foul piece of alien fruit. "Right. See to it that it stops, Tanaka. I don't care how. Confiscate the chalk. Replace it. Perform an exorcism if you must. I have a budget meeting with the Inter-Dimensional Oversight Committee tomorrow, and I will not have them serenaded by a piece of calcium carbonate complaining about split infinitives."
"An exorcism, ma'am?" Kazuo looked suitably daunted. "I'm not sure my janitorial certification covers… spectral acoustics."
"Figure it out, Tanaka!" she snapped, then swept away, muttering something about "never hiring anyone whose references include 'adept at polishing mysterious glowing orbs' ever again." (A slight embellishment on my resume, I had to admit.)
So, I spent the next hour dutifully collecting all the offending chalk. Each piece, as I picked it up, would give a little farewell trill or a mournful sigh. I replaced it with fresh, non-sentient chalk from a storeroom well outside the cube's fifty-meter radius of influence. The crisis, for now, was abated. The academy returned to its usual state of merely super-powered weirdness, rather than musically-inclined-stationery weirdness.
As my shift neared its end, I returned to the Dean's office for a final "spot check." The obsidian cube sat there, inert, silent. But I could feel it. A faint, expectant hum. It had enjoyed its little outing, its brief foray into the world of barbershop quartets. And it was… waiting. For its next instruction.
I didn't touch it this time. I merely stood before it, Kazuo's weary frame a perfect disguise for the gleeful entity within. I sent a new, subtle impression towards it. Not about singing. Something… different. Something that would require a little more observation from the student body.
"The practice dummies," I thought, focusing on the heavily abused training aids scattered throughout the academy's numerous danger rooms. "Tomorrow, when struck with significant heroic force… they should offer polite, constructive criticism. And perhaps ask for a tea break."
A barely perceptible flicker of internal light within the cube acknowledged the request.
I allowed myself a small, internal smile. The singing chalk was amusing, a good opening act. But self-aware, tea-requesting training dummies? That had the potential for some truly delightful psychological warfare against overconfident teenagers.
As I clocked out, the first rays of dawn were painting the sky. I saw Kyra, the metallic-skinned girl, heading towards one of the training grounds, a new look of determination on her face. She'd been practicing with the non-singing chalk, her control noticeably improved since her "inexplicable failure." Perhaps my little karmic nudge had borne fruit. Or perhaps she was just a resilient kid. Either way, she was in for a surprise when she started whaling on the practice dummies later.
Dean Von Hammerfaust's "paperweight" was proving to be an unexpectedly versatile tool for mischief. And I had a feeling its repertoire was far from exhausted. Klyptorian Incursions could wait. For now, I was content to be the universe's most overqualified janitor, subtly nudging reality one bizarre, inexplicable incident at a time.
The universe was my playground, and I was just getting warmed up. The students of Aegis Academy had no idea what kind of educational, and slightly terrifying, experiences their humble night janitor had in store for them. Next on the agenda: finding out if the cube could make the cafeteria food develop opinions about its consumers. The possibilities were, as always, endlessly entertaining.