President Jonathan Sterling, a man whose daily schedule involved negotiating treaties, managing crises, and occasionally charming foreign dignitaries, was not accustomed to starting his morning with a minor flood in his office. Or an ink explosion. Or a soaked cleaner looking like a deer caught in very dark headlights.
He stared. And stared.
"Miss... Chen, is it?" His voice was low, tinged with a disbelief that bordered on awe.
Ellie gulped. "Yes, Mr. President. Sir. Your Excellency. I'm so, so sorry. It was the ink. And then the water. I was trying to fix it. It's... it's a very big mess." Her voice trailed off, sounding about five years old.
Sterling, usually a picture of composure, ran a hand over his face. He walked closer, carefully stepping around the growing puddle. He knelt down, scrutinizing the ink stain. "That's... quite an artistic statement, Miss Chen. Is this your avant-garde cleaning method?"
Ellie's eyes widened. Was he making a joke? She couldn't tell. Her cultural humor meter was completely broken. "No, sir! Just a terrible, terrible accident! I am clumsy. Very clumsy. My mother always said so."
A corner of Sterling's mouth twitched. He stood up, surveying the chaos. "Clumsy, indeed. This is the Resolute Desk. And that," he gestured to the ink, "is what was formerly a priceless Persian rug. And that," he pointed to the bathroom, "sounds like a waterfall."
Suddenly, the Chief of Staff, a perpetually stressed man named David Finch, burst into the office, his face a mask of alarm. "Mr. President! Are you alright? We heard... good heavens!" Finch stopped dead, surveying the scene with an expression of utter horror. "Miss Chen! What have you done?!"
Ellie flinched. "I just... I just wanted to help the vase!"
Sterling sighed, a long, weary sound. "It seems, Finch, that Miss Chen has decided to redecorate my office. With water and ink. Perhaps she's making a profound statement on the fluidity of power, or the darkness inherent in politics." He said it with a straight face, but Ellie thought she detected a flicker of something in his eyes. Was it… amusement?
Finch looked from his President to Ellie, then back again, utterly bewildered. "Sir, I think we need to call facilities. Immediately."
Sterling nodded slowly. "Yes, Finch. I think we do. And perhaps a new Persian rug. Or a very large blotter." He looked at Ellie. "You know, Miss Chen, for a cleaner, you certainly make a memorable impression."
Ellie just hung her head, the dripping mop still clutched in her hand. She was going to be fired. And probably sent back to Xanadu in a very small, uncomfortable box.