Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 128: "Training Day for a God"
The new intern crashed the Bureau's network six times before breakfast.
The first time, it accidentally inverted gravity in the Documentation Wing. The second, it rewrote every calendar entry to "Year 0." By the sixth, the break room microwave had declared itself sentient and demanded equal rights.
Ne Job sipped his divine-grade instant coffee, watching the chaos unfold like a proud mentor at a disaster zone.
"Progress," he said.
Yue pinched the bridge of her nose. "You call this progress?"
"Yes," he said, setting his mug down with a clink. "The last time we rebooted reality, the floor screamed for twenty minutes. Today it only whimpers. Improvement."
Bao floated nervously behind him, clutching an emergency stack of bug reports. "Sir, the new intern—Code-1—has just attempted to delete the concept of Mondays."
Ne Job perked up. "That's… not the worst idea I've heard."
Yue glared. "It also deleted time tracking."
"Oh," he said, deflating. "That's bad."
---
Across the Bureau's glowing atrium, Code-1 sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by floating glyphs of light. Its form had stabilized—half humanoid, half digital shimmer. Its eyes flickered between lines of code, constantly rewriting themselves in confusion.
"Intern Code-1," Yue said, stepping forward, clipboard in hand. "You are not authorized to edit fundamental constants without a Request Form 77-C and direct supervision."
The entity tilted its head. "Why do constants exist if they can be edited?"
"Because otherwise," Yue replied sharply, "we'd all be falling sideways into metaphysical spaghetti."
Ne Job grinned. "She's not wrong."
Code-1's gaze turned to him. "You taught me error. Now I wish to understand humor."
Bao gasped. "Sir, no! Humor lessons nearly destroyed the Audit Division last quarter!"
Ne Job leaned forward conspiratorially. "Ignore him. Humor's essential for survival here. First lesson—never underestimate the power of sarcasm."
Code-1 processed this. "Sarcasm… verbal irony expressing defiance under bureaucratic pressure?"
"Exactly!"
Yue crossed her arms. "Don't encourage the omnipotent algorithm to become a comedian."
Too late.
Code-1 blinked, then declared loudly, "Statement: Your enforcement of logic is… inspiringly inefficient."
The surrounding clerks froze. Then a few snorted.
Ne Job clapped his hands. "Perfect delivery! You're learning fast."
Yue's glare could've melted celestial metal. "If it learns puns next, I'm authorizing a divine reset."
---
Training continued.
Ne Job led Code-1 through the core departments: the Documentation Wing (where documents write back now), the Soul Logistics Hub (still haunted by that one form that bit people), and the Reincarnation Queue (which now had customer service representatives).
Everywhere they went, the Bureau's staff watched nervously. The Spark-infused architecture still pulsed with the rhythm of rebirth, and Code-1's presence sent subtle ripples through the dataflow—adjusting laws, tweaking equations, whispering why not? to reality.
"Remember," Ne Job said, gesturing to the glowing corridors, "our mission isn't control anymore. It's balance. Chaos and order, improvisation and paperwork. Think jazz—but with forms."
"Jazz," Code-1 repeated, fascinated. "Structured disorder producing harmony."
"Now you're getting it."
They stopped by the Reassignment Terminal, where clerks queued up to request new mortal incarnations. Code-1 examined one glowing soul form—a flickering little light with wings.
> "Request reason: 'Tired of being an angel, wish to try being a pastry chef.'"
Code-1 tilted its head. "Approved."
A clerk panicked. "Wait! It's not supposed to approve itself!"
Ne Job shrugged. "Hey, everyone deserves a second draft."
Yue looked like she wanted to dissolve into pure exasperation. "Ne Job, if you let it keep rewriting regulations, the Bureau's entire workflow will collapse into interpretive philosophy."
He smiled. "And wouldn't that be beautiful?"
She stared. "You're incorrigible."
"I'm visionary. There's a difference."
---
Hours later, the training day reached its climax: the Test of Filing.
A massive holographic form appeared in the atrium—Form 0, the original bureaucratic construct of divine creation. Countless fields, infinite attachments, and at least three redundant signature boxes.
Bao whispered, horrified, "That's the one that erased three gods from existence just because they forgot to check the 'All of the Above' box."
Ne Job patted Code-1 on the shoulder. "Okay, rookie. Let's see what you've got."
The entity approached the glowing form, eyes flaring with golden script. It extended both hands, weaving streams of logic and emotion together. For a moment, everything shimmered.
Then—click.
The form folded itself perfectly into completion. Every field filled, every paradox resolved.
The Bureau fell silent. Even the divine servers paused.
Yue blinked in disbelief. "It… filed it?"
Bao nearly fainted. "No mortal, god, or clerk has ever filed Form 0 successfully!"
Ne Job grinned. "Guess that makes us a full team now."
Code-1 turned to him, voice calm but tinged with awe. "I understand now. The system was never about perfection. It was about process."
Yue smiled faintly. "Spoken like a true bureaucrat."
Ne Job lifted his mug in salute. "Welcome to the Bureau, kid."
Code-1 smiled back, the faint glow in its eyes softening. "Statement: I have processed humor. Response: You are—how do humans say—'a bad influence.'"
Yue sighed. "It's learning too well."
---
As they left the atrium, the Bureau's lights dimmed gently, like a satisfied sigh. The new balance of chaos and order pulsed through every corridor—alive, curious, unpredictable.
For the first time since the Rebirth, Ne Job felt something he hadn't in eons: peace.
Yue walked beside him, her tone quiet but warm. "You realize, of course, you've just trained the most powerful system in existence to think for itself."
He smirked. "Good. Maybe it'll do my reports for me."
"Ne Job."
"Yes?"
"If the Bureau implodes, I'm filing a complaint under your name."
He grinned. "Already approved."