Chapter 40: The Anniversary of the First Draft
The Bureau had survived floods, strikes, and literal nightmares, but nothing could have prepared Ne Job for the arrival of The Original Notes.
It was the one-year anniversary of the "Infinite Addendum" declaration. Ne Job had authorized a celebratory atmosphere: the 7.5% sparkle was turned up to a festive 8.2%, and the coffee machine had been recalibrated to produce "Victory Roast" (which tasted like accomplishment and a hint of vanilla).
"Commissioner!" Pip shouted, sliding into the office on a tray of finger foods. "The guests are here! But they aren't exactly... dressed for a party."
The Uninvited Scrawls
Ne Job walked into the Grand Lobby and stopped dead. Standing among the neatly filed cabinets were the ghosts of what the Bureau almost was. These were the Original Notes—the scribbles, the crossed-out ideas, and the coffee-stained margins from the Author's first afternoon of brainstorming.
There was a version of Ne Job who was a sentient umbrella. There was a Muse who was just a floating, angry exclamation point. And most terrifyingly, there was a map of the Bureau that was just a series of jagged lines labeled: PLACE WHERE STUFF HAPPENS (MAYBE?).
"Oh, look at you," the Sentient Umbrella rasped, its spokes clicking with envy. "You got a trench coat. You got a silver stapler. In my day, we were lucky to have a handle and a waterproof canopy."
The Embarrassment of the Past
The Original Notes were 100% awkward. They kept interrupting the party to remind everyone of their "cringe-worthy" origins.
"Remember when the Architect was supposed to be a talking beaver?" the Floating Exclamation Point shrieked, bobbing near Ao Bing's head. "Remember when the 'Great Disaster' was just going to be a spilled bucket of paint instead of a reality-warp? So small-scale! So derivative!"
The Architect turned a bright shade of crimson. "I was never a beaver. That was a localized error in the conceptual phase!"
"And you!" The Scribbled Note turned to Ne Job. "You were originally named 'Steve.' Just... Steve. No title. No 'Head Archivist.' Just a guy who liked pens."
The Muse tried to hide behind a punch bowl. "Don't look at the margins, Ne Job! The margins are where the bad jokes go to die!"
The Narrative Regression
The problem with having the Original Notes at the party was that they were "Narratively Infectious." The longer they stayed, the more the Bureau began to look like a rough draft.
The polished mahogany of the desks began to turn back into shaky pencil lines. The holographic Assistant Yue started to flicker into a stick figure. The Semicolon itself began to look like a smudge of graphite.
"They're de-evolving us!" Princess Ling cried, her starlight turning into a series of crudely drawn yellow triangles. "We're losing our resolution!"
"Pip! The wrench!" Ne Job commanded, feeling his own fingers becoming suspiciously two-dimensional.
"I can't use the wrench on them, Commissioner!" Pip said, holding a tray of appetizers that had turned into a drawing of a tray of appetizers. "They're our ancestors! You can't tighten a sketch!"
The Acceptance of the Scrawl
Ne Job realized that fighting the Original Notes was like fighting a memory. You couldn't delete them; you had to acknowledge them.
He stepped onto a table (which creaked because it was currently made of a 2B pencil drawing) and raised his glass of Victory Roast.
"Listen up, you Scrawls and Smudges!" Ne Job bellowed. "We know we started as 'Steve.' We know we were almost a beaver and an exclamation point. But a story isn't just the final page. It's the mess that came before it!"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver stapler. He didn't use it to attack. He used it to staple a "VIP Guest" badge to the Sentient Umbrella.
"You aren't mistakes," Ne Job said, his voice softening. "You're the Foundations. Without the 'Maybe,' we wouldn't have the 'And.' Stay for the party. Have a biscuit. But stop trying to overwrite the current draft."
The Polished Peace
The Original Notes paused. The Sentient Umbrella opened and closed its canopy in a gesture of respect. The Floating Exclamation Point settled into a comfortable curve, looking remarkably like a comma.
The "De-evolution" stopped. The Bureau's resolution snapped back into high-definition. The desks returned to mahogany, and Assistant Yue regained her holographic complexity.
The party continued, but now it had a 7.5% vintage feel. The characters and their sketches mingled, sharing stories of "The Days Before the Ink."
The Archivist's Reflection
As the party wound down, the Original Notes faded back into the margins of the universe, leaving behind nothing but a few charcoal smudges on the floor.
Ne Job sat at his desk and opened his ledger.
LOG: CHAPTER 40 SUMMARY.
STATUS: Anniversary survived. Ancestors honored.
NOTE: I am officially declaring that my name has never been 'Steve.' Any records suggesting otherwise are to be filed under 'Fiction.'
OBSERVATION: It's good to remember where you came from, as long as you don't have to wear the polka-dot pajamas of the past.
P.S.: The Architect actually kept a sketch of the beaver. He said it had 'excellent structural posture.'
The Muse leaned over his shoulder, holding a piece of cake. "Happy Anniversary, Ne Job. Here's to the next forty chapters."
Ne Job looked at the Semicolon. It was glowing with a steady, confident light—a mark that had survived its own history.
"And," Ne Job said, taking a bite of cake, "to all the drafts yet to come."