A voice cut through the rhythmic rustling of letters and packages, sharp as a dagger drawn across silk.
“Ben… why do you have Steven from Sales?”
Lisa stood by the sorting table, arms crossed, unimpressed but not particularly surprised. Both earbuds were firmly planted in her ears—a silent declaration that whatever this was, it was decidedly not her problem. Her posture suggested she’d seen far worse calamities unfold within these bleached-stone prisons.
Ben lifted his struggling burden, presenting him as one might an offering to the gods—or perhaps a sacrificial lamb bound for the altar. “The Nameless?” he intoned, his voice heavy with gravitas. “He was kind enough to offer his assistance. A fantastic tracker and guide, truly. Sadly, he refuses to join the War Council.”
Steven flailed weakly, his protests garbled like a scribe’s quill scratching against faulty parchment. “I—what? No! Let me go!”
Ben obliged, dropping him unceremoniously onto the tiled floor. Steven hit with a soft thump, then scrambled away like a rat fleeing a collapsing dungeon, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of cubicles beyond.
Ben nodded approvingly, watching the retreating figure vanish into shadow. “Lisa,” he said, turning back to the receptionist, who now leaned casually against the sorting table, scrolling idly through enchanted slabs of glass, “you shall keep an eye on that one. He has fight. I like him.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow, deadpanning, “Sure thing, hero. Just add it to my list of KPIs: ‘Track down terrified salespeople.’ Maybe HR will give me loyalty points for it.”
Lisa made a vague noise of acknowledgment, barely glancing up as her thumbs tapped out arcane runes on the glowing slab of her phone.
The War Council—Ben’s chosen stewards, handpicked to serve this beleaguered realm—continued their noble work. Their hands sorted envelopes like ancient scrolls, but their voices carried a triumphant ease, as though they were bards recounting tales of valor after vanquishing some great beast.
Greg, formerly of Human Resources (a title Ben translated as “Harbinger of Endless Forms”), leaned against a stack of undelivered parcels, flipping through a bundle of interdepartmental memos. “Man,” he said, his voice tinged with awe at his own misfortune, “I used to spend eight hours a day making people take training seminars that even I didn’t understand.” He gestured vaguely to the stacks of paper around them, each pile resembling a fallen tower of bureaucracy. “Now I put things in piles, and I still get paid the same.”
“This is the greatest arrangement in the history of labor,” Derek chimed in, his tone dripping with both sarcasm and reluctant admiration.
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks, like the rustling of leaves before a storm.
Lisa, the ex-receptionist turned tactical scribe, flicked a stack of incoming mail into a bin with the precision of a master archer loosing arrows upon an invading horde. “I used to welcome people and write speeches for the executives,” she said, her voice dry as parchment left too long in the sun. She tossed another envelope onto a desk without looking, her aim unerring. “You know what I do now?” She paused dramatically. “That.”
Ben surveyed them, his expression one of deep approval. “Truly, you serve with honor.” His words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity, though they landed somewhere between inspiring and baffling.
In the far corner, Garry—the War Council’s most mysterious and ancient member—snored softly, his snores weaving a rhythmic counterpoint to the clatter of mail. Garry had always worked in the mailroom—if one could call it working. No one knew who had hired him, and there were whispers that he had simply been here since the Tower itself was built, perhaps summoned by some forgotten incantation. Legends spoke of how, in his youth, he had once delivered an entire week’s worth of mail in a single afternoon, only to never move with such haste again. Some claimed he conserved his strength for battles yet unseen; others believed he was merely conserving energy for his next doughnut.
Greg gestured to him solemnly, as if invoking a sacred truth. “A wise man rests when the world allows it.”
A hush fell over the Council, as if in reverence—or possibly because no one wanted to wake Garry again.
But Ben could not rest. Not yet. The great battle still loomed ahead.
He tugged at his wretched suit, feeling the seams strain against his righteous musculature. His latest flex—a mere stretch in preparation for war—had torn yet another stitch. A faint ripping noise confirmed his suspicions: the cursed garment was succumbing to his heroic form.
“This cloth prison cannot withstand my might,” he declared, holding the frayed edge aloft as though presenting evidence of treachery.
Lisa glanced over, her deadpan delivery cutting through the tension like a dagger. “Dude, you need a tailor.”
Ben nodded solemnly, as if receiving counsel from a sage. “Then a tailor I shall seek.”
The War Council returned to sorting mail, their motions mechanical yet oddly ritualistic, as though they were performing some sacred rite to appease the gods of efficiency. The Tower loomed above them all, its walls pulsing faintly with the weight of unspoken dread. And Ben prepared—for war.
“Greg,” he boomed, turning toward the HR harbinger with the gravity of a king summoning his vassal, “take me to this tailor.”
Greg flinched visibly, nearly dropping the memo he’d been holding. “Uh… okay, sure. But, uh, can we maybe not grab anyone by the shirt this time? Like, let’s just… walk there? Cool?”
Ben strode forward, but before he could take a second step, the enchanted horn bellowed its dire call, and Ben—ever the reluctant champion—snatched up the phone. On the other end, Brenda from Accounts Payable speaks in a flat, measured tone.
“Ben, the correspondence hasn’t been delivered to the proper departments, and the Mailroom needs to fix this immediately. I have an important document I’m waiting for.”
Ben’s gaze hardened as ancient regrets mix with the fire of his unmet destiny. For a heartbeat, he let the call fall silent, as if the weight of his failures demands a pause. Then he declares, voice resonant and commanding.
“The tailor errand must wait.”
His words, forged in the fires of past defeats and heroic dreams, sent a shiver through the room. Rising in a swift, purposeful motion, he startled the assembled War Council. In the sanctum of the mailroom—where once ordinary clerks now serve as his appointed stewards—their tasks continue in steady, routine fashion.
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“I’m on it,” Greg said in his usual matter-of-fact tone, while Lisa methodically sort letters, earbuds in both ears, her focus unbroken.
Ben’s heart pounded beneath his ill-fitting suit. Every tear in the fabric was a reminder that he was meant for greater things. Today, redemption calls him to repair the breach of his own failing honor. The room was bathed in the gentle glow of overhead lights, which, in his mind, shimmer like ancient lamp-light along the ramparts of a long-forgotten fortress.
“Dispatch the lost scrolls and rally the ranks!” Ben bellowed, his words slicing through the mundane hum of office chatter. His command echoed off walls that, to him, were steeped in the valor of bygone ages. The War Council members exchange brief, standard responses—no grand speeches here, just quiet nods and murmurs of “Okay, Ben” or “On it.”
He strode forward, each step a defiant oath to reclaim the honor that was once his. Yet beneath his booming declarations lies a wounded pride—a man determined to prove that even a misdelivered memo can become the spark for redemption.
Then, as if to punctuate the weight of his resolve, Ben paused before a battered mirror in the corner. His eyes burned with both fury and determination as he spoke in a low, intense murmur, “I have failed before, but I shall not fail again.”
Ben strode through the mailroom, a cavern of forgotten parcels and weathered crates, his mission as solemn as it was absurd. Clutching bundles of sorted mail destined for distant departments, he seized a rickety cart—the chariot of his duty—and, with a fierce determination born of past failures, he would take his charge.
Yet he could not leave his comrade entirely adrift. Spying Greg amidst the disarray—a steady navigator among the chaos—Ben strode over and, with a Herculean heave, scooped him up. “Greg, you shall steer this mighty vessel,” he bellowed, his voice echoing like a clarion call. Without waiting for protest, Ben deposited Greg into the cart, then roughly adjusted him into position, pushing him forward like a noble steed in a chariot race.
“Guide our quest, Greg!” Ben roared, his sinewy arms swinging as he hefted heaps of mail onto the cart. He gripped a stack of envelopes and, with the precision of a seasoned warrior, flung them across the cavernous space. Each parcel sailed through the air—landing squarely on desks, slipping into designated slots, as if guided by fate itself.
Greg, ever the calm navigator amid Ben’s tempest of bravado, called out in a measured tone, “Turn left at the second aisle—watch out for the stack of outdated memos!” His finger traced the route through the labyrinthine halls of the mailroom, where ancient boxes and crumpled letters formed obstacles like fallen sentinels.
Ben’s grin was wild, his pride momentarily eclipsing his self-doubt.
“Perfect!” Ben declared, flexing his muscles so forcefully that the seams of his too-tight suit strained against his heroic frame.
“Each scroll delivered is a blow struck against our foes!”
He vaulted over stray crates, the cart rumbling beneath his forceful pushes, as he hurled yet another bundle of mail onto a waiting desk with the finesse of an archer releasing a flawless shot. The parcels clattered into place, each landing marking a small victory in his campaign to restore order.
All the while, the War Council of mailroom stewards—Greg’s voice guiding the way and Lisa’s muted nods of approval as she continued sorting with steady routine—watched in quiet awe. Even Garry, the ever-drowsy veteran of the mailroom, stirred slightly at the commotion.
Ben and Greg raced through the maze of office corridors as if charging the ramparts of an ancient citadel. The mail cart rattled over the tiled floor beneath Ben’s powerful strides, his too-tight suit straining with every determined step. His muscles bulged against the fabric, each flex a declaration of defiance against the mundane.
“Left here, Ben—turn at the water cooler!” Greg called out in his measured, office-appropriate tone, his finger steady as he navigated through the bustling hall.
Ben roared with enthusiasm. “Onward, my steadfast comrade! For each step, we reclaim the honor that was stolen from us!” He slammed the cart around a corner, nearly toppling a stack of files as startled workers whispered, “What was that?” and “Did you see him go by?”
With each burst of speed, Ben hurled bundles of mail like missiles. Parcels soared through the air, landing with resounding thuds on desks and in inboxes. “Behold!” he bellowed, “Each scroll delivered is a reminder of our power against the tyranny of the office labyrinth!”
The chaos swirled around them as Nameless workers scattered, murmuring in confusion while some even ducked beneath their cubicle partitions. Greg’s calm guidance cut through the bedlam: “Ben, steady—watch out for that conference room!” His tone was practical, even as Ben’s heroic declarations echoed down the hall.
Ben’s pride and determination radiated in every step. “Fear not the ordinary, for our charge is sacred!” he thundered, his eyes aflame with a wild, almost desperate hope. His suit ripped further at the seams—a testament to his physical might and his burden of responsibility—but he pressed on, undeterred.
As they barreled past clusters of busy workers, Greg continued to direct the charge with concise orders. “Take the next right, Ben. The hallway’s clear.” His voice was calm amidst the storm of Ben’s theatrics, a steady counterpoint to the rallying cries of a battle-hardened warrior.
Ben’s laughter filled the corridor as he maneuvered the cart like a chariot, scattering mail and dispelling the inertia of routine. “Perfect! Every package a proclamation of our defiance!” he declared, his voice echoing off the walls, stirring even the most lethargic of the office drones.
In that moment, amid the startled gasps and whispered exclamations from the wandering workers, Ben’s spirit soared. His charge was not merely a delivery—it was a march toward redemption, a reclaiming of honor from a world mired in bureaucracy and neglect.
“Greg!” Ben called, his tone both commanding and hopeful. “Let us press onward, for our final destination awaits at Brenda’s office!”
Greg, ever the steadfast navigator, responded with a simple, “On it, Ben,” as he pointed the way. And with that, the unlikely duo surged through the labyrinth of the office, their journey a collision of valor and practicality—a battle cry echoing in the corridors of the everyday.