Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 133: "Orientation Day"
The morning began with screaming.
Not the painful kind—more like the bureaucratic variety. Paperwork shrieked, files fluttered, and one of the new celestial interns was crying because their assigned desk had developed teeth overnight.
Ne Job strolled through the chaos with a cup of Bureau Brew, his mug proudly labeled "World's Most Questionable Supervisor." His Chaos Spark hummed beneath the surface, faint but stable, pulsing in sync with the living building around him.
"Alright, everyone!" he called, voice echoing through the lobby that now looked like a kaleidoscopic cathedral of cubicles. "Welcome to the Rebirth Bureau! Formerly the Bureau of Order! Formerly the Bureau of Containment! Formerly… well, whatever flavor of oppression we were last quarter!"
A few interns chuckled nervously. Others ducked as a swarm of self-stapling reports zipped overhead like divine hornets.
Assistant Yue stood beside him with the kind of expression that said she was one bad metaphor away from resigning. Her manual floated in front of her, already taking notes. "Intern orientation requires structure, Ne Job. Structure."
"Of course," he said, grinning. "Step one of orientation: forget everything you know about structure."
A ripple of confused murmurs filled the room.
Yue sighed. "I'll handle the actual agenda."
She snapped her fingers, and a translucent whiteboard appeared, filled instantly with perfect handwriting:
1. Welcome & Safety Protocols
2. Spiritual Ethics and Temporal Consistency
3. Avoiding Spontaneous Ascension
4. Coffee Break
5. Filing your own resurrection forms (if necessary)
One intern raised a trembling hand. "Um… what's 'spontaneous ascension'?"
Ne Job smiled reassuringly. "It's when you accidentally reach enlightenment during paperwork. Don't worry, it's rarely fatal."
Another hand shot up. "And… if it is?"
"That's what section five's for!"
Yue closed her eyes and inhaled. "Why do you insist on terrifying them before the first coffee break?"
"Team bonding," he said simply.
---
The first demonstration was supposed to be basic: Filing 101 — Handling Divine Requests without Exploding.
Yue conjured a floating form labeled "Prayer Requisition Type-B." The parchment glowed softly, humming like a small star. "Each of these forms contains a mortal wish," she explained. "Proper filing ensures the wish is processed according to divine protocol."
Ne Job cut in, "Or, you can reroute it through the Chaotic Continuity Division and see what happens."
Yue turned sharply. "That is not an approved method."
But he'd already taken the form. The moment he touched it, the wish unfolded like a song: A mortal praying for their cat's soul to be reincarnated as a god.
"See?" Ne Job said, scribbling with his chaos pen. "All it takes is a small adjustment in metaphysical taxonomy…"
The form ignited in red light. A meow echoed through the chamber.
Then, a golden feline apparition appeared on top of the filing cabinet—wearing a tiny divine halo.
Yue froze. "You just elevated a cat into minor godhood."
Ne Job nodded proudly. "Efficiently."
The interns applauded in awe.
Yue pinched the bridge of her nose. "We'll need a new department for divine pets now."
"Already made one!" he said. "The Bureau of Feline Affairs."
The cat god purred, stamped its paw onto a glowing approval seal, and vanished in a burst of starlight.
Yue stared at the space it left behind, her expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "…You realize that just got recorded into Bureau history?"
Ne Job shrugged. "Hey, history needed more cats."
---
By midday, chaos had become the new normal. Forms folded themselves into paper cranes that delivered memos. The clock refused to tick in linear time. Dreivery Spirit Bao zoomed through walls carrying lunch for thirty-three simultaneous timelines.
When the break finally came, the new interns gathered around the breakroom—now half-garden, half-server hub. Ne Job leaned against the coffee machine, watching them laugh, adapt, and occasionally combust into miniature existential crises.
Yue joined him quietly, sipping her own tea.
"They're learning," she admitted. "Not efficiently, but… creatively."
"That's the idea," he said. "We don't need perfect clerks. We need people who remember why they file things in the first place."
Yue raised an eyebrow. "And that is?"
He looked out at the glowing interns—some divine, some mortal-born, some something in between. "To make sure no one ever gets erased for being different."
For a moment, silence filled the room—not the bureaucratic kind, but the good kind. The kind that meant something had changed.
Then Dreivery Bao burst through the wall again, carrying a delivery crate shaped like a coffin. "Urgent parcel for Supervisor Ne Job! Marked 'Audit Reversal Protocol – Restricted.'"
Ne Job blinked. "That sounds bad."
Yue sighed. "That is bad."
Bao hovered nervously. "It came with a note. Says, 'From Lord Xian. Do not open unless you're ready to meet what's left of Heaven.'"
The entire room went silent. Even the paperwork stopped fluttering.
Ne Job and Yue exchanged a long look.
Finally, Ne Job sighed, cracking his knuckles. "Orientation's officially over."
Yue straightened, voice calm but grim. "Then class is dismissed."
The interns scattered. Bao floated backward nervously.
Ne Job picked up the crate, feeling the faint hum of divine code pulsing inside it. The Chaos Spark in his chest reacted immediately, burning brighter.
"Whatever's in here," he murmured, "it's tied to the old Heaven."
Yue nodded. "And Lord Xian wouldn't send it unless he wanted us to finish what we started."
He smiled faintly. "Guess it's time for extra credit."
The crate cracked open—light spilling out, forming the faint silhouette of something ancient and half-erased.
Something that still remembered the first Bureau.
End of Chapter 133 — "Orientation Day."