Chapter 31: The Room of Draft Zero
The Bureau, under the influence of Pip's "possibility" energy, had become 7.5% more vibrant, but every light casts a shadow. Ne Job had forgotten that before the silver ink, before the 7.5% sparkle, and before the Semicolon, there had been the Draft Zero.
It happened during a routine inspection of the "Department of Future Tense." Pip, armed with their rainbow duct tape and the very small wrench, had found a door behind a stack of forgotten "Maybe" files. It wasn't a mahogany door or a brass hatch; it was made of rough, un-sanded lead and smelled of damp charcoal.
"Commissioner!" Pip's voice crackled over the intercom. "I found a room that isn't on the map. It's... it's 100% gray. And I think the furniture is crying."
The Shadow of the Origin
Ne Job arrived with the Architect and the Muse. As they approached the leaden door, the color began to drain from their sleeves. The gold braid on Ne Job's hat turned a dull, leaden gray.
"Pip, get away from there," Ne Job commanded, but the intern had already cracked the door open.
Inside was the Draft Zero Room. It was the original concept for the Bureau, conceived before the Author found his sense of humor. There were no paper dragons here. There was no Feline Realm. There were only rows of iron desks where hollow, faceless figures sat, endlessly sorting gray dust into gray boxes.
"This is the Bureau of Total Stagnation," Ao Bing whispered, his monocle struggling to render the lack of detail. "This was the first iteration. A world where nothing ever happens because nothing is ever allowed to be wrong."
The Grimmer Ne Job
From the back of the gray room, a figure stood up. It looked like Ne Job, but he was skeletal, dressed in a tattered shroud of black ink. He didn't carry a silver stapler; he carried a heavy, iron paperweight that looked like a tombstone.
"Why have you brought the light here?" the Draft Zero Ne Job rasped. His voice was the sound of a pencil snapping in a silent room. "This is the place of the First Thought. Before the 'And.' Before the '7.5%.' We are the perfect tragedy. We are the story that was too sad to tell."
"You're the story that was too boring to tell," Ne Job countered, though he felt a chill in his marrow. "You're the version where I never met the Muse. Where I stayed in Section C-7 until the ink ran dry."
"We are the truth," the Draft Zero figure said, stepping forward. As he moved, a wave of "Grimness" washed over the room. The Muse's neon hair began to turn a dusty charcoal. Pip's goggles cracked.
The Battle of Tones
"He's trying to overwrite us!" The Muse gasped, reaching into her bucket. But her confetti was coming out as black soot. "Ne Job, I can't... I can't find the spark! It's too heavy in here!"
The Draft Zero Bureau was a narrative sinkhole. It thrived on the absence of hope. The hollow figures began to rise from their desks, moving like slow, ink-blotted zombies toward the door.
"Every story starts in the dark," the Grimmer Ne Job said, raising his iron paperweight. "I will take your Semicolon and turn it back into a Period. I will finish what the Author started."
Ne Job looked at Pip. The intern was trembling, their bright yellow hair fading to a pale ash. But Pip was still clutching that very small wrench.
"Pip!" Ne Job shouted. "The wrench! What does it do?"
"It... it adjusts the 'Why'!" Pip stammered.
"Then adjust his 'Why'!" Ne Job commanded. "He thinks he's a tragedy. Tell him he's a comedy!"
The 7.5% Punchline
Pip lunged forward, sliding between the legs of a gray, faceless clerk. They reached the Draft Zero Ne Job and clamped the small wrench onto his iron paperweight.
"You aren't a tragedy!" Pip yelled, their voice cracking. "You're just... a very dramatic rough draft! You're the part of the story where the author was trying too hard!"
Pip twisted the wrench.
A spark—not of glitter, but of pure, absurd Irony—shot out from the iron paperweight. The "Grimness" didn't vanish, but it shifted. The heavy, tattered shroud on the Draft Zero figure suddenly turned into a pair of oversized polka-dot pajamas. The iron tombstone in his hand transformed into a giant, squeaky rubber chicken.
The gray clerks stopped moaning and began to emit a sound like a slide-whistle.
The Archive of the Discarded
The "Draft Zero" room couldn't maintain its gloom in the face of such high-level silliness. The walls of lead began to peel back like old wallpaper, revealing that this wasn't a rival reality—it was just the basement of the current one.
The Grimmer Ne Job looked down at his rubber chicken, then back at Ne Job. For the first time, his faceless void seemed to soften into a confused, yet peaceful, expression.
"A... rubber chicken?" he whispered.
"It's a 100% improvement," Ne Job said, stepping forward. He didn't staple the figure. He handed him a single, fish-shaped biscuit. "You don't have to be the tragedy anymore. You can be the 'Deleted Scenes.' We have plenty of room in the annex for a Department of Historical Irony."
The Draft Zero clerks sat back down, but instead of sorting dust, they began to sort "Dad Jokes" and "Puns That Didn't Land." The gray room began to take on a soft, sepia glow.
The Lesson of the Lead Door
The team stepped back into the main hallway, and Ne Job firmly closed the lead door, but he didn't lock it.
LOG: CHAPTER 31 SUMMARY.
STATUS: Draft Zero integrated. Tragedy levels reduced by 92.5%.
NOTE: The original version of me is currently learning how to use a rubber chicken for 'Stress Management.'
OBSERVATION: You can't run from where you started, but you can definitely change the outfit.
P.S.: Pip's wrench is the most dangerous tool in the Bureau. I must remember to buy them a toolbelt.
The Muse's hair snapped back to its vibrant neon. "That was close. For a second there, I actually considered wearing a turtleneck."
"The horror," Ne Job deadpanned. He looked at Pip, who was polishing their wrench with a bit of rainbow tape.
"Commissioner?" Pip asked. "If Draft Zero was the beginning... what's at the very end of the Bureau?"
Ne Job looked toward the Mainspring, where the Semicolon was glowing with the light of a thousand stories yet to be told.
"In this Bureau, Pip," Ne Job said, "there is no 'The End.' Only 'To Be Continued.'"