Ignas Kosinski enters the office to see a single long table going left to right, with small dividers keeping each of the 14 bureaucrats in their own distinct areas. Everyone is keeping to a dress code; the men are shaved, the women have their hair tied back, and they all diligently have their heads down in the many stacks of paperwork they’re quickly pushing through. The only exception to this is Urban, whose face is wrapped in fresh white bandages.

“Ah!” Tymon jumps up from his area and rushes over, “Mr. Kosinski, it’s good to see you again.” He extends a hand, which Ignas quickly grabs and shakes.

“Likewise.” He looks to the large table, “quite different since I was here last. You’ve managed to whip everyone into shape?”

Ignas only saw him for a few minutes last time, but can easily see Tymon looks brighter, more energetic. It’s a clear sign that Tymon really did get his coworkers to pick up the slack, and he has less to do now. “Yes sir!” He says brightly with a confident smile. “A good work ethic, pride in their appearance, and math skills none of them knew they had.”

Ignas gestures to Urban, “I did say no mutilation, did I not?”

“That was an accident,” he hurriedly says. “It’s nothing permanent though, so it legally doesn’t count as mutilation, sir. Shortages being what they are, we were told it will be another few months before he can get replacement teeth put in.”

Ignas’s ears perk, “you took a man that size and knocked his teeth out?”

“Shattered them, sir. They weren’t recoverable.”

“Hm.” A courier comes in from the door on the back wall, then delivers another train manifest to each of the stations. “Tell me how this structure works.”

“Well, sir. I realized that I couldn’t ensure a good work ethic if I couldn’t keep watch over them, which was hard if everyone stayed in separate cubicles. So, we put all the tables together, then put up smaller walls to keep them out of each other’s spaces. Beyond that, it’s the same. Train manifests come in, each bureaucrat extracts the resources they’re responsible for, and adds it all up. There are 14 bureaucrats, but 30 strategic resources, so everyone has two, but Cyryl and I have three.”

“And you’re keeping track of where you’re assigning the resources?”

Tymon proudly raises his chin, “the last hour of the day is reserved for deciding where we’re going to send our resources. There isn’t much to go off of with these requests, but we try to put them where they’ll do the most good. Then we save the request and file it by date and planet, in case the department ever wants to pull those records for an audit.”

“How do you keep discipline?”

“I threaten to call my fiancée over, who’ll beat them up since she’s 7’8.”

“Makes sense. Oh, fiancée? Congrats.”

“Thank you,” Tymon says, beaming.

Ignas taps his foot. “So… no problems then?”

“None worth mentioning, sir. It’s running about as well as you can expect from an office of peldaks.”

Ignas glances back to the stairway door, then returns his gaze to Tymon. “I’ll sit in today. Make sure it’s going as you say.”

“Of course, very good, sir.”

Cyryl hops up from his spot and moves to the back stairway door, “We threw all the extra chairs in the storage room, I’ll go grab one.” He grips the door handle and pulls.

“Oh, wait.” Ignas speaks slightly too late. Cyryl opens the door and moves in, only to come face to face with a tall man leaning against the inner metal railing of the stairwell. He’s in a military uniform, there’s a long wooden stick attached to his hip, and he’s reading a small book.

He looks up from his novel and locks eyes with Cyryl. “You the old manager?” His voice is tough and deep, with crystal clear pronunciation, projected from the diaphragm.

Cyryl narrows his brow, hand still on the open door. “No, I’m not. Who are you?”

The man flares his nostrils and steps forward until his chest is just an inch from Cyryl’s. The man’s mouth is level with the top of Cyryl’s head, and he’s looking down his nose at him. “All you need to know is I’m the new manager of this department, maggot.” His strong, thick hand pats the wooden stick. “It’s my job to beat worthless convicts like you back into functioning members of society.”

Cyryl’s ears perk in rage, and his jaw clenches. He spins and enters back into the office, “you already found a replacement?!” He yells at Ignas, who simply sighs.

The other bureaucrats stop their work and watch the show. The man follows Cyryl through the door, and Tymon shoots Ignas a smug look. He doubted Tymon, and now he brought this man for no reason.

“You can hardly blame me for taking one look at him,” he cocks his head to Tymon, “and assuming he’d fail. Nine times out of ten, I would have been right for thinking ahead and getting the replacement ready.”

“Well, this is that one time out of ten,” Cyryl says with venom, “so tell this jerkoff to go home.”

“Hey!” The man snaps, “watch your mouth, convict.”

Cyryl turns back to him, fists clenched and baring his teeth. “Or what?”

Before it can escalate further, Ignas steps between them and somewhat effortlessly pushes them away. “Calm down.” He turns to Cyryl, “remember your place.” He turns to the man, “and you’re not in charge yet, Stepas.”

Tymon’s ears perk, “yet?”

Cyryl snarls, “the fuck do you mean ‘yet’? We did exactly as you asked.”

Ignas’s dull eyes look to Cyryl. “…I’m aware of that.”

Before Cyryl can speak again, Tymon clears his throat. “Sir, I think we should talk in the stairwell.” He starts walking to the door.

Ignas separates the two men a little more, then follows, “let’s.”

Cyryl tries to follow, but Tymon turns and holds his hand out, “I’ll talk to him alone.”

Cyryl’s ears perk lopsidedly in confusion, “you sure?”

“I am, thanks.”

“Alright, I’ll be here.” He turns his head and shoots a glare at the replacement, Stepas, who returns the sharp look. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

Tymon nods, then closes the door behind him. Ignas stays on the flat section in front of the door, while Tymon climbs two steps to get eye level with his boss.

Tymon starts. “If I have this right: you didn’t expect me to get this office into working shape, so you promised the job to someone else, and brought him along.”

Ignas crosses his arms and leans against the door of the storage closet, “that’s the long and short of it.”

“Okay, fair enough. I can’t in good faith argue against you expecting me to fail, but I did end up getting the department in working order. So… to be blunt, just apologize to him for jumping the gun, then send him on his way.”

Ignas straightens his back, exuding absolute confidence. “I don’t plan on sending him home.”

Tymon’s ears twitch.

“Stepas was an officer in a legion for decades. He held command in both of the recent wars, and coordinated counter-insurgency operations for the last 10 years. He grew tired of tip-toeing around the locals as he fought the insurgencies, so he decided transition to the bureaucracy in order to help the ongoing colonization efforts. He only plans to stay for a few years. Once some colonies are up and running, he’ll return to the military to help defend their borders. A military man through and through. All of this is to say, he has the age, height, and authority I need to force through the reforms I have in mind to fix the Protectorate’s bureaucracy. When he sent me a letter asking to be transferred, I promised him a manager spot in one of the departments.”

Tymon’s gut reaction is to scream and cry about how unfair it is, but he does his best to keep his voice steady. “There are plenty of departments, and the second shift. Again, no offense, by why is this my problem? I’ve worked in the bureau since it was first created, and I’ve been the manager of one department or another for centuries.”

“I would argue you’ve only been acting like a manager for a few weeks. Up until now, you’ve just been a hard worker doing most of the paperwork yourself. A manager in name only.”

Tymon’s bottom lip trembles, and his voice cracks a little. “When you came to me with a problem, I fixed it.”

“You had your girlfriend break a man’s jaw and shatter his teeth.”

“Your guy threatened to beat my friend with a stick!” Tymon yells accidentally, his voice higher pitched than it should be. “So why should I be replaced?!”

“I’ve been discussing my reforms with him since before I came to inspect all the departments. He knows what I want, he’s a solid man I can trust to help fix the bureau, and I gave him my word about a manager position.”

Tymon clenches his fists. “But why me? Again, I fixed the issue. Just let him be the manager of some other department, if you want to keep your word to him.”

“I’ve found replacements for those not doing their jobs correctly, and vetted the ones I’m keeping. They’re solid.”

Tymon clenches his jaw, taps his foot, and leans against the railing of the staircase. “So that’s it? I’m the weak link here, despite doing exactly what you said? You can save that crap about wanting to keep your word. Why lie to my face and give me the opportunity to turn the department around if you weren’t planning on honoring it?”

Ignas frowns, then takes a step up the staircase, looking down at Tymon. “I wasn’t planning to give you the chance at all. When I saw the state of your department and decided to replace you, you pretty much gave up instantly. It was your friend who freaked out then, and it’s your friend who’s freaking out now. I just said that to calm him down. Not you, him.”

Tymon’s brow furrows in rage, and he takes two steps back to stand above Ignas. “So, if someone gets your word, they just need to hope you didn’t already make up your mind. If so, your word means nothing! You’ll lie through your teeth for expediency.”

Being called a liar, Ignas’s ears are back and alert. He steps higher, towering over Tymon. “I’m the director of this bureau. I make decisions that impact the Protectorate’s goal of civilizing nine entire worlds. If I think he’s a better agent for accomplishing the Protectorate’s mission, I’m going with him. If you want to cry about it, fine. I value the uplifting of millions over a deal made halfheartedly to calm some midget’s friend.”

Tymon’s ears flick back in anger, and he takes two steps back to stand over Ignas. “What you said about vetting the other managers, was that another lie? You walked into my department, and it looks like you instantly gave up on me. Did you even consider keeping me on?”

Ignas begins walking forward, and Tymon must walk backwards to keep him at eye level. “Not really, no. I pretty much knew the second I saw you that you were out.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re short, weak, and can’t accomplish what I need.”

“But I accomplished the one thing you told me to do! Now you’re pushing me out and replacing me with your war buddy? What, do you know the other managers too?”

Ignas remains stonefaced, “they’re solid guys.”

“Ha!” Tymon’s muscles flex, his hearts race. He backs up and reaches the landing where the stairwell curves. “So that’s what it’s about! I’m not one of your pals from the military, so that’s it. It has nothing to do with picking the right people for the job, you’re just doing favors for your friends!”

Ignas reaches the top step, two heads taller than his subordinate, and walks forward until Tymon’s back hits the wall. “Let’s say it’s a bit of both. There are clear, systemic issues with the Protectorate’s bureaucracy, and they’re so far reaching that they’re causing problems everywhere. I need to make changes so undeniably efficient that other bureaus are forced to adopt my reforms. They’re my friends, and because they’re my friends, I’ve interacted with them long enough to know they’re solid. That being said, I see where you’re going with this.” He jabs his finger against Tymon’s chest, “I don’t think you’re leadership material. What are you gonna do about it? Forget replacing you, or demoting you, how about I just fire you? I could kick your ass to the curb and leave you looking for a new job, if you’d prefer.”

Tymon presses his lips together tightly. His body quakes, but he can’t do anything except impotently stare at his superior. It doesn’t look even remotely intimidating.

Seeing this pathetic lack of action, Ignas’s upper lip snarls, but then he shakes his head and walks away.

Ignas turns his back and walks down the steps, grabbing the sides of his uniform jacket and pulling it down to straighten the fabric.

Tymon’s face clenches in hatred of his own weakness, his knuckles turn white from tightening so hard. But when he hears Ignas’s foot tap against the first step, his ears perk and his eyes, full of resolve, open wide.

Ignas isn’t holding onto the railing, so Tymon charges forward and smashes the full weight of his body into his boss’s back. It’s not much weight, but Ignas is blindsided, and in mid step.

“Ah?” Ignas falls forward. It takes half a second for his mind to process the shock, but there’s an instinctive fear of falling, and an unsettled sensation in his gut which prompts his body into action. He twists in the air and brings both hands to the right, grabbing the angled railing and trying to steady himself. He can’t stop his momentum, but he manages to swing around, his shoulder smashing against the inner railing of the stairwell, with his body tilted upside down. His legs are on a higher step, and his arms are flexed which keeps his back from hitting the lower steps.

Ignas’s eyes widen, his ears perk, and it takes a moment to figure out what happened. The idea of him being pushed by such a shrimp, let alone being thrown off balance by someone so small, takes a long moment to register. Soon enough, his brow tightens, he scowls, and he looks up to Tymon.

But Tymon, having watched the fall play out, has already decided to take it further.

Before Ignas can get up or react, Tymon jumps to a lower step, and smashes the bottom of his shoe against Ignas’s face. The adrenaline brings Tymon to kick so hard that it damages the weak bones and ligaments in his ankle. It’s not much power for a peldak, but a surprising, full force kick to the face is enough to break anyone’s nose.

Blood spurts from Ignas’s face and clings to Tymon’s shoe, and the sudden jolt of pain shoots straight to his brain. The blow causes his head to jerk back, and Ignas loses his grip on the railing. He falls, tumbling backwards on the step. His back, his shoulders, his knees, his shins, the impact against the edge of each step is heightened by his immense bodyweight, and he keeps tumbling until he’s left on the flat landing in front of the office door.

Tymon looks down at his boss, ears raised and nostrils flaring. Even if Ignas’s head smashed hard against the concrete floor, he’s fine. Ignas is terribly old, and his body is sturdy from millennia of abuse. There’s a little dust on his clothes, but there isn’t a cut, bruise, or damaged bone anywhere on his body. The only damage belongs to his pride, and his nose from where Tymon kicked him, though even his nose has already stopped bleeding.

Knowing that his boss isn’t dead, a profound sense of regret smashes Tymon’s gut, and he feels cold.

Was that really a smart move?

How much trouble is he in?

How long will it take for Ignas to pick himself up and beat the tar out of Tymon?

The first two can be suppressed for now. He did what he did, it feels great looking at Ignas laying there, back flat and legs resting on higher steps. The third question is the only pressing concern.

Ignas’s face isn’t twisted in pain, it’s just confusion; complete befuddlement. His brains are locked in the surprise as he’s simply unable to register that a boy as small as Tymon had enough of a backbone to hit him from behind, let alone kick him afterwards. The fact that he was actually knocked down the stairs is so far beyond the realm of possibility that Ignas, in this dazed state, can’t get up. He’s too focused on figuring out what happened. His many centuries of experience betrays him, this is far outside the realm of what he considers possible.

Tymon takes advantage of this confusion and hurries down the stairs, stepping over Ignas on his way to the door. His hearts scream to hurry, as there’s no telling when Ignas’s brains will sort through it all. But despite how close to death Tymon is, his peldak blood won’t let him leave it there. With his hand on the doorknob, he turns his head. “Didn’t you say something about kicking my ass to the curb?”

Then he flees through the doorway.