Side Arc – Misfiled

For what seems like ages you have toiled, shuffling papers from one pile to another. Sometimes stamping, sometimes signing, and sometimes redirecting, but always, always shuffling. Your mind again drifts towards the thought of quitting, but...that idea didn't exactly go well the last time someone tried it, did it?

“No, no, no,” you whisper to yourself. “Just, just keep going, and everything w-will be fine.” That's when you see it. Something you have only heard of but never dreamed of seeing. It's obscured slightly, but you know-KNOW!-it's there. Behind one final sheet of paper lies the bottom of your in-box. You start to sweat, nervous that someone else will notice this and that you'll be punished for it. Just as you're contemplating putting more paper into the basket as a disguise, your boss steps up to your desk.

“Hello,” his voice booms. Defiantly and scared out of your mind, you lock eyes with him, hoping he doesn't look down. “How are we doing today?”

Continuing the stare, you reply, “I'm doing excellent, Sir. I have double-checked all of my work, and I am still ahead of schedule. Everything will be more than ready for your meeting with the higher ups tomorrow, Michael, Sir.”

He nods positively at you, maintaining the gaze. “Good, good, I'm glad to hear it.” He leans in closer. “Because, if you mess this up for me, I'll make life hell for you.” He straightens up and pats you on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”

As he walks away, you reach out with a surprisingly steady hand and grab that beautiful last piece of paper. Then, you start to look it over and start shaking. It isn't addressed to anyone or from anyone. It bears no marks or seals of any kind. No evidence of it ever being in anyone's hands but yours is on it. This isn't good. This is an error. This is a mistake—and mistakes do NOT! happen here. This tiny, ugly piece of paper could cost you everything, except...no one knows it's here. You could do anything with it...anything at all just as long as the blamed does not land on your shoulders.

You slip the piece of paper into a folder and get up from your desk. The plan in your head is to slip it into a pile, a large pile, of papers heading to some other department. Then it hits you. You touched it. Your fingerprints are all over that enormous sheet of paper. It has to be destroyed—unless it's a test. Michael could have planted this in your basket as an excuse to get rid of you. Why-WHY?!-else would your basket have been that empty? If that were the case, you would have to report...or would you? You stop dead in your tracks, uncertain.