In the Bingo Hall

Feral Cat Nimbea sneaks in again quietly. She's not sure whether she's allowed in this place, but she's only a cat - who would throw a cat out?

Feral Cat Nimbea thinks- oh, wait. Someone with allergies. She avoids the sleeping contestants widely (sneezes could prove awkward) and runs up the staircase before anyone can complain.

Mr. Mountjoy: looks on with distaste as yet another outsider wanders freely in the halls. It wasn't like this in CDAG, oh no. There was some good security in their clan hall. Mountjoy comes to a conclusion, what with that Althea lassie putting her neb..

Mr. Mountjoy continues his bitter thought process through to its inevitable conclusion. About Althea, and her insistence on bloody brownies everywhere, and thinking she's his boss, I mean - the very thought. Well, maybe this new administratorwill be.-

Mr. Mountjoy considers, maybe she'll be more- malleable. More amenable to the odd swinging blade in the corridors, or possibly claymore mines. A few blow darts at least. P.I.R sensors. He grabs the pencil from behind his ear and begins to write a list.

sometime later

Johnson steps back in. She's wearing a full-face mask, and thick gloves. Her coat is buttoned to the chin. “Right,” she says, and marches past the sofa with all the stuffing leaking out of it. Stops. “I'll fix you when I get back, okay.”

Johnson straightens and marches- BELOW THE STAIRS. We who are about to file, salute you.

Below Stairs

Johnson stalks through, grim and sober. Probably too sober for this experience by GERM standards. But Johnson is not normal GERM. Johnson is Clan Admin. Johnson will file, or die in the attempt. She wrenches open the last door.

Staff Offices and Admin Suite

Johnson stands at the edge of a floor covered with paper, facing a shiny brown desk heaped with boxes of forms and files. Beyond her are two doors. Between her and the doors is the sea.

Johnson knows this sea. She has fallen through it. She knows how deep the paperwork goes- thirty two armstrokes up. The backlog is immense. And there are more files on her desk.

Johnson crouches in the doorway. At her feet, the sea of paper licks at her feet, but her boots are heavy. Sheets sigh and lift and drift gently across the floor, caught by an unseen breeze. Johnson knows if she steps in now, she's going down again.

Johnson says, “Listen.”

Johnson says, “I know you're not always a sea. Other people walk across you and see only floor, with a couple of sheets underfoot, a few post-its, a thin layer of forms. You don't plunge them twenty-five metres deep in paperwork.”

Johnson says, “You do that to me.” The forms are still, are silent. On the floor, nothing rustles.

Johnson says, “I accept this. It's fair enough, I've taken the post of administrator and you are my responsibility now. And I understand you feel- neglected.” She pushes back her mask, shoves it high up on her head so her face is visible

Johnson says, “But I am not my predecessors. I am not going to leave you to pile up. I am going to sort you, and file you, and make sure you are done. There will be signing.” On the floor, post-its lift gently. Grubby papers whisper again, shifting.

Johnson watches the invisible sea move, the deep fathoms of it rippling, forms circling on the surface towards her. Johnson says, “I promise you this. All twenty-five metres of you, I will do it. And all the rest of it. But you must let me through.”

Johnson reaches out a hand, touches the surface of forms, the sheets crossed with names, illegible words, the sweep and drift of handwriting slowly swirling towards her, swirling back, borne by its own tide. “You must let me through. Or it will never be done.”

Johnson's voice is quiet, and hard. “Do you want that?” she says. “Do you want to be left alone again, to pile up? Do you want me to leave? I can leave, and one day someone will come in and put a torch to you. They will drop a match in here and you will burn.”

Johnson says, “Paper burns.” And beneath her fingers there is shifting, there is a restless sussurus of papery voices. The dead sea swells, and on its back the brown desk floats with its stack of files. The doors at the other wall are unreachable.

Johnson looks down at the mad sea of paper, and says, “I will help you, if you'll let me. Will you let me?”

Johnson is silent. The paper sea is silent. The paperwork lies strewn all over the floor, an endless trampled procession of writing and printed regulations, documentations, orders. Words. Words, and Johnson understands words. She cares about words.

Johnson stands. Johnson pushes her mask further up her head and steps out into the paper sea. Johnson walks across the floor to the desk, pulls out the chair and sits down.

Johnson takes off her mask. “Thank you,” she says.

Johnson drops the mask onto the floor and looks at the papers on her desk. Her desk. Well. What's all this, then.

Johnson picks a list off the top, and reads it. The writing is crabby and too deep in the paper, fisted down by someone full of some kind of bitterness that refuses to leave. Her eyebrows dance to the top of her forehead and stay there for the rest of the list.

Johnson says, “No.” She pulls open a drawer and peers inside. Fishes out an appropriately-coloured pen and a pad of loose paper, and writes.

Mountjoy- I am refusing you most of your list for now because I wish to see your current security measures.

Johnson hesitates, and then writes,

I do not believe five hundred claymores are necessary for the Grounds. However, I am signing over a chitty for a couple thousand req for the blowdarts, as long as the darts are tipped with sedatives and not poison.

Johnson thinks a moment more.

Yes. If you will leave me your current security plan and a quantified list of where and how these items are to be implemented, I may be amenable to their existence. And yes, ten gallons of bleach will be added to your stores.

Johnson decides that's everything, and signs it off with a quick, neat J. She puts the list on the left corner of her desk and decides she needs a filing cabinet, and soon. She will get in touch with Ebenezer.

Johnson picks up the odd paper length and flicks through it. Mmn. Alcohol. The green pen comes out again and things are written on the list. Some things are crossed off. Other things are underlined. GERM runs on alcohol, mostly, so this one is important. Johnson flicks through the rest of the ream, folding the dot-matrixes neatly back. Mmmn. Cocktail swords, yes. Magnums, no, there's a stack in Bruce's pantry that she's seen untouched.

I'm going to require an inventory, Steve- of all the alcohol in your-

Johnson searches for a word.

- possession. Please have this on my desk by next Tuesday. An inventory of all glassware also, by next Friday. Thank you.

Johnson signs this one off as well, and then picks Steve's requests and her reply to Mountjoy's list up and pads across the floor to drop them into their respective pigeonholes. Pads back. Sits back down again. Picks up the next request. Johnson huffs through her nose, mildly amused. She swings her chair back and the pen is out again.

The makeup is denied, the clipboard also. I will need a schedule from you of your hours, Lilith, and a detailed list of your duties.

Johnson decides that'll rile her enough, without adding- oh, why not?

I may see my way to providing you with a clipboard, however, if you take a shower. Plush leather wilts in the presence of too much body odour.

She signs that off, smiling. And then Johnson looks at the enormous stack of food-files and sighs. Well. She's a fan of food. She's going to do this.

Johnson flicks through paper. Sheets and sheets of paper. She signs and writes and writes and signs. My apologies, Bruce, but we don't have enough room in the budget for a metric tonne of cheap cheese.

What is the budget? Johnson can't remember. Johnson isn't an accountant, she doesn't know things like finances. But Johnson knows someone who does.

Johnson pulls off her gloves and lays them out on top of the stack of Bruce's files, and then takes Lilith's note and goes over to drop it in the receptionist's pigeonhole. She stretches. “I'll be back,” she says out loud into the silence. “Soon.”

Johnson sticks the pen back into her pocket and walks back across the papery floor. “I've got a couch to fix, but when I come back I should have an accountant with me. We'll sort this out, okay.” She leaves. Behind her, the papers lie quiet.

after a while

Accomplice Teh Dave leaves a request for more power tools (really, any will do. Some of the older ones are wearing out) on Johnson's desk.

and another while

Uncle Bernard comes in with an order for kerosene and a big box of Swan Vestas. Planning ahead, see.

Below Stairs

calliaphone passes through, smacking Bruce on the shin with one of her crutches as she passes. “Sorreeeee,” she says, and scowls at him. He double-takes, and decides attend to the bread-dough, just this once.

Marly grins apologetically at Bruce as she goes by.

Accomplice Teh Dave sweeps in, all blustery and officious in his best Bernard impression. “My word, man! Just leaving the breakfast out there from the other day!? I'm in for a ham and cheese sammie, and surprise me with the toppings!”

Head Chef Bruce rolls his eyes, and shoves Dave along to follow the trail of Callia Footprints through to the Back Yard. “Get along then, I'll send something out for all of you.”

Accomplice Teh Dave Ack!s as he receives a pair of bread-dough handprints on the back of his lab coat. “No seafood!” And he's through, leaving Head Chef Bruce to grumble about the nerve of some of these people. He'll still make up a plate of sarnies and a tea service for the lot, but really!

Abundantly Ari: bounces after, “I would like peanut butter and jelly please! Or maybe bologna!” and onward before she is shooed out

Head Chef Bruce stares after the bouncy one, then shakes his head and gets to work.

a bit later

Head Chef Bruce finishes up a plate of sarnies, surrounding a teapot with several cups off to one side. “They'd better not ruin this one.” He grumbles as he takes the plate out towards the Stableyard.

80s Punk-Totally unlike g_rock enters, looking as one who's looking for someone. Bruce jerks a sullen, put-upon thumb out the back door. “Thanks, mate. Your a peach!” Gone, he is, before that one lands.

Head Chef Bruce shakes his head after the punk, and follows.

Head Chef Bruce hums quietly to himself as he works on a creme brulee, using a blowtorch “borrowed” from the workshops.

Marly has found her errant way to the most interesting of shelves. “Can of SOUP can of Milnot, can of orange pickled in boooooooze-” This last one doesn't get thrown over her shoulder.

Head Chef Bruce turns to the offending sheep. “Marly, is it? What are you doing rummaging around in my shelves?” The torch waves threateningly Marlyward.

Marly hides behind a can of pickled pineapple. “Nothing. Looking for something to eat.”

Head Chef Bruce looms over Marly. “Oh? And is it guest dinner night again without anyone informing me?” Entirely possible, considering Bernard. “Eh? Just coming in here, rummaging for food?” He waves the torch absently around the kitchen.

Marly bleats out, “It's Bruce's Skill Appreciation night!” And she'd really appreciate it if he'd stop waving that thing about. “Besides, Uncle said I could!”

Head Chef Bruce pauses briefly at the “Bruce's Skill Appreciation” bit to bask a moment before the second bit registers. “Uncle said? What, he doesn't realize he's only got stock in for Members?” He finally remembers, and cuts the torch. “That berk.”

Marly pokes her head off the shelf. “Everyone keeps calling him that. What's a berk?”

Head Chef Bruce shakes his head. “Bit of a daft fool, is what he is.” He eyes Marly curiously. “You do know this food's for GERM member use only, right? I ain't seen you on the rosters. You got your badge with you?”

Marly offers a jar of peanuts placatingly. Never mind that it's his. “No I haven't. Do you mean that you won't feed me, even though Uncle said, unless I have a badge?” Maybe she can write her name on the roster. Borrow Eben's pen to make it look official.

Head Chef Bruce eyes the peanuts. “Not this time. Not without a Badge.” He takes the peanuts from her and puts the jar back on its shelf. “If you don't have one, you could fill out the paperwork to get yourself one.”

Marly considers this, the most dire of situations. “So- I fill out the papers, and you'll give me food?” It's Soviet Brussia. “All I can eat?”

Head Chef Bruce nods. “Them's the rules.” He sighs. “Gotta feed the GERMlings, regardless of how rude and demanding they are. Berk's rules.”

Marly likes these rules, and it sounds like a good deal. “…where do I find this paperwork, and when I'm done will you make me the biggest omelet ever?”

Head Chef Bruce sighs “Yes, sure.” He ponders. “Probably find the paperwork for it in Admin.” He thinks. “Lilith might have it. Now, can I get back to this Creme Brulee? I should still be able to salvage it.” He lights the torch again.

Marly and a jar of Jelly scootch out of the kitchen quickly.

Head Chef Bruce saw that. She'd better hope she comes back with a Badge, or else she'll get to know what an Omelet feels like. He's got the spatula for it. Ah well, back to his cooking.

Earth Mage Paul Lo: :'s ears snatch a cup of hot tea out of a tray as the GERMan grins at Brucey.

Earth Mage Paul Lo takes two or three scones away, this time with his hands; he can only hold so much with each appendage. The mage hops out.

In the Administrator's Office

Dizzy shuffles in, muttering an apology about the delay. She stuffs a wad of crumpled, folded papers covered in barely intelligible, right-slanted scrawl into your hands and leaves, suspiciously quickly.

The top one reads: Pet Registration

Pet Name: “Um, I don't really know, Shi suggested Yellow, but that's kind of a weird name.” Gender: “Female, I think, but I can't really tell, it's a bird.” Species:“Sort of a Blue Jay, but it's made of ice.” Bred by: “Some snow-covered guy named Bob, In Kittania” Age: “A couple of Days, I think. Maybe a week.”

Next up, the Insurance.

“What am I insuring against, here? Bad music? Bad things Happening to my music? Happening to my instruments? Oh, god, is this like Mob insurance? Do you burn down my shop if I don't pay? How do I pay? What do I do? What if it catches on fire accidentally? Is it covered, even though you didn't start it? What about Titans? Are they working for you? Oh, god, they're working for you. I want out. Let me out. Oh, god, I can't leave, you'll call a hitman. When does your daughter get married?” This paranoid vein continues down, covering all the neat little blanks and tax credit calculation tables and signature lines. Better just put that one away and try again, in person sometime.

Next in the stack is relationship status. On it is printed a single word you can just tell was written with a sigh: “Single.”

Finally, the Alternate Residence form. Name: “Dizzy's Music” Location: “(16, 11) No. Rooms: “18” Secret Rooms: “Yes.” Password: “Just say BAND, the bouncer'll get you where you need to go. Would you mind alerting the rest of GERM?” Locked rooms: “2” Sleeping Areas “There's a couple couches by the entrance, A guest room upstairs with folding beds, and Single beds in the dressing rooms, plus a bed in my workshop”

Stapled to this sheet is a small rectangle of suspiciously receipt-like paper. Looking at it, you see: “William H. Shea Memorial Stadium - Paid - 1,000 - Owed - 191,799,000 Req. Please pay by the first of the Month.”

Scrawled at the bottom is “Hey, Johnson, little favor to ask. Would You mind taking care of this for me? I told them GERM could pay. Thanks. Dizzy.”

<note>Part the third

The Index</note>