Clive's Chronicles XII: The Centurion Helm Allocation Index and the Cat

The low humming of the fluorescent lights in the Ministry of Temporal Discrepancies’ Sub-Level Gamma was, to Clive, the sound of a universe gently, yet firmly, rejecting his life choices.

Clive, now employed as a Temporal Logistics Efficiency Consultant—a role that mostly involved him policing the office break room for improperly categorized tea bags—had always cherished routine. Routine was the bedrock of sanity, the velvet quilt protecting the delicate machinery of his highly anxious mind. The office, usually vacated by precisely 5:01 PM (Clive's departure time), was currently draped in the sickly, unforgiving glow of 11:47 PM. This was Overtime. A state of being that Clive considered morally suspect, administratively careless, and deeply corrosive to the proper enjoyment of a late-evening herbal infusion.

He had been trapped. The cause was, naturally, the sheer, mind-boggling incompetence of his immediate superior, Reginald "Reggie" Grembly, a human who possessed the organizational skills of a tossed salad and the perpetual optimism of a man utterly oblivious to the pain he caused.

The task? Finalizing the paperwork for a sudden, unscheduled shipment of surplus Roman centurion helmets that had accidentally materialized in the break room vending machine.

"Clive, old boy," Reggie had chirped at 4:58 PM, slapping a dangerously thin stack of forms onto Clive's mahogany desk. "Just need you to cross-reference the Centurion Helm Allocation Index (CHAI) against the Materialization Anomalies Log (MAL). Should only take a tick. We'll split a cold, stale soda from the vending machine afterward!"

Clive, who considered both stale sodas and Reggie's use of the word "tick" deeply offensive, had stared at the paperwork. The MAL was written entirely in a tiny, spidery script and appeared to be composed mostly of regret and spilled coffee.

Six hours later, Clive’s once-immaculate desk was a battleground. He had successfully cataloged 47 different centurion helmet subtypes, ranging from the classic Galea Imperialis to a deeply suspicious, heavily crested model marked simply: Galea Maxima—Do Not Wear Near Birds.

The deeper horror, however, was the psychological landscape of the office after hours. Everything was louder. The squeak of his own velvet-cushioned chair sounded like a distressed sea creature. The intermittent gurgle of the ancient water cooler sounded like the slow, painful inhalation of an ancient swamp monster.

He was alone, save for two other nocturnal inhabitants:

• A highly stressed intern named Bethany: She was attempting to fix a paper jam in the giant, humming copy machine, her eyes wide with a combination of caffeine, desperation, and the existential dread that only bureaucratic machinery can inspire.

• The Office Cat, Chairman Meow: A vast, cynical tabby with a patch of fur that looked perpetually wind-swept. Chairman Meow only appeared after midnight, using the cover of darkness to perform various acts of low-level sabotage, like batting important documents under filing cabinets and shedding onto keyboards.

Clive, momentarily stymied by a handwritten annotation on the MAL that read, "Helmet F-19 smells like cabbage and disappointment—see also: Grembly's lunch," felt the familiar, cold panic begin to tickle his spine. He needed to regulate. He needed tea.

He rose with stately dignity and made his way to the break room, stepping delicately over a loose power cable that Bethany was wrestling.

The break room was a zone of unspeakable late-night gloom. The overhead light had been replaced by a single, buzzing emergency bulb, casting the room in a sickly, green light that made the day-old pastries look genuinely malevolent.

Clive reached for his personal tea caddy—a small, silver box meticulously labeled ASSAM/EARL GREY—only to find it gone.

No. Not gone. Moved.

It was sitting on the very top shelf, next to a jar of dried basil and a box of industrial-grade rubber bands.

"Unacceptable," Clive rumbled. "This is not merely misplacement; this is an act of logistical terrorism."

He knew who the culprit was. Chairman Meow. The cat enjoyed making the simple act of brewing tea a deeply spiritual, and physically challenging, quest.

Clive stretched his neck, but the shelf was just high enough that his dignity prevented him from fully scrambling onto the counter. He needed a stable, efficient solution.

He scanned the room. His eyes landed on the vending machine, now bizarrely full of surplus Roman centurion helmets. The helmets, being made of sturdy bronze and iron, offered a low, stable platform.

With a deep sigh of resignation—this was exactly the kind of unseemly behavior that would damage his professional reputation—Clive carefully maneuvered a Galea Militaris from the machine's dispensing chute, setting it carefully on the floor. He then fetched a second helmet, an iron Galea Hispaniensis, stacking it atop the first.

Just as he was about to use his improvised, historically inaccurate stepping stool, the lights in the entire sub-level flickered and died.

Absolute blackness descended, thick and instantaneous.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Clive yelled into the void. "This is not a dramatic climax! This is merely a failure of the electrical grid's preventative maintenance schedule!"

From the far corner, a small, high-pitched shriek emerged. It was Bethany, the intern. "I think... I think the paper jam was electrical! And I heard something creak!"

Clive froze. That wasn't just a creak. That was the unmistakable sound of a heavy, furry body dropping from a high perch onto a desk laden with delicate, highly sensitive historical documents.

"Chairman Meow," Clive hissed into the darkness. "Release the CHAI forms immediately!"

The only answer was a soft, disdainful thump and the faint, unsettling rustle of heavy parchment being shredded.

Clive, fueled by the double catastrophe of administrative chaos and the loss of his tea, abandoned all pretense of decorum. He scrambled up his helmet stack. He reached the shelf, grabbed his tea caddy, and snatched a handful of industrial rubber bands (useful for emergency document containment).

He returned to the floor, illuminating the room with the tiny, almost useless flashlight on his key fob. The light revealed the scene of carnage: Bethany huddled next to the now-silent copy machine, and Chairman Meow calmly perched atop Reggie Grembly's desk, looking like a furry, bored god surveying the smoking ruins of civilization. The floor was strewn with confetti made of Roman helmet allocation data.

Clive had to prioritize. Order, dignity, tea.

He pointed a shaking finger at the cat. "This ends now, Meow. This petty tyranny over office supplies is inefficient and intellectually dishonest."

Chairman Meow merely stretched, revealing a freshly sharpened claw, and casually swept a mug of day-old, highly questionable black coffee directly onto the exposed motherboard of Reggie's computer. The motherboard sparked, hissed, and died with a final, pathetic 'POP.'

Clive, clutching his tea and his rubber bands, knew true defeat. The work would never be finished. The order would never be restored. The centurions would forever be unaccounted for.

"Right," Clive stated, his voice flat. He brewed a cup of the strongest Assam the caddy offered, ignoring the fact that the water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of helmet polish. He drank it in one long, decisive gulp.

He then used the industrial rubber bands to firmly secure the two Roman helmets to his person, ensuring maximum structural stability should he encounter any further unexpected electrical surges or feline aggression. He offered a small cup of weak tea to the traumatized Bethany and helped her extricate herself from the copy machine cables.

He left the office at 11:59 PM, stepping carefully around the puddle of defunct coffee and the smugly purring cat. The centurion helmets weighed heavy on his back, physical symbols of the overtime he had just fought and lost. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he would be back tomorrow.

The low humming of the fluorescent lights in the Ministry of Temporal Discrepancies’ Sub-Level Gamma was, to Clive, the sound of a universe gently, yet firmly, rejecting his life choices.