Welcome to Happy World #2
A nymph as my boss? I hate nymphs so much that I don't even sleep with my head pointing north. They both start with N.
Working under a nymph would be worse than getting fired. So let's come up with a plan.
"Marquius, you hear anything about the new executive coming in? You've been under Charon in logistics for ages—you must've picked up some gossip."
"Trying to score points? You'll snag Employee of the Year again. Too bad for Crates—he was gunning for it."
Promotion? Hell no. I'm planning the exact opposite of point-scoring behavior. Like serving food I hate at the welcome party or screwing up on purpose.
"Marquius, I'll pay for the info—just dig up something solid."
Clink. I handed him a gold coin, but he waved it off.
"Jo, you've helped me out plenty. If I hear anything, I'll let you know for free."
The only info Marquius coughed up was that the new exec was a nymph. Honestly, even that's kinda suspicious. A flower-field fairy in this hellfire pit called Happy World? Doesn't fit. Maybe she's on dispatch from the surface? Personnel shuffling's been rampant lately.
Whatever. Doesn't change the plan: piss off the nymph and get fired.
But there was a problem.
"Jo! Where are you? Jo!"
No matter the company, there's always someone you can't stand. And statistically, it's usually your boss.
"There you are! Jo! Our pride! Our star employee!"
The 'skeleton' yelling spit-flecked praise right in my face looked like a dungeon trash mob, but shockingly, he was an elite monster. More precisely, the manager of the Tartarus Penalty Execution Dept, known to everyone as Bones. A parachute drop from HQ at Pluto's Palace to Tartarus—and the issue was, he truly believed my work ethic was god-tier.
Just be a sleazy asshole and chew me out for once.
No eyes in that skull, yet he gazed at me with eager sockets, dumping endless tasks my way. It was maddening. And he was about to do it again.
"Jo! Heard about the new exec transferring to Happy World?"
"A nymph, right?"
"Spot on! As expected from our star! Lazy souls don't even know where the bulletin board is! You're always on top of things—love it!"
Clack, clack. Bones' jawbones clicked together.
"So you know what I need from you! Special prisoner 'R-08A' is causing trouble—you've heard. We gotta sort him out before the exec arrives!"
Special prisoners were exactly that: special. Big-shot criminals from life, serving eternal sentences. Managing them was a nightmare—everyone dreaded them.
"He's acting up again?"
"Never a quiet day with that guy."
"R-08A... A-grade. Can't just send anyone in..."
See? That's the reaction. And they want me to handle a special prisoner? Out of nowhere? Normally, it'd give me a headache, but today?
"Fine. I'll whip that guy into shape."
"Oho! That's our star! Brimming with confidence!"
Damn right I was confident. I planned to fail spectacularly.
"With Jo on it, we're golden!"
"R-08A's a con artist—screwed over half the staff already!"
Whoa whoa whoa. Cheers erupted everywhere. The higher the expectations, the bigger the letdown. Perfect. If the nymph exec walks into this mess on day one? My inflated rep tanks, and boom—fired.
"I'll head out."
"Good luck."
Then I'd ditch this roach-infested Happy World—where cockroaches grow bigger than your hand—for Olympus. My plan was genius. Doing good work is hard; screwing up? Anyone can do it. Even elementary kids.
I left the Penalty Execution Dept and headed to the execution site in Happy World to meet our biggest headache: special prisoner Sisyphus, R-08A.
Sisyphus. In life, he conned gods left and right, earning eternal boulder-rolling as punishment. Roll it to the peak, it tumbles back. Rinse, repeat. No sympathy—he'd screwed over our staff plenty. But part of me thought, If I get caught escaping this underworld, that'll be me. Scary stuff.
The issue cropped up during the Business Renewal. The underworld rebranded to Soul Society, and punishments got "updated." Result?
"A boulder? Why bother rolling it?"
The big-shot prisoner lounged on the ground instead of pushing up the hill.
"Hooo—."
"Hoo hoo—!"
Tiny ghosts from the ops team chattered at him, but he ignored them, snoring away.
"What? I'm not pushing any boulder."
"Everyone's working hard. I'm Jo from Penalty Execution Team 4. What's the problem?"
The little ghosts swarmed me, whining.
"Hooo—!"
"Hoo hoo—!"
They were fluffy white puffs like clouds under a sheet—adorable mumbling.
"So, Sisyphus is taking 'break time' per the new contract he signed, skipping proper punishment?"
Nod, nod!Nod!
They bobbed furiously, pointing at the musclebound brute. Years of boulder-rolling had forged him into a steel-bodied superman. The cunning Sisyphus grinned at me.
"You speak Ghost Language fluently, Jo? Exemplary warden. As they say: those ghosts heed earn no ordinary soul."
"Sisyphus, I'm not a warden—I'm an employee. Correct the title."
"Come on. Warden, employee—same gig. Just a name change. Tartarus? Happy World? Who cares! Does rebranding make this hell any happier?"
My resolve nearly cracked. A prisoner gets me better than my coworkers!
"Business Renewal in this hell? No idea what's blowing in. Or why it's changing at all."
Anyway, Sisyphus' silver tongue and quick wits had ops staff in knots. Claiming legit breaks, he skipped rolling for ages. His boulder-rolls generated 'kinetic energy' to power the ghost staff dorm lights in Happy World. No rolling? Ghosts live in the dark. Tragic.
"Jo, I'm just taking rightful rest. Per the contract you gave me. See?"
Flutter. He flashed a dusty contract. Sure enough: "Sisyphus shall perform punishment as before, but after every 5 summit rolls, enjoy 10 minutes break."
Problem? I didn't remember this one. I handle most prisoner contracts—but this had Bones approval, not mine.
Bones, you overeager bonehead! Normally, a disaster from an incompetent boss. But for me? Jackpot. The screw-up needs to snowball beyond my paygrade for real fallout.
Exec incoming, star prisoner rebels? Manager gets reamed. Perfect firing fodder.
But Sisyphus loved screwing staff and was sharp—if he sniffed my plan, all bets off. So I played the dutiful employee.
"Sisyphus, please follow the contract. Or shall we draft a new one for better rehabilitation?"
"New contract? Nah. You're implying I'm wrong? I'm just resting 10 minutes per regs."
"Let's be real. Time's fuzzy in Happy World. 10 minutes is a fallacy."
Time only flows topside. Down here? Timeless. Seasons hint at years, but that's it. Hence irregular shifts. A "10-minute" break could mean eternity.
Sisyphus was lounging in perpetual "10 minutes."
Bones, you naive skeleton—totally played. No surprise; Sisyphus conned gods and scum alike. Fooling Bones? Child's play.
"Last warning, Sisyphus. No new contract? Our final courtesy vanishes."
Please refuse!
"Warning? Fun. Can't wait to see your move. Meanwhile, I'll savor my eternal 10-minute break."
He puffed up like his pride was stung. Yes—yes! I cheered inwardly but played cool.
"Fine. We acknowledge your break—contract's absolute. Even the mighty CEO can't overrule it."
"Haha, finally seeing sense?"
"But absolutely no rolling that boulder during break. Got it? Absolutely. Absolutely. Absolutely. Absolutely. Absolutely!"
I drilled it in, but unease lingered. Plans thrive on airtight details. Then genius struck.
Why not pave paradise for his break? On the department's dime!
Let's do it!
Prepping Sisyphus' "gift," Team 1 elite Crates sneered openly.
"Gifting a slacker? Idiot! Promotion pressure broke you. Lowborn trash—"
Bones clacked his teeth, shaking my shoulder.
"Jo! What're you thinking? Blowing the budget on prisoner perks? No welcome party for the exec now!"
"I got this. Trust the plan."
Dice rolled. I'd cross not Rubicon, but the Styx River—to glorious Olympus!
Exec arrival day. Crates—Phoenician prince turned Happy World drone—sauntered to the promotion list board.
Jo, second-year punk outranking me after my 50-year head start? Shameless. But Sisyphus'll sink you.
Fail to reform him? No promotion—maybe fired. In god's own HR hell, termination was humiliation. He'd mock that loser's face.
But Crates' smirk vanished.
Reason: Exemplary reformation of special prisoner Sisyphus
"Wh-what?! Impossible!"
How?! Crates felt his breath stop—dead man or not!