Chapter Text
The Writer bends his head backwards to loosen the crick in his neck, and watches as the printer does its job.
The printer is one of the best machines out there, his boss would say, a group of pistons and gears working with each other in tandem, powered by enough blocks of redstone to produce hundreds of books in a day. The carved rubber stamps press against the sheets of paper rhythmically, much like a dull, monotonous march.
Despite being a marvel of engineering at his time, the Writer isn't very impressed. He yawns, glancing over at the manuscripts he's already proofread and edited. They're from an amateur author trying to dip their toes into publishing. And frankly, if writing was anything like swimming, they would sink to the bottom before they could even float. The amount of grammatical errors were more impressive than the writing itself, to say the least.
Mediocre. That might be the proper adjective to describe it.
But who is the Writer to judge? He's quite mediocre himself. Neatly trimmed short, brown hair, equally shaded brown eyes that barely work without his glasses—Just your average joe.
Time passes by and the man wonders why he needed to intern at this place to begin with. Are the rewards really worth the stagnancy? The Writer shakes the thought off and finishes up his work, says his goodbyes to his co-workers, and heads home as per his routine.
His walk home went normally... until upon arriving at his doorstep, something hard and rectangular hit the back of his head. He collapses on the ground with a thud. Groaning, the Writer sits up and turns back to try and see the assailant, but the delivery man is already speeding away on his horse.
The Writer frowns. He rubs his head to soothe the dull throbbing that's starting to surface, and adjusts his glasses to look at the box in front of him. He opens it and- oh, inside is a copy of Sun Tzu's "The Art of War"! Just what he ordered. He flips the box to see an envelope taped on the surface. "...Heh?" He tears at the flap of the envelope with his fingernail, and begins to skim over its contents.
"Mmm... The government... due to the economy...raise taxes on produce- HEH?!" The Writer rereads it and runs a hand through his hair. This cannot be happening. Entering his home, he furrows his brow as he glances over to the humble potato farm outside of his window, a failsafe in case his writing career didn't work out. He ruminates on how to ration his income since- with the raised taxes- the prices are going to get ridiculously high in the market. And how is he to compete with just potatoes?
Grumbling, he throws the empty box at the corner and flops onto his bed, dejectedly staring at the ceiling. As he does so, the book slips from his grip and falls to the floor. Sighing and squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds, he gets up to take the book.
He spares a glance at the page it landed on, reading: "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. "
The Writer's eyes light up. This must be the answer to his problem. He goes over to his desk, dips a quill in a bottle of ink, and gets to work right away.
Hours pass and he hears the call of a rooster from a nearby farm. The Writer groans. He yawns and checks the clock. Looks like he pulled off an all-nighter, it’s far from his first time anyways. It’s a lot like college, he would justify. He rubs at his eyes in an attempt to shed off the grogginess.
When he shows up to work, the first thing he does is drop his manuscripts on his co-worker’s desk. “Hey, can you carve these on the stamps for me?” His co-worker takes the manuscripts and reads over them. “Written by ‘The Pig’. I’ve never heard of this author,” They quirk an eyebrow, “Did our boss approve of this?” The Writer shakes his head. He leans over to them and whispers, “It’s for me. Can you keep this under wraps? I’ll pay you.”
After a moment, they respond, “Well, I guess a little extra money wouldn’t hurt...”
A week after, the Writer receives the stamps.
He pulls his coat closer to himself to ward off the chilly night air and fiddles with the spare keys in his pocket.
There should be no one in the building tonight, he reassures himself, it’s a weekend.
The building starts to grow bigger the closer he gets, and the knot in his stomach starts to feel tighter. Thoughts spiral in his head.
A part of him tells him to run back, he doesn’t have to do this, it’s not worth it-
The other part of him that wants to fight says Fuck the government.
He stands in front of the door, keys in hand, and takes a deep breath. There’s no going back once he opens it.
The door unlocks, and he rushes in, wasting no time as he goes up to the printer and switches the book stamps to the ones of his essay. The Writer immediately runs to the side of the printer and pulls the lever.
With bated breath he waits for the tell-tale sounds of rubber marching across fields of paper, as if filled with new purpose.
The machine comes to life.
“The Pig’s” essay spread around. It’s a piece that spoke against the atrocities of the government and shamelessly called out every single act of hypocrisy that its author could see. The Writer didn’t know what he was expecting... but it sparked a revolution.
“I did NOT approve of this essay being published!” The boss of the publishing company slams his fist on his desk.
“The books belong to your company, so you are still held accountable according to the law,” A moderator—the law enforcers of this world—calmly explains.
“No, no! This can’t be right!” The boss gestures wildly, “I can’t tarnish the name of my company like this!”
The moderator’s partner coughs. “But, isn’t it already tarnished-“
The moderator shoots a glare at them and elbows their side.
Exhaling heavily, the boss leans back on his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Surely, there’s some way for me to avoid the charges? I’m not the one at fault here!” He bites on his nail as he thinks through his options. And after a moment of silence, he looks back at the two and says, “What do you want? Money? I can give you money.”
The moderator raises her hand, “We don’t need your bribery. Find the real culprit and your charges will be reconsidered.” She explains, plain and simple.
The boss sighs, dragging his palm down his face, “In that case, I’ll announce that I’m going to give a monetary reward for whoever finds ‘The Pig’.”
One of the employees pauses by the doorway, and peeks their head in. “Monetary reward? If we find ‘The Pig’ ?” They blink.
The moderator looks at them up and down, “...Yes. Do you know anyone with that pseudonym?” She asks.
Pursing their lips, the employee mumbles, “I guess a little more money wouldn’t hurt…” They clear their throat. “Do you know the guy who’s stationed right beside the printer? Brown hair, brown eyes— the one with glasses?”
“Oh,” The moderator’s partner tilts their head, “Like that guy passing by?”
“Heh?!” The Writer stops dead in his tracks. He slowly turns his head, and takes in the scene before him. His boss, his co-worker, and two moderators in the same room… that means-
“Yeah. That guy,” The employee points at him. The Writer's eyes widen.
He turns around and makes a break for it.