Fred Aiken Writing

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort stood before the full-length mirror in his office, meticulously adjusting his tie. The room around him was a veritable fortress of modern corporate paraphernalia: framed motivational posters adorned the walls, their platitudes masked as wisdom; the desk, a monolithic slab of mahogany, bore the scars of countless meetings, each nick and scratch a testament to battles fought and won. He waited patiently in stoic silence by the desk, sitting in his ergonomic office chair.

Ready to fight. Ready to conquer, he told himself.

Today held the weight of destiny. The meeting that loomed ahead was no ordinary gathering of minds; it was a council of war, a confluence of critical decision-makers whose decrees would shape the very future of the company. Or so Sir Cyrius believed.

He donned his helmet, its visor clanging shut with a decisive finality. The faint scent of polished metal and old leather filled his nostrils, grounding him in the gravity of the moment. He picked up his leather-bound notebook—a tome of strategies and counter-strategies, of financial forecasts and market analyses. Each page was meticulously annotated in his precise, angular handwriting.

He strode to the door, the click of his polished loafers echoing in the silent corridor. As he approached the conference room, he could hear the murmur of voices within, a low hum of anticipation. The door, a barrier between the mundane and the monumental, swung open with a creak. He stepped inside.

The room was a stark contrast to his expectations. His colleagues—Diane from HR, Steve from Marketing, and Hilda from IT—sat around the table, their postures relaxed, their expressions betraying no hint of the import of the occasion. They exchanged pleasantries, sipped coffee from disposable cups, and shuffled papers with an air of casual disinterest.

Sir Cyrius took his seat at the head of the table, his notebook thudding onto the polished surface. He cleared his throat, a sound that reverberated through the room like the tolling of a distant bell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice a measured blend of authority and gravitas, as if he were talking to an auditorium of thousands rather than a party of three barely awake coworkers, “we are gathered here to discuss matters of utmost importance. The future of our company hinges on the decisions we make today.”

Diane glanced up from her phone, her brow furrowed in mild confusion. “Right, Cyrius,” she said, her tone placating, “but first, can we go over the quarterly team-building budget?”

“It is Sir…Sir Cyrius,” he corrected.

“Yes, well, can we please get on with the meeting without too much interruption?”

Unperturbed, Sir Cyrius pressed on. “Indeed, Diane, but let us not lose sight of the larger battle at hand. Our market position is under siege. We must fortify our defenses and launch a decisive counteroffensive.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sure thing, Sir Cyrius. But before we dive into that, we really need to finalize the plans for the company picnic.”

Sir Cyrius nodded, his visor dipping in solemn agreement. “Very well. But remember, every move we make, no matter how small, contributes to the greater strategy. The picnic, too, must be seen as a maneuver in our campaign to strengthen company morale and solidarity.”

Hilda, adjusting her glasses, chimed in. “I’ve got the IT report ready. No major issues, just a few updates needed. Should take ten minutes tops.”

Sir Cyrius listened intently, his mind whirring with the possibilities. Each report, each budget item, was a piece of the grander puzzle. “Excellent. Ensure those updates are implemented posthaste. We cannot afford any vulnerabilities.”

As the meeting wore on, it became clear that the gravity Sir Cyrius attributed to the proceedings was not universally shared. His colleagues, while diligent and professional, treated the agenda with a level of casual detachment that belied the stakes he perceived. They discussed the minutiae of office life—supply orders, upcoming birthdays, and parking space allocations—with a lightness that seemed almost heretical to Sir Cyrius’s serious sensibilities, especially since he was of a Serious Sort.

Yet, as the hour drew to a close and his colleagues began to disperse, Sir Cyrius remained undaunted. For in his mind, every decision, every action, was part of a grander narrative, a tale of corporate valor and strategic brilliance. He rose from his seat, gathered his notebook, and nodded to his departing comrades.

“Remember,” he intoned, “we are the guardians of this company’s future. Let us conduct ourselves with the seriousness our mission demands.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort felt a surge of resolve. The battle, as he saw it, was far from over. And he, its steadfast knight, would continue to fight with every ounce of his considerable seriousness and valor.

Onward, Sir Cyrius recited. For the future. As bright and serious as it shall be!