Fred Aiken Writing

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort moved with an air of solemnity through the glass-paneled labyrinth of Innovatech’s headquarters. The sharp, metallic clang of his polished helmet echoed in the sterile corridors, drawing bemused glances from his colleagues, despite having worked at Innovatech for nearly a decade. His office stood a testament to his unique blend of medieval gravitas and corporate acumen, a fortress of order amidst the chaos of the tech company. Shelves lined with meticulously organized binders detailed campaigns of past seasons, while antique swords hung on the walls, which concerned a few of colleagues in HR but the executives did not seem to care so long as Sir Cyrius performed superbly each quarter.

It was a typical Thursday morning when the emergency meeting was called. The CEO, Jonathan Thorne—known for his graying temples and perpetual look of restrained exasperation from working too many NYT crosswords and late-night, high-stakes black jack tables—paced the front of the conference room, his polished shoes tapping out a staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor. Around the table, executives sipped their artisanal coffees and exchanged worried glances.

The waves of murmuring quieted as Sir Cyrius entered the threshold of the conference room.

“Sir Cyrius,” Thorne began, his voice strained, “we have a mole. Our latest project, the QuantumEncrypt software, has been compromised. Confidential information has been leaked, and I need you to find the culprit.”

Sir Cyrius nodded gravely, his visor clanking shut with the resolute finality of a knight donning his gauntlet. “Fear not, for I shall unearth this perfidious knave and restore honor to our house.”

His first stop was the IT department, a hive of activity where rows of programmers typed away at illuminated keyboards, their faces bathed in the bluish glow of monitors. Gregor, the disgruntled coder, sat at his cubicle fortress, surrounded by a parapet of empty energy drink cans and stacks of outdated coding manuals. Sir Cyrius approached with the air of a medieval inquisitor.

“Gregor,” he intoned, “where were you during the hours of the leak?”

Gregor, bleary-eyed and jittery, looked up. “I was here, working on the backend integration. Check the server logs, you’ll see.”

Sir Cyrius’s investigation confirmed Gregor’s alibi. The logs, precise and unyielding, showed Gregor’s keystrokes meticulously timed to the moment.

Next, Sir Cyrius turned his attention to Martha, the ambitious project manager. Her desk was a battlefield of color-coded sticky notes and meticulously organized project plans.

“Martha,” Sir Cyrius began, “your ambitions are well-known. What say you to these accusations of betrayal?”

Martha leaned back, crossing her arms. “My ambition is here, Cyrius. I’m gunning for that VP position, not some rival company’s table scraps. You can check my correspondence, it’s all above board.”

Sir Cyrius, through a deft inspection of her emails and project timelines, found no evidence of malfeasance. Her ambition, though fierce, was focused inward.

Then there was Hank, the enigmatic janitor, a figure as inscrutable as he was unassuming. Hank’s closet, a sanctuary of cleaning supplies and whispered confidences, seemed an unlikely place for treachery. Yet, Sir Cyrius was thorough.

“Hank,” he said, peering into the dimly lit closet, “what secrets do you hold?”

Hank, with his mop and bucket, looked up with a knowing smile. “Follow the shadows, Sir Cyrius. Sometimes the answers are where you least expect.”

“How cryptic. But I shall, ye sanitation maestro. I will look in each and every nook and cranny of this infernal department until I find the treacherous mole.”

Days turned into nights, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows as Sir Cyrius poured over logs, emails, and security footage. His perseverance finally bore fruit—a security log revealed an anomaly. Someone had accessed the system during the twilight hours, from an unusual place: the CEO’s office.

The climactic confrontation unfolded in the atrium, a battlefield of ergonomic chairs and potted plants. Sir Cyrius, with the fervor of a knight unmasking a traitor in Camelot, presented his findings to the board.

“Jonathan Thorne,” Sir Cyrius declared, his voice resonating through the atrium, “you are the source of this treachery. Your clandestine dealings with our rivals have imperiled our realm.”

The CEO’s face twisted from feigned confusion to thinly veiled malice. The evidence was irrefutable, his clandestine emails and late-night system accesses laid bare. He had been selling Innovatech’s secrets to the highest bidder, jeopardizing the very foundation of the company.

Thorne, cornered and exposed, offered no defense. The board swiftly removed him from his position, the whispers of his betrayal echoing through the atrium. Sir Cyrius, though weary from his quest, stood tall, his honor and the company’s integrity intact.

As dawn broke over the city, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort returned to his office. The first light of morning filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow on his meticulously ordered desk. The modern world, with its tangled web of digital and bureaucratic challenges, had been no match for his resolve.

With a final glance at the orderly chaos of his office, Sir Cyrius donned his helmet once more. The battle had been won, but he knew more challenges awaited. Stepping into the new day, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead, his seriousness and dedication unwavering.