Terms and Conditions Apply Be Careful What You Wish For chapter 2 by witeja9199

At nine-oh-five on a Tuesday night, the fourteenth floor of Grimshaw & Thripp Logistical Solutions contains Kirsten Pell, one dying ficus, and the particular silence of four hundred people having gone home to be happier elsewhere.

Kirsten is polishing a lamp. She pulled it from Gareth Voss's bin that afternoon, from between a cold sandwich and her own quarterly proposal, which Gareth presented as his own on Thursday. Kirsten believes in rescuing things. It's why she owns a one-eared cat and a career in a similar condition.

The third rub produces smoke. The smoke produces a genie.

He is seven feet of indigo in a waistcoat, wearing an expression of deep disappointment. He surveys the carpet tiles, the rowing-team poster captioned SYNERGY, the vending machine.

"Ah," he says. "They've got to the carpet tiles. Mistress of the lamp, I am Mazzaroth, Eternal Servant of the Brass, and you may have three wishes. No wishing for more wishes, no wishing for the dead, and no wishing for anyone to fall in love with you. The paperwork is appalling."

"Prove it," says Kirsten.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Prove you're a genie. Not a hallucination, not a prank. Gareth does pranks." She holds the lamp up like a hostile witness. "And don't say 'make a wish and see.' I've read the stories. I'd end up with an unbreakable contract and a goat."

"I would never pick a goat," says Mazzaroth stiffly. "Goats are very last century."

"So do something that isn't a wish."

The genie regards her with new respect. "Most people just scream and ask for money."

"I'm an Associate Analyst. I'm used to being underpaid, not surprised."

"Hm. Well, Schedule Two does permit Personal Alterations, at the genie's discretion, as a courtesy demonstration." He cracks his knuckles, which sounds like a cutlery drawer falling downstairs. "Any preferences?"

"Surprise me."

There is a pop. Where the genie stood is a pigeon, looking affronted. Another pop: a filing cabinet. A third pop, and the genie is a tall woman in a sharp pantsuit, still indigo, holding a clipboard and the exact same expression of disappointment.

"You've gone female," says Kirsten.

"Gender's a very low-grade enchantment," says Mazzaroth, in a pleasant alto. "I spent most of the fourteen-hundreds as a woman, and honestly, the hats were better." She glances at the clipboard. "Oh dear. This is the Human Resources one. It's what the room wants."

"Okay," says Kirsten. "Okay. I believe you. And I haven't used a wish."

"No," says Mazzaroth, and for the first time looks a little worried. "You haven't. Hardly anyone manages that. It's making me nervous."

Kirsten sits on the desk, still holding the lamp. "Tomorrow at ten I have a Performance Improvement Review with Gareth and a woman called Brenda, who has never smiled at anything with a pulse. I'm going to be 'transitioned out.' Which is what you say instead of 'sent to a farm.'"

With another pop, the genie is male again, waistcoat and all. "Then the solution is obvious. I could make you Chief Executive—"

"Careful."

"—Chief Executive of a different firm, then, one you'd actually—"

"Mazzaroth."

"I'm only saying the options are open."

In the corner, the photocopier gives a long, wet groan. A single sheet slides out of the tray. Kirsten looks at it. It reads, in smeared toner, PLEASE.

"Ignore that," says the genie quickly.

"Why is the photocopier asking for something?"

"The previous owner of the lamp." Mazzaroth lowers his voice. "A Mr. Hollis, Head of Strategy. He wished to be indispensable. I was very literal. Nobody's dared replace the machine in two years."

"You turned a man into a photocopier?"

"He turned himself into a photocopier. I merely removed the obstacles. Nobody in this building will ever throw him out. It's the most successful wish I've ever granted."

The photocopier jams, quietly and reproachfully.

Then, down the corridor, the lift goes ding.

"Kirsten?" Gareth's voice carries across the empty floor, bright with the brittle cheer of a man who has just Googled something. "Kirsten, is that you? Somebody's been in my bin! There's a lamp, and it turns out it's worth forty thousand pounds!"

The genie's indigo goes slightly grey. "Ah."

"What does 'ah' mean?"

"The rules of ownership are very simple. The lamp belongs to whoever last rubbed it with intent. He threw it away, so he gave up his claim. But if he lays a hand on it tonight, the lease reverts and I'm his." Mazzaroth swallows. "He'd have three wishes. Gareth Voss. With three wishes."

"What would he wish for?"

"Based on his Christmas party? A bigger parking space, and for you to be quiet."

Footsteps. Brisk ones. Gareth wears the shoes of a man who has never once been late for a promotion.

"I've got about eight seconds, haven't I?" says Kirsten.

"Seven. There is a fourth option, but you won't like it, and neither will the photocopier."

The footsteps stop at the door.