Filed under: Familiar Ghosts and Forgotten Bravery.

Ald Firt (pronounced /ɔːld fɑːɹt/) sat at his usual corner table in the old café, staring at a crumpled printout of Johnny Dolittle’s infamous four-column values table — the one he had claimed was co-created, just before revealing it had already been pre-approved by management. Ald’s eyes narrowed. He took a slow sip from his coffee — though something stronger might have been preferable — and rummaged through his pockets. When did I see this already? The columns blurred for a moment, and he let out a deep sigh. Another reform. Another round of ‘innovation.’

Another group of bright-eyed poodles yapping about transformation while preparing to devour whatever scraps of credibility were left.

He had seen this before.

Too many times.

He leaned back, rubbed his temples, and before he knew it, the past started creeping in. The last Reform, the one from years ago… It was all coming back. They sighed, feeling a wave of déjà vu. This had all happened before, hadn’t it? With a quiet sigh, they let their mind drift back to a time when someone had actually tried to push back against the machine…

Back then, Ald Firt had been there, too. Not as a decision-maker, not as one of the eager reformers, but as an attendee, a reluctant participant in yet another consultation. He had watched, he had listened, and in the end, he had sighed just as he would now. And of course, back then, Manager the 3rd, known as ‘Philosopher’ was in charge.

As a contrast to Manager the 4th, Lionbum, who was well-dressed, always smiling, and eternally reassuring, Manager the 3rd, ‘The Philosopher,’ was… pretty much the same. Both were neat and clean, well-dressed without appearing too elegant, and both masters of the art of appearing thoughtful while saying nothing at all. If Lionbum’s words were elegantly phrased emptiness, The Philosopher’s were sophisticated noise wrapped in eloquent vagueness.

Neither had ever been known for a firm decision, a concrete idea, or heaven forbid, a meaningful action. And yet, their reigns had been hailed as periods of wisdom, stability, and great vision—despite the fact that each declared the previous vision unworkable, immeasurable, or, in Lionbum’s words, ‘absolute twin-bollocks.’

“Of course, nobody could quite say how successful the last one had been before it was scrapped” thought Ald Firt, “and of course, it was remarkably easy to be remembered as a visionary when no one could quite recall what you had actually said.”

Yet amidst all of it, he remembered, one voice had dared to rise. The Rebel. A bright middle-aged professional and scientist, a firm believer in statistics and reason, and entirely free of ambition—he simply cared to do his work in service of the people, which explained his mid-level position. A figure who, like everyone else, cared—but unlike them, refused to stay silent.

The first workshop had been called to oversee a grand reshuffling 3.0, a reimagining of processes, and the launch of a bright new technical direction—whatever that meant. Manager the 3rd had framed it as a vital step forward, a crucial reform “to ensure efficiency, accountability, and a bold new future.”

The task? To create five new possible organizational models, which would then be forwarded to a randomly selected citizen committee for careful evaluation and debate. Once their recommendations were compiled, a final workshop was held to review the options. Manager the 3^rd had deliberately planned not to be present for this session—a grand show of neutrality and deference to the citizen committee’s wisdom, ensuring that their verdict would appear independent and unquestioned.

It was at this second workshop that the Rebel stood up, voice steady, unhurried. They weren’t loud, weren’t defiant in the usual sense, but there was something unsettling about how calmly they presented their case.

“Before we move forward,” the man said, clicking the first slide, “I think it’s important to understand where we are coming from.”

A graph appeared on the screen: a timeline of previous structures, dating back 19 years.

Slide after slide, he walked the room through every past reform, each one a “bold new transformation” that promised efficiency, stability, and progress. Seven different models. Seven different ways of reinventing the same thing.

By the time he reached the final slide—a looped animation where each structure morphed into the next and back again, forming an infinite cycle of reinvention—the air in the room had grown… uncomfortable.

Some people shuffled their papers.

Some nodded gravely, as if pretending they were processing deep wisdom.

Manager the 3rd was not there, of course—his absence a deliberate display of neutrality.

And yet, not a single person reacted.

Instead, the debate proceeded exactly as planned.

For an entire day, they discussed, compared, argued, and passionately defended models 1.0 through 5.0. By the end, after much deliberation, they narrowed it down to two — models 2.0 and 5.0, the two options most likely to succeed.

Then, a delegation of citizens, led by Manager the 3rd’s deputy, Ms. Blund’Er (MB for short in memos), formally presented the committee’s recommendation. Manager the 3rd listened with great interest, nodded thoughtfully, and hailed the committee’s performance.

And the next morning, at the “town-hall” type of stand-up meeting, with great fanfare, Manager the 3rd unveiled Model 4.0 as the bold new model of government—never mind that the citizen committee had discarded it early on.

Nobody objected.

Nobody asked why.

Actually, nobody cared.

The workshop was described as a great success.

And the world kept turning at the same speed, business continuing in spite of these grand Reforms, thanks to the polite, well-meaning citizens—fair-minded and practical, yet also spirited, empathetic, bold, and open-hearted—who carried on with the real work while the visionaries debated their next masterpiece of reinvention.

Ald Firt blinked and returned to the present. He frowned, as if trying to grasp onto something slipping from memory. Manager the 3rd, the Philosopher—he could still see him clearly, still hear his carefully measured words. Manager the 4th, Lionbum, was even fresher in his mind. But what about Manager the 2nd? Or the 1st? Their faces had faded into indistinct shapes, their words lost in the same vague echoes of wisdom and reform. And before them—who had even come before them? Had there always been a Manager, repeating the cycle? Or had there been a time before the endless reforms, before the visionaries and the committees?

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a battered flask, and emptied what little peppermint schnapps was left. It burned, but at least it masked the staleness of both the alcohol and the endless cycle of reforms. With a sigh, he tucked the flask away, folded the memo in half, and let it drop onto the table. The machine would keep turning.

He had seen it all before, and he would see it again. Or maybe not. Maybe this time, his position would become yet another collateral casualty of the eternal chase for strategic excellence — just as the Rebel’s had, among some others, not that long ago.

And so, as always, he muttered to himself, ‘Nothing new under the sun,’ though for a fleeting moment, he wondered if there had ever been a sun before the cycle began. He sighed, pushed himself up from his chair, and shuffled out into the cold. Behind him, the memo remained untouched. Another new leader, another new plan, another promise of transformation.

Yet, for just a moment, the memory of the Rebel lingered.