Chapter 39: The Stolen Score
Sunlight streamed through Karn’s floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the sleek marble floor with long, golden rectangles. Pete, still clad in the ridiculously soft navy bunny pajamas Karn had given him, shuffled into the vast living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The scent of strong coffee and toasted bread lingered – a rare breakfast Karn had insisted on making himself, his movements sharp and purposeful. The easy intimacy of the shower and the shared laughter over Tarn's imminent photo-based doom felt distant, replaced by an unfamiliar tension radiating from Karn.
"Over here, Pete," Karn said, his voice crisp. He wasn't lounging on the minimalist sofa; he stood beside a small, high-tech projector he’d positioned to face a vast, blank expanse of wall. His laptop sat open on a low glass table, cables snaking to the projector. He was dressed now, impeccably as always in charcoal trousers and a dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, the Purple Tag subtly gleaming on its chain. The playful wolf from yesterday felt buried under a layer of focused intensity. "Sit. Floor's fine." He gestured to a spot directly in front of the projected area.
Pete obeyed, settling cross-legged on the cool marble, the bunny pattern wrinkling around his knees. He felt a prickle of nerves. This wasn't the Karn who plotted revenge with glee; this was the Karn who taught strategy, the Karn who navigated Titan's lethal corridors. "What's up?" Pete asked, trying for casual but hearing the slight tremor.
Karn stood beside the projected wall, back straight, gaze fixed on Pete. "Listen carefully," he said, his tone leaving no room for distraction. "Focus. What I'm about to show you... it's critical." He didn't elaborate on why it was critical, but the sheer weight in his voice made Pete sit up straighter, the last remnants of sleepiness evaporating. This mattered. Deeply.
With a few swift keystrokes, Karn brought the projector to life. A complex organizational chart filled the wall. At the very bottom, a thin red bar: TIER 4 RED TAG. Pete saw his own starting point. The bar climbed through TIER 3 RED TAG, TIER 2 RED TAG, TIER 1 RED TAG, then jumped to TIER 4 PURPLE TAG, climbing through the tiers until it reached the pinnacle: TIER 1 PURPLE TAG. Beside each tier, a number glowed.
Pete’s eyes widened as they climbed. Tier 4 Red Tag: 0 - 50. Tier 3 Red: 51 - 100. Tier 2 Red: 101 - 250. Tier 1 Red: 251 - 500. Then Purple Tags started: Tier 4: 501 - 1,500, Tier 3: 1,501 - 6,000, Tier 2: 6,000 - 20,000, Tier 1: 20,001+.
His gaze locked onto TIER 1 PURPLE TAG: 20,001+. That was Karn's bracket. Over twenty thousand? Pete felt dizzy. He knew the tags denoted hierarchy, power, privilege... but seeing the raw numerical gulf was staggering. It felt like staring up at a mountain from the very bottom of a deep, dark canyon.
"Performance score," Karn stated, his voice echoing slightly in the large room. He pointed at the towering Tier 1 Purple number. "Calculated continuously. Aggregated. It determines everything: rank, pay, access... survival." He paused, letting the immensity sink in. "Your starting point, Pete... your initial rank... isn't random. It’s calculated. Everything. Academic records." Karn’s finger traced the path from Tier 4 Red up. "Extracurriculars. Leadership roles. Published work. Everything you did before Titan gets crunched into a number."
Karn’s gaze met Pete’s, unflinching. "We had the same grades. Top of the class. But..." He tapped the keyboard. The chart shifted, showing two hypothetical entry points. Karn’s line started high in Tier 4 Purple. Pete’s plummeted to the very bottom of Tier 4 Red. "While I was captain of the debate team, interning at Thorne Industries subsidiaries, publishing papers co-authored by my professors... you were baling hay and fixing tractors after class to keep your family’s farm running." Karn’s voice wasn't accusatory; it was factual, almost clinical. "The system saw potential in me. It saw... manual labor and financial struggle in you. That's why you started at Tier 4 Red." He pointed to the tiny number at the base of Pete’s hypothetical line.
Pete swallowed hard. He’d known the disadvantage, but seeing it quantified, graphically mapped against Karn’s stratospheric starting point, was a punch to the gut. The farm work hadn't been a choice; it had been necessity. And it had branded him, numerically, as the lowest of the low.
"This," Karn continued, his voice dropping to a murmur, fingers flying across the laptop keyboard, "is information reserved for Tier 1 Purple Tags only. The mechanics of the cage." The projector screen changed. A complex spreadsheet appeared, rows and columns dense with data. Karn zoomed in on a single cell highlighted in yellow. Pete Riverton - Current Annual Performance Score: 1,148.
Pete blinked. Over a thousand? He was solidly into Tier 4 Purple Tag territory! His heart thudded against his ribs. He’d clawed his way up! Then Karn’s next words froze him.
"But," Karn said, the word sharp as a blade, "someone altered the records."
With a click, Karn split the screen. On the left: the spreadsheet showing 1,148. On the right: another, nearly identical spreadsheet. But the highlighted cell there read: Pete Riverton - Annual Performance Score: 52. Karn pointed to the right-hand screen. "This is what the official system shows everyone. This," he tapped the left screen, "is the truth Silas managed to scrape from deep backups."
Another click. The screen changed again. Two side-by-side logs – ‘Current Work History Log’ vs. ‘Recovered Work History Log (Silas)’. Pete leaned forward, squinting. The 'Current' log showed sporadic submissions, mediocre evaluations, long gaps. The 'Recovered' log… was a relentless surge of activity. Dozens of meticulously documented reports Pete had filed, complex analyses he’d submitted late into the night, positive feedback from managers that had inexplicably vanished. Dates, times, project codes… it was all there. His actual work, his sweat, his progress, systematically erased and replaced with a narrative of failure.
Pete’s stomach dropped. It plummeted through the marble floor, leaving him hollow. Seeing the forged documents side-by-side wasn't just shocking; it was viscerally violating. His knuckles whitened where they gripped his bunny-patterned knees. Someone hadn't just held him back; they'd actively stolen his potential, his effort, his value, and replaced it with dust. The canyon he thought he was climbing out of suddenly had sheer, greased walls he hadn't even known were there. The air felt thick, suffocating.
A low growl escaped Pete's throat, pure, unfiltered fury. "Who?" The word was tight, strained.
Karn didn't answer immediately. Instead, a slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face, a predator catching the scent. His fingers danced across the keyboard one last time. The damning logs vanished. In their place, filling the entire wall, appeared a new file. Bold, slightly whimsical font proclaimed the title:
OPERATION: BUNNY'S REVENGE
Below the title was a stylized graphic – a determined-looking cartoon rabbit wearing a tiny Red Tag helmet, wielding a carrot like a sword, standing triumphantly over a pile of shredded documents bearing the Titan logo.
Pete stared, his breath catching. The righteous fury still burned, white-hot, but it was suddenly met by a surge of something else. Something fierce, almost feral. Hope. Vengeance. Fueled by the master strategist standing beside him, wearing a smirk that promised utter, calculated annihilation.
Karn turned to him, the projector light casting sharp shadows on his handsome face, his purple tag glinting. He gestured grandly at the wall, at the bunny warrior. "Admiring the mascot? Told you you’d like the pajamas. Now," his eyes glinted, cold and sharp, "let's show them what happens when they try to cage the bunny. Little bunny can bite." He cracked his knuckles. "Hard."
Karn leaned against the glass table, the projector casting his sharp features in dramatic relief. "Forget the real one thousand for now," he ordered, fingers already dancing across the keyboard. The massive ‘Operation Bunny’s Revenge’ graphic vanished, replaced by a stark, official-looking interface titled: Titan Provisional Performance Score Estimator (Red Tag Accessible View). "We play their game first. Using only what they see."
He pointed at a line item glowing faintly on the screen: Pete Riverton - Official Annual Score: 52. Pete winced. That number felt branded onto his skin. "This," Karn tapped the screen beside the damning digits, "is the foundation they built your cage on. Now," he clicked open a log section, "let's input only your documented probation period work under me. Past three weeks. Only tasks visible in the public work logs."
Pete watched, heart thudding unevenly, as Karn rapidly selected entries. Each task Karn picked was mundane, sanitized – ‘Data collation (Project Hydra)’, ‘Basic report formatting (Q3 Analysis)’, ‘Document archival (Sector 7)’. Karn glanced at Pete, his expression unreadable. "Remember, I can't show you the real weight I assigned these. That's Purple only. So," he clicked a dropdown menu beside each task, "we use this. The lowest possible point value the system allows for public scoring of such tasks."
He selected ‘+1’ for ‘Data collation’. ‘+1’ for ‘Report formatting’. ‘+2’ for ‘Document archival’. Pete’s shoulders slumped slightly. One or two points per task? How could that ever add up to anything meaningful against the towering tiers Karn had shown? It felt like trying to fill an ocean with an eyedropper.
Karn finished selecting the lowest values for every logged task from the past three weeks. He paused, his finger hovering over the 'CALCULATE' button. "Ready for the corporate magic trick?" He clicked.
The screen flickered. For a second, nothing happened. Then, digits flashed, rapidly climbing: 10... 50... 100... 250... 500... 1,000... 1,500... 2,000... The number stabilized, bold and blinding:
Provisional Probation Period Score: 2,467
Pete choked on air. His eyes darted from the screen to Karn, then back to the impossible number. "Two thousand?" The word came out strangled. "But... but you used the lowest scores? For... for stuff like filing?"
Karn ran a hand through his hair, a rare flicker of genuine astonishment crossing his face. "Exactly. And that," he pointed emphatically at the glowing ‘2467’, "nearly gave me a heart attack three days ago when I ran it." He leaned closer to the screen, as if suspecting a glitch. "Doesn't make sense, right? Unless..."
He pulled up another window – a complex matrix showing task codes, difficulty tiers, and their base point values. "Look," Karn explained, highlighting several codes associated with the seemingly simple tasks Karn had assigned Pete. "‘Data collation (Project Hydra)’? Public log shows it as Tier 1 Red. But Hydra is a Tier 3 Purple project. The data Pete collated? Classified Tier 2 Purple complexity." He pointed to another. "‘Basic report formatting (Q3 Analysis)’? The underlying analysis Pete formatted required synthesizing data streams normally handled by three Tier 3 Purple analysts." He scrolled down. "‘Document archival (Sector 7)’? Involved cross-referencing encrypted protocols only Tier 2 Purples are supposed to access."
Karn turned to Pete, his gaze intense. "I gave you Purple-level work, Pete. Complex, high-value tasks worth exponentially more than single-digit Red Tag drudgery." His voice held a note of disbelief mixed with fierce pride. "And you inhaled them. Finished work worth four days for a standard Purple team member in a single afternoon. Handled multiple streams simultaneously without a single critical error logged, even in the public records."
He gestured at the staggering '2467'. "That number? It's the system's absolute minimum possible valuation of the sheer volume and implicit complexity of the work you did. Using the lowest public scores for the heaviest Purple-level lifts." Karn shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "Turns out, when you assign a bunny to haul freight meant for a truck, and the bunny not only manages it but sprints back for more... the math gets interesting. Violent, even."
He leaned back, crossing his arms, the Purple Tag glinting coldly. "Two thousand four hundred and sixty-seven points. For three weeks. On minimum visible credit." Karn's eyes locked onto Pete's, the playful predator resurfacing. "Imagine what your real score is. Imagine," his voice dropped, dangerous and thrilling, "what happens when we make them acknowledge it. Operation Bunny’s Revenge just got teeth. Sharp ones."
Pete stared at the number, then down at the fluffy bunnies on his pajamas. A slow, fierce grin spread across his face, mirroring Karn’s. The cage suddenly felt flimsier. The bunny could do more than bite. It could gnaw through steel.
Pete stared at the glowing ‘2467’, the impossible number burning into his retinas. The fluffy bunnies on his pajamas seemed to hop with newfound ferocity. It could gnaw through steel. The thought was fierce, exhilarating. But then, a colder wave washed over him, chilling the thrill. He looked up sharply at Karn, who was watching him with predatory satisfaction.
"Wait," Pete blurted, fingers twisting in the soft navy fabric. "If... if I got that much, even the fake-low score... doesn't that mean I took points that should've been yours?" His voice was tight with genuine worry. "All that Hydra data, the Q3 analysis – that was your workload. Your responsibility. The points for finishing it... shouldn't they have all gone to you?"
Karn stared at him for a beat, then a surprised, warm laugh escaped him. It wasn't mocking; it was soft, almost affectionate. "Pete," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "You worry about the strangest things. Thank you. Seriously." He walked closer, the projector light catching the sharp angles of his face. "I can't show you the real Purple evaluation window – security protocols, eyes only. But," he tapped the projected screen, calling up a simplified diagram, "there's a line item every evaluator must fill out: Contribution Allocation."
He pointed to a slider bar graphic. "For every task completed by a subordinate under a Purple's oversight, we assign a percentage contribution split. Subordinate... supervisor." Karn traced the bar. "For the Hydra collation, for example... I allocated you 90%. For the Q3 formatting, 85%. For Sector 7 archival... 95%. Because you did those things. Start to finish. Brilliantly."
Pete blinked, processing. "But... you still got some?"
"A small slice," Karn confirmed, his expression serious. "For the oversight. Checking your final reports for coherence and accuracy, which I did. For guiding your initial approach, which I provided. For taking responsibility if it went sideways, which I would have. That's the contribution. 10%, 15%, 5%." He met Pete's gaze directly. "It was fair. Square. I didn't inflate my slice. I never take what isn't earned. That's the point."
He leaned back against the glass table again, a thoughtful frown replacing the earlier warmth. "But Pete... see the weakness yet? The gaping hole in this system?"
Pete froze. The implications slammed into him like cold water. "If... if the Purple evaluator wasn't fair?" he breathed, horror dawning. "If they were greedy? Or just... malicious? They could assign me... 5%. Or 1%. Claim they did 95% of the work I actually did. They could give themselves massive points... for doing nothing." The cage walls seemed to reform, thicker than before, built on silent theft.
Karn’s smile was sharp, devoid of humor. "Absolutely. Precisely. And that," his voice dropped, low and intense, "is the rot Sean, Silas, the Tier 1 Execs, and I have been surgically removing for the past three weeks." He pushed off the table, pacing a tight circle on the cool marble. "The flaw in the foundation."
He stopped, facing Pete fully, the city skyline a glittering backdrop. "When you make Purple, you go through ethics workshops. Integrity seminars. 'Be fair to your Reds! Don't steal their credit!' They drill it in." Karn’s lip curled slightly. "But it's all honor system. Gentle reminders. Until the Pete Riverton Incident."
Pete flinched slightly at the term. "Incident?"
"The day I made you my PA," Karn stated, his gaze locked on Pete's. "After the Board meeting? Remember Sean demanding you demonstrate your workflow? Right there, in my office?"
Pete nodded, recalling the intimidating scrutiny, Karn’s calm instructions, his own frantic efficiency under pressure.
"They followed us back," Karn continued, his voice taut. "Sean and all the Tier 1 Exec board. Watched you tear through that backlog like a whirlwind. Saw the precision, the speed, the sheer volume you processed flawlessly. And then someone," Karn’s eyes flashed cold fire, "pulled up your 'official' record on the spot. That pathetic 52. That fabricated history of mediocrity."
He took a step closer, the air crackling. "The dissonance was... deafening. Sean looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. Silas just stared, calculating. They saw it instantly. The work Pete Riverton actually did, versus the insulting fiction in the system." Karn’s jaw tightened. "That's when they realized. The workshops weren't enough. The system itself was enabling theft. On an industrial scale. And you," he pointed at Pete, his gesture sharp, "you were the glaring proof it was broken."