Patrick marched to approach his private office, which apparently he had always had one. Reidward once introduced this space to him the first day when he was put into this new world telling him how this was his favorite place before he had amnesia.
His boots clicking on the floorboards, trying to at the very least maintain a rich young master gait with his chest out and chin up.
Reidward trailed behind him, taking another aggressive swig from his flask.
The old man's eyes were bloodshot and sharp, scanning the room for anyone who might look at Patrick with anything less than worshipful awe. He spotted a young apprentice who was staring a bit too long at Patrick's confused expression.
"Eyes on the springs, boy, or I'll use your teeth as spare parts for a grandfather clock," Reidward hissed. The apprentice nearly fell off his stool.
Once inside the office, Patrick collapsed into a chair, his hands resting on the table desk. There were no paperworks in sight and there were only a piece of bell.
I guess I just ring this when I need something.
There were two couches on the either side, sideways from the desk, Reidward sat down on the couch, the old man's eyes on the papers on the small table in front of him.
The butler held some and started reading, though noticing that Patrick was glancing on his way he smiled and thought it was a way for his master of saying he wants some paperwork too.
Reidward stood up and lifted a mountain of papers from a random box in the room.
Patrick looked at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. It was all gibberish, ledger lines, supply chain logistics for Flux Capacitors, and something about tax exemptions for the merchant class.
"Reidward," Patrick said, leaning back and trying to look cool despite feeling like a toddler in a pilot's cockpit. "The tea. And the books. Now."
"Immediately, Master Patrick," Reidward bowed, his voice gravelly. "I have also taken the liberty of procuring a 'Social Etiquette for the Gifted' manual. It has many pictures. I thought it would suit your... unique learning style."
Patrick narrowed his eyes. "Are you calling me stupid, Reidward?"
"I am calling you a visionary who does not clutter his mind with the mundane details of literacy and logic, Master," Reidward replied smoothly, already heading for the door.
"A true paragon needs only his instincts."
As the door clicked shut, Patrick slumped.
The rizz energy was a exhausting facade. He picked up a heavy, leather bound ledger and opened it. It was full of numbers.
Disgusting.
He turned it upside down to see if it made more sense that way. It did not at all.
"Okay, okay," Patrick whispered to himself, his gaze wandering to a small, glowing crystal on his desk that served as a paperweight.
"I'm rich. I'm hot. I have a fiancée who is probably way too smart for me. I just need to survive until dinner without accidentally selling the company for a sandwich."
He leaned over and pulled a hidden drawer open, hoping for snacks. Instead, he found a stash of the smut novels the previous Patrick apparently kept. The cover featured a woman with skin that glowed like a neon sign and a man whose muscles had muscles.
"Finally," Patrick muttered, his eyes lighting up. "Practical research."
Outside the office, the muffled sounds of hammers hitting metal and the rhythmic ticking of a thousand clocks filled the air.
Before he could unzip his pants and open his briefs to take out his dick to stroke himself, a sudden knock at the door made him jump, nearly shoving the novel into his mouth in a panic.
"Master Patrick!" a muffled voice called from the hallway. "The lead engineer is here to discuss the... explosions in Sector 4!"
Patrick froze. Explosions?That sounded like a 'him' problem. He looked at the door, then at the window, then at his reflection one more time.
"Tell them... tell them I'm busy meditating on my rizz!" he shouted back, sweating.
He heard a resounding smack from outiside the door, a familiar voice shouted to him.
"Don't worry young master, no one will interrupt you!"
Outside the door was Reidward, the employee clutching his head as the old man took the papers he was holding.
"Lead me to the explosions. Now." Reidward said calmly, he was an experienced man and was supposed to be the acting president of the company after Patrick's father died. He knew many things about machines.
Inside the private office, after hearing Reidward's voice, Patrick hurriedly zipped back his trousers and stood up from his seat.
Panicking, his thoughts landed back to what he was reading. The first few lines of the smut book, an idea struck him during it.
That character kept mentioning how ideas change the world, and how the idea of sex was ideal.
At least before the sex part, Patrick had a stroke of luck and he grasped an idea.
He had a grand idea. That was, to ask the butler everything he didn't know directly since the old man looked considerate enough, he could only hope Reidward had patience to answer all his questions.
He then approached the door and took a deep breath to steel himself, then opened it.
Reidward was already far in the hallway from Patrick's line of sight, hurriedly running to chase after the old man.
Patrick sprinted down the hallway, his boots thudding against the brass-lined floorboards. He burst into Sector 4 just as a cloud of acrid, blue smoke was beginning to settle. The air tasted like pennies.
In the center of the room stood a massive, pulsating brass cylinder the "Something something Boiler."
It was hissing violently, venting steam from a crack in its side. The workers were scurrying around desperate to fix the mess immediately.
Reidward stood in the center, "The pressure is uneven," Reidward said, his voice still audible through the sound of the steam.
He was speaking with an experienced aged rational tone. "The manifold is vibrating at a frequency that suggests the internal gears have slipped their alignment."
"Tell me, Chief Engineer, did you check the thermal expansion coefficient before overclocking the core?" His eyebrows raised unimpressed.
The engineer, a man twice Patrick's width, was trembling. "W-we thought the crystal could handle the load, sir!"
"You thought," Reidward repeated, his voice dropping. "Thinking is for those who understand the math. You, however, have simply created a very expensive bomb."
Reidward stepped closer to the machine, his hands, usually shaky from the drink, now steady. "Open the secondary release valve. Slowly. If you flush the pressure too fast, the backflow will liquefy your lungs. Proceed."
As the workers scrambled to obey, they finally noticed Patrick standing in the doorway.
"Master Patrick!" the workers shouted in a panicked chorus, bowing briefly before returning to their cranking of valves.
Reidward turned, his crimson tinged eyes softening just a fraction. "Ah, Young Master. You've decided to grace us with your presence. A pity you had to leave your... meditation so soon."
Patrick walked forward, his eyes wide. He looked at the glowing machinery. It looked like a steampunk type of object.
He watched as Reidward guided a young woman on how to realign a set of spinning glass disks using a long, silver rod.
"Softly, child," Reidward advised the girl. "Treat the machine like a temperamental doggie. If you force the alignment, it will bite. If you coax it, it will provide."
Patrick felt a strange shift in his gut. This violent, alcoholic butler was actually a genius.
Seeing Reidward's competence made Patrick realize just how deep a hole he was in. He needed a baseline. He needed to know more information and know exactly where he is as he stands.
"Reidward," Patrick said, his voice sounding small against the sound of the boiler.
The old man looked up, wiping his hands on a silk handkerchief that was now black with oil. "Yes, Master?"
Patrick swallowed hard, ignoring the stares of the grease covered employees. "I... I need to know something. It's been bothering me since I woke up."
Reidward tilted his head, the smell of cheap gin wafting off him again as his "work mode" began to fade back into his "drunk mode."
Patrick took a breath and asked the question that had been gnawing at his brain, "How long was I in a coma?"
The room kept its background noise of people moving, as well as the clack clack clack of a cooling gear.
Reidward's expression remained neutral, taking slow swig from his flask before answering.