Chapter 2: The Great Paperclip Schism

Three days after the coffee rotation revolutionized the department, Izuku Midoriya stood before the whiteboard with a glint in his eyes that made Aizawa instinctively reach for his sleeping bag. The intern had printed out color-coded graphs, laminated them, and attached magnets to the back. They now clung to the board like a technicolor rash. "Based on our coffee success," Izuku began, adjusting his tie, "I've analyzed another critical efficiency drain: the paperclip supply chain." From his desk corner — currently serving as a pillow substitute — Aizawa groaned. "Midoriya. Paperclips are not a supply chain." "With respect, sir, you're wrong. We go through approximately 340 paperclips per week. Seven percent are used for actual papers. The rest are used as: makeshift earring hooks, bookmark replacements, lock-picking tools for the supply closet that HR accidentally superglued shut, and —" Izuku glanced at Yamada, who was visiting from HR under the pretense of a "cross-departmental wellness check" but was really just stealing coffee. "— as projectiles during department Nerf battles." Yamada held up his hands. "That was one time! And I apologized for the stapler!" "You didn't," Aizawa said flatly. "Well, I'm apologizing now. In spirit." Izuku pressed on, flipping to a spreadsheet that detailed paperclip usage by hour, employee, and emotional state. "I propose a tiered paperclip distribution system. Silver for standard documents, gold for priority projects, black for classified. Plus a mandatory recycling bin and a weekly inventory audit." Aizawa stared at the board. Then at Izuku. Then back at the board. "You want me to implement a paperclip caste system." "It's not a caste system, it's — well, technically it is — but it's efficient!" Against every survival instinct, Aizawa agreed. It took two hours to implement. It took another three for the department to rebel. It started with the gold paperclips. They were shinier, and everyone wanted them. A junior designer hoarded seventy-three under her keyboard. A senior engineer traded a sandwich for a handful of blacks. By lunchtime, there was a black market operating out of the break room microwave. By 2 PM, someone had bent a gold paperclip into a lockpick and raided the supply closet. By 3:30, two interns were arguing over whether a jumbo clip counted as "premium" — and one threw a stapler. Yamada caught it. "Again? Really?" Aizawa emerged from under his desk like a grumpy groundhog. "Told you." "But it was so logical!" Izuku wailed, clutching his clipboard. "Logistics don't account for human stupidity," Aizawa said, taking the clipboard and drawing a single line through the entire paperclip plan. "From now on: one bin, one type of clip, no hierarchy. And Midoriya? No more proposals until you learn that efficiency isn't always the answer." Izuku deflated. "Yes, sir." Yamada patted his shoulder. "Cheer up, kid. At least the coffee's still good." Aizawa crawled back under his desk. Some battles weren't worth fighting. But he made a mental note to hide the stapler.