I apologize for the similarities between this story and "Sounded Out" – I wrote the other one recently (which I think is better) but then found this one in one of my old notebooks, and since I liked some of the ideas in it I decided to keep it too. So maybe you can think of it is a companion piece or a sequel to "Sounded Out." :)

Also, the quote at the top was written in the margin of my notebook and so I'm not sure if I copied it down from somewhere else or if it is mine, lol. So I also apologize to whoever I might have stolen this quote from. :P

**Written for FanFic100!**

Exigency

089. Work.

Man does not know what depths are within him, until the time comes when he must abandon all selfishness for the sake of someone else. Then he has truly attained the state of something elevated.

-X-

He has learned to ignore the things that happen in the background. He can shut them out – or shut them up, as though there are recesses in his mind that can be locked, all unpleasant associations hidden within, put far out of observance, buried too deeply to be drawn out again. "Focus upon your work," he has been told, over and over again, the second his hand leaves the paper, or his mind leaves the task set before him in a momentary pause of reflection, for reflection has no place in this occupation. And what choice is left him but to do as he is bid? He has stooped low enough already – he can stoop no further – and so that is what Mr. Micawber does; tries to focus, with as much relish as he has approached the other obstacles placed before him in his life. It must be approached mechanically, he finds. Dip the pen into the ink; scrawl across the page; fill the accounts with grievous, intentional errors, as directed by your superior. Focus on your handwriting, on the rodential scritch-scratch of your work. For after all, you are little more than a rodent, now.

Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.

Mr. Micawber pulls another ledger from his shelf, so full with identically compromised ledgers, opens it up, and as he slams its corners upon the wooden desk, with the dull and lifeless thud he has heard so often lately, another sound creeps toward his attention. It is two voices, he perceives. One is pleading, slurred, anxious and sad and low.

"I checked it twice! There could be no mistake – no mistake…"

Mr. Micawber endeavors to return to the calculations in his ledger, but is checked in his study by the other voice.

The other voice was chill and damp, alarmingly deceptive, placating and triumphant at once. "Perhaps we were not in our right minds, partner, eh?"

Shut it out, Micawber. Employ yourself, sir!

Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.

It is dangerous to pause in your work, Mr. Micawber realizes, for, upon hesitating in sharpening the quill (which has grown as dull as the ledger's thud), he discerns, trembling beneath the two undulating voices in the next room, the notes of a piano. It is a slow, quiet song the piano gives for its mistress – who cannot shut out the things Mr. Micawber himself does – so plaintive, so lonely, each note taking flight and fluttering as if it escaped a terrible prison.

Yet the voices are still there – they are escalating. Micawber hears an argument, a broken cry of anger. The argument swells. "You are wrong, sir – wrong! Do not doubt my capabilities – there was a time – "

"Ah – was, indeed!"

Focus on your work, Micawber! Your pen lays idle. Yet the ruse is all up!

And – in that same instance, he hears the soft shuffle of fleeing footsteps, and a stifled sob, and the piano lays silent; and so does the pen of the clerk, in the little round office, for the first time all these many months.

Mr. Micawber, in his two-score and more sojourn on this earth, has learnt to shut out many things – tax collectors first – pessimism second; the sounds of deception, the sounds of weakness (his and others'), the sounds of a struggle for power and dominion – and yet it is the tread of footsteps, and a broken cry, that manages to stay his hand in turning the key of his mental hiding-place.

It is, thinks Wilkins Micawber, with a return of his beloved eloquence, a moment of exigency.

"I have failed at many occupations: I am not too proud to admit it. Some of these unfortunate relinquishments have been of my own initiation; others have arisen from extraneous circumstances in which I had no hand. But I think the Creator of all has laughed in the face of my lowly aspirations, and known, all along, what was better for Wilkins Micawber; I believe he has set me here, to do a Certain job for which I am, perhaps, more qualified!"

Mr. Micawber begins to set aside his accounts, to pull stacks of ledgers off the shelves, with an ambition and purpose unusual to him. The Wheel of Fortuna has been set in revolution; the die has been cast. I have reached a crux, at which there is no looking posterior-ly, but only ever forwards, despite all obstacles, for the sake of someone has no champion here.

I shall do my best to set things right. It is what I must do.

And he puts the pen to the paper, with a renewed purpose and determination, unknown to him before.

Focus on your work, Micawber!

Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.