When he walked in in the morning, it was almost like none of it had ever happened. As usual, he received nothing but an offhand grunt of greeting from the Major, who was too invested in his crossword puzzle to say anything more substantial. He curiously looked over his shoulder and saw, per the norm, only three words were filled in, two of them incorrect. He snickered softly, almost inaudibly, and his first clue that the previous day was more than a dream happened suddenly, subdued enough that, if he didn't know the Major so well, he wouldn't have noticed.
But he did know the Major, and he knew that he was typically too self-absorbed to notice Carl's quiet laugh, so the tiny flinch and slight turn of the head was enough for Carl to know that, no, things were different.
He walked toward his desk, deciding against attempting lighthearted banter with the Major, and looked at his nameplate. 'Carl Karl. Unpaid Intern.' That's what it read at first glance in any case, though when he looked closer he saw that the 'Un' had been scratched out with a black sharpie. He sighed fondly, knowing that he couldn't have expected a new nameplate or a new desk, considering the agency's budget, and he couldn't bring himself to be even mock-indignant. He simply sat down and looked at the paperwork sitting before him. It, fortunately, was no different than usual, and he set to it with the same humorless amusement as he usually assigned it. All was normal. All was normal.
Peter the Panda passed his desk and doffed his hat. "Still no nemesis, eh?" he asked amicably, and the panda shrugged, but those eyes looked a bit more willing to humor, a bit more interested-only-not-really, and that was his second clue. He wasn't sure what it was, exactly, and so he didn't know how to feel about it. "Good luck today," he said, in that teasing voice, as Peter noticeably did not roll his eyes as he nodded slightly and sipped coffee from his mug, walking to his own work area.
Carl exhaled a deep breath he did not know that he had been holding and picked up a pen, filling in information on the paper, and somehow it felt more boring than usual. Not that paperwork was typically the most fascinating thing in the world, but usually it didn't really bother him. It was just there, and it had to be done, and it was his job, and it would get him credits. But, somehow, it just felt so pointless and beneath his abilities. Like the credits they were giving weren't worth the hours wasted.
He backed up in shock at his thoughts and almost knocked his chair over as he got up and pointedly decided that he was in need of a walk. He nervously began rubbing his hands as he left his desk and walked over to the water cooler, hoping a clear head was all he needed. Nobody was at the cooler, and he subconsciously wondered whether the agents had noticed him coming and decided to avoid him, or if he was just paranoid. He furiously poured himself some water and shoved it down his unthirsty throat. He decided to see if his mind had calmed itself, but when he was trying not to think about his irritation it was even more transient than usual.
They don't fear me they appreciate my spinelessness that's why they're nice now they finally realize how good it is to have a lackey who doesn't think and simply obeys they hate how they lost that and they don't want to lose it again they want that ray that turned me good to make me even more 'good' than before they want me to work without pay until I waste away from exhaustion.
He couldn't bring himself to be horrified until he noticed that he had crushed the empty paper cup in his hand. He decided that returning to his desk was a bad idea.
A relapse. A relapse! He, Carl Karl, was having a relapse from that stupid machine. At least, that's what he decided on, knowing that a relapse was preferable to the other option, the option that the ultimate-evil-inator had unlocked something inside of himself and he'd never be able to seal it within complacency again. He hyperventilated like a primeval fear had swept over him as this possibility became the only viable one in his mind. That he was ruthless and selfish, and now he wanted to act on this again.
He felt the sudden urge to tell the Major that the re-good-inator had not been entirely successful, and urge him to force Doofenshmirtz to make another, more potent one. One that could get rid of these feelings of negativity entirely. He knew that the Major would accept the claim with little doubt and agree to it and make no attempts to read further into it, and that, despite everything, made him feel indignant.
But it worked for his purposes, so he approached the Major.
"Ah, Carl, good to see you. I wanted to ask you something."
Eyes wide, he wondered if the Major had noticed, if he, too, suspected a relapse, if he was going to make the same suggestion he was planning to make and suddenly the concept of being called out, found out, terrified him and any indignant paranoia fled in favor of an urge to please. "Y-yes, sir?"
"What's a six-letter word for a deer horn?"
He felt like laughing hysterically. Or maybe vomiting. "Antler, sir."
"Antler, yes, of course." He began to write on the newspaper before looking up skeptically. "No, it's supposed to start with an 'O.'"
"Let me see that, sir." He took the newspaper in his hand and said, slowly, "Sir, the gold-medal figure skater in 2010 was not named 'Yoko.'"
"Really? But I was sure of that one."
"It's Yuna, sir."
"Feh, po-ta-to, po-tah-to."
He rolled his eyes and laughed softly, and forgot to look and see if the major flinched again.