[ WP ] The world 's oldest , most powerful wizard has had enough of his life . After two thousand years of adventure and magic he desires normalcy . Today is his first day at work as a janitor for an office building . He 's determined to fit in and not use his powers . How does it go ?

*I could burn this man from time itself*, Mikrathrin thought, watching his new supervisor through lidded eyes. *A soul unwound. Easy as swatting a gnat from a book. * 
 
 `` So what do we use when it's the glass, Mike?'' Donald asked, using the kind of tone one usually reserved for small children and not, Mikrathrin reflected, mages with power enough to flay a continent. 
 
 `` The blue stuff, Mr. Crist,'' Mikrathrin said in a soft voice. 
 
 `` You got it, bud!'' Donald said, plucking the appropriate bottle from the supply shelf and passing it to Mikrathrin. `` Why do n't you try it out on Conference Seven?'' 
 
 `` Can do.'' 
 
 Donald grinned at that, gave Mikrathrin a friendly slap on the shoulder, and left. The ancient mage watched him go, then stared at the blue bottle of cleaning solution in his hands. `` It's what you wanted,'' he said to himself, to the voice in his heart pleading for him to raze the building and leave nothing but the immaculate windows of Conference Seven standing in the rubble. 
 
 `` And where would that lead?'' he asked aloud, gathering supplies from the room and adding them to his cleaning cart. `` Another empire? More followers, more victims, more enemies?'' 
 
 He fingered his employee badge, the grainy laminated photo of him in a janitor's jumpsuit seeming a little less droll each day. `` At least this is new.'' 
 
 And so Mikrathrin cleaned the windows by hand, endured hollow praise from Mr. Crist, and continued his rounds, helping to put the accountants' offices in order and wondering when this life would start to feel rewarding. 
 
 A week passed, and Donald declared his training period complete, doing so with a deeply patronizing amount of pomp. There was even a certificate for it, still warm from the copier, and Mikrathrin was surprised to find all the words on it spelled correctly. 
 
 A month later, Mikrathrin's tireless, quiet efficiency had legitimately impressed Donald, to the point where the praise he bestowed actually felt genuine. That this brought the barest ounce of pleasure to Mikrahthrin was something that kept him awake long after he should have fallen asleep. 
 
 Three months down the road, and Mikrathrin finally agreed to accompany his co-workers to an all-hours bar. It was, like the rest of their lives, cheap, pointless, loud, and foul-smelling. It was also the best outing Mikrathrin could remember experiencing in three centuries. He joined his co-workers every time they asked after that, and once he started helping them win the trivia contests, those invitations became quite frequent, indeed. 
 
 A year, and Mikrathrin accepted the management position from Donald, who took a higher-paying job at another site. Mikrathrin had n't wanted it - had been quite clear he'd never desired a leadership role - and was summarily told that was partly why he'd gotten it. 
 
 Two years, and Mikrathrin's division of the cleaning service was the most highly-rated in the company. His salary, unnecessary though it might have been, was no longer quite so pathetic, and his circle of friends held him in genuine regard. Part of him hated it - hated the pandering, miserable, future-less grind of it all, the directionless, repetitive mess of a life these peasants clutched at simply because it was all they knew - but after all this time, he'd come to realize part of him would always hate everything. Fact was, while he was not exactly happy, he was content, and though he was not quite sure how, this empty, unmotivated life left him more fulfilled than a thousand years of spellforged conquest. 
 
 Three years in, and Mikrathrin realized it was n't the job, or the friends, or the accolades that had brought him peace - it was the expectations he'd placed on himself. He had gone into this hoping for a change of pace, a life away from mystic duels and the chatter of demons, and along the way, he'd sort of assumed it would all be for nothing. 
 
 That it had been for anything - even the slightest thing - was enough. He'd accomplished fantastic things in his long life, yet here, in a simple job of simple tasks carried out alongside simple minds, where even the smallest accomplishment could be heralded with cheers and drinks and photocopied certificates, everything seemed to count just a little more. 
 
 Thousands of years, the power of gods, and nothing in all of that had ever made Mikrathrin happier than a clean window. It would *never* be deeply rewarding or meaningful, and that, he was delighted to realize, was rather the point.
