Per 
i Legally have to write a tale on how clef is the prince of the hades tigers blaseball team.
he isn't even a tiger. he's a TACO.
anyway, wish me a quick -10.
Clef, Prince of Blaseball, High Royalty of the Hades Tigers
There's a reason you never watch sports in a staff breakroom.
A junior researcher might be quick to point out that a rule like that applies less equally to Alto Clef: Doctor, Site Director, Christmas Saver, and/or Romantic at Heart. A clever one might leave it at that. Whatever Clef actually was or had done, people liked him. The type of people that were in charge of being in charge of the people who made sure you got your paystubs on time.
So when he hogged the best chair in front of the interdimensional television, fully bedecked in Hades Tigers regalia and a foam taco hat to show his hometown allegiance, exactly no one said a word about it. A few people came in, of course; championships always pull in a bigger crowd, and Season 12 currently was pitting the Tigers against the Seattle Garages, 2-2. First to three games won, game four was almost over, and game five was going to be blistering.
"'Least it looks like they're ending it quick," a woman slumped over the back of the couch observed. She apparently didn't give a shit that she had just come back from a job; her MTF gear hung half-undone and an old Garages cap had been perched loosely over top of her ponytail, the only thing signifying her team allegiance whatsoever.
"The incinerations aren't good for player morale," Clef agreed, not bothering to look over. "And I feel like we see enough of that shit."
"Well, not the Tigers right now. Y'all are immune."
Clef shrugged, letting the point stand. "You rooting for the underdog, then?"
"It'd be hard for me not to, yeah. Garages rock. And Tigers are obviously just winning this game because we're playing scared- we'd have taken the Championship already if not for you getting some lucky weather."
This time she got his attention. "The Garages?" He scoffed. "Garages don't stand a chance! The Tigers are a freaking powerhouse!"
"If the Tigers were such a 'powerhouse'," the woman air quoted, "they wouldn't have waited until game five for their last win, would they?"
"Your team literally stole a pitching machine from the Los Angelii Unlimited Tacos, and it's the best pitcher in your rotation!"
She looked up, noting his gluten-based hat. "You're the ones who voted out all of your other pitchers and had to be given a machine. Are you seriously still bitter about that?"
"Pitching Machine was doing work for us!" Clef shouted, slamming the hat onto his chair's arm.
"Hahahaha, you know, it's all fun and games and not our reality, maybe we can not argue so loud?" The only junior researcher left in the room laughed nervously.
Clef and the woman looked at each other for a second, reaching a consensus.
This was not one of the clever ones.
If looks could kill, Clef's would've levelled the building and the Garage fan's would have shot down any survivors in cold blood.
After the junior researcher had dropped his coffee cup and bolted, they turned to look back at each other.
"… Clef," he said, sticking out a tiger-pawwed hand. "Doctor, mainly because I could blackmail anyone who tried to take away my certification. Clef's fine."
"Aries," she replied, shaking the hand. "Sigma-66, handler. Technically."
"Sounds fake."
"So does Clef, blackmail doctor."
Clef considered this for a second. "Fair 'nuff. I have a proposition for you."
Aries snickered, leaning forward a bit against the couch. "Sorry, you aren't my type."
"Funny. No, this is my proposition: if next Saturday the Garages somehow manage to pull off a win and get this Championship, I'll get 'Seattle Garages Own This' tattooed on my ass." Clef thumped it to illustrate the point.
Aries' eyes narrowed. "If the Tigers win, I'll get their fully-colored logo. Same place." She slapped her own ass harder, as if to double down on the bet.
"Deal?"
"Deal." Clef grinned.
- and they watched the Garages fall to the pressure together, temporary truce officially in place.
For Clef, the week sped by- business as usual. A couple of things to sign, a couple of things to delegate, a couple of things to punch into a couple walls. He decked himself out again, adding a tiny Tigers banner to his shell of a hat, and strolled toward the staff breakroom. The chair was open for him again, and it was obvious very quickly that this had been intentional.
Piled onto the couch, around the tables, and in some cases, on the floor, was a Mobile Task Force, all outfitted in Garages' gear… and remote detonator collars. Aries, her blaseball hat off balance, was chatting with one of them from her place behind the couch, gesticulating widely as she told some story.