Aktamun guiltily pulled his hand out of his pocket, which contained a small bag filled with small magical artifacts he always carried with him: a hyena's tooth, an unmarked die made out of obsidian, a falcon's wishbone, the tattered remains of an old sacrificial cloth. The spell he had just done was one of the easiest ones he knew, because all it did was introduce chaos into a situation. It was like releasing a bird: you could choose when to let it go, but you would not be able to predict what way it would fly.
But even then, it was still magic. And all magic had a price.
Because at Kent's accusation, Aktamun immediately lost all of his face as he turned around to angrily address his new colleague. "What the hell? I would never do that--"
He was interrupted by the printer, which began whirring louder and louder and louder, spewing out papers until there was a fizzle. Aktamun could smell the sharp smell of burnt rubber.