"Why would you make a graphic look like a button?" Reggie said. "Why aren't there actual buttons?"
Behind him, his co-worker Muti sighed. Reggie recognized the sigh as the one that came whenever Muti was going to complain about something really dumb.
"I'm thinking about swapping my standing desk for a sitting desk again," Muti said, even though he had swapped his sitting desk for a standing desk like three fucking days ago after bitching about how the seat made his back hurt for a solid month. "I know it's probably good for my circulation because our culture's infatuation with sitting on our ass is basically one big luxurious suicide, but I really hate it. My back hurts so much right now."
The gunfire was getting closer. A dozen Terrordoom security personnel jogged by, each carrying a large, snake-shaped rifle.
"Do you know how to find out where someone is in the office?" Reggie asked without turning around. "I need to ask Mobius something."
"I think this is like my gym membership," Muti mused. "I bought it because I figured that I would force myself to keep a commitment to being healthy, right? Only I never go."
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The only people who go to the gym are stock-photo models.
An explosion shook the office. The Groot bobblehead on top of Muti's monitor bobbled. "I am Groot!" it said.
"I feel like I'm just not cut out for office work," Reggie said. "I'm supposed to be in a field somewhere, messing around with some explosives and seismographs and weapons. That's what I'm good at. I invented the homing sticky grenade with the delay-fuse, for crying out loud. I'm not sitting at some desk trying to figure out how to fucking access a fucking private fucking spreadsheet, fuck."
"It's weird because I'm super good at working at my job," Muti continued, not listening. "Like, I'll avoid my family, my friends, all for my career. I'd do anything for this company. But I can't even trick myself into working out, or eating right, or sticking with my standing desk. I wish I were half so dedicated to myself as my career, ya know?"
"Oh, here it is," Reggie said, his frustration melting. "OK, I guess I can schedule a meeting with him next week to ..."
He trailed off, realizing that there was no reason to narrate anymore.
A soldier burst into the office, wearing a jet-black wetsuit and carrying an advanced combat rifle of some kind. He started to shout something but immediately exploded, the upper half and lower half of his body flying in opposite directions. His death made a sound like a wiffle bat smacking open a soggy paper bag full of spaghetti. Oh good, Reggie thought to himself, they're using my homing grenades.
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