A man in his early thirties sat with impeccable posture at his desk, mocha fingers a blur over a keyboard. The organization of his station contrasted with the haphazard basement office.
Through the open door to the office, he heard a repetitive "Get out of the lift" from down the hall. The recorded message stopped and another man of the same age limped in, a dark air seeming to hover around his presence.
Spectacled eyes never left the monitor. "Still hurts?"
"I'm fine," grumbled the lanky Irishman. Throwing his bag onto his cluttered desk, he yanked back his decrepit office chair and half dropped in it, favoring his left leg. Popping open a small white bottle, he downed two aspirin with coffee leftover from Friday.
"You know, Roy, you do this to yourself," the typist said, glancing up. "That was a completely avoidable situation."
Roy slammed his coffee mug onto his desk. "Well y'know, they should give us a little more respect, Moss!"
Roy's phone rang. Moss' eyes looked over to his friend, fingers paused over his keyboard. Giving it a miserable glare, Roy growled a sigh and answered. "Hello, I.T." Moss went back to his own work. "Have you tried turning it off and on again? – No, I said that because I was bored - of course it works!" The ensuing conversation included some choice words along the lines of one's intelligence being comparable to fumes from a mammal's hindquarters. Roy slammed the receiver into it's cradle. Moss glanced at his watch.
Leaning back in his chair, Roy rubbed his face with both hands. "They can't follow simple instructions and they treat us like idiots!" Shoving away from his desk, he swivelled toward the break-room door. But he wasn't back far enough and whacked his sore leg on the metal desk's side. Yelping, he readjusted and disappeared into the break-room with his empty mug.
A few minutes later, Moss heard the lift's constant instructions. Also heavy banging on it's doors and an angry "I would if you'd let me, you – !" Sounds like Roy wasn't the only one having a bad day.
A large man in a pressed suit with a fresh stain on his shirt and a broken shoelace stormed in, glaring around the jumbled office. Not moving, Moss looked up wide-eyed at their "guest".
"WHERE'S ROY!" the man roared.
There was a crash of ceramic meeting floor. Moss' eyes flicked toward the break-room.
Zeroing on the noise, the man charged into the little room. A whimpered curse was followed by an "oof". "Call me a –, will ya! Well, I can kick just as hard!" The yelling was tolerable - they heard that on a daily basis - but the bodily blows made Moss wince. He kept working.
Now sweaty and disheveled, the man marched out of the office. Moss looked at his watch again. Six minutes and thirty-nine seconds. New record. He brought up the date on the watch. Six work days, ten counting weekends - shortest interval yet. Unacceptably worse.
He looked back at the quiet break-room. "Roy?" Nothing. Moss got up from his seat to investigate. He found his workmate gasping on the floor, back up against the wall of the closet-sized room.
Roy looked at him with unfocused eyes then looked away. While struggling to get up, he slurred, "Good thing I took those pain killers." Swaying on his feet, he staggered by Moss.
Moss watched. "Should I call the nurse?"
"No. I'll just have a lie down on the couch." Roy landed a little heavier on the couch than intended, grunted, then gave a deep, settling, exhale.
Moss curled his lips in, lightly shaking his head. Something needs to change. Moving into the corridor, out of earshot of his friend, he dialed his cell phone.
"Hello, Mr. Reynholms? This is Maurice Moss from IT. There is an urgent matter that needs to be attended to."
On the 28th floor of Reynholm Industries, a lean, powerful man hung up his phone. So, the IT department is having relations issues. He has noticed a slight drop in productivity in that area and those connected with it lately. He'll need to find someone to keep those boys under control, to head up the department.
Denholm Reynholm rang up his secretary. "Ms. Temmor? Get me Recruitment."