The morning came both slower and faster than I would have liked. I glanced at Seymour, still asleep. He had wedged himself between the wooden frame of my bed and the wall. In fear of a midnight visit from Florence, he had made the tactical decision to be a hermit crab for the evening.

  A whistle sounded from the kitchen, and the smell of eggs wafted through the house. Florence was awake—and cooking? I made my way through and found her bright-eyed and bushy-tentacled.

  "Morning, Florence," I croaked. "Sleep well?"

  "I slept wonderfully," she sighed, whipping one of her tentacles behind her back. Was that one of Seymour's nightshirts?

  "How did you sleep?" she asked, a faint pink touching her tentacles. I pretended I didn't notice.

  "I didn't."

  "Well, here." She thrust a cup of coffee and toast into my hands. "We need you sharp... just hold on a second. SEYMOUR!" The shout took me by surprise.

  A jump and clatter rang out from the bedroom, and Seymour scuttled in frantically.

  "What's happening?" He looked every inch the lobster, scuttling back and forth, claws clacking. Well, that's surprising; it seems Seymour chooses fight over flight.

  "I made something for you." Florence's voice had gone up a few octaves as she handed him a large pan of eggs, sausages, bacon, tomato, mushroom, toast, and a large mug of coffee.

  I stared at my toast.

  "Well, you're so little," Florence explained. "Seymour needs the nourishment."

  I looked at Florence. "You do know, statistically, that the brain burns the most calories of any organ in the body—"

  "And?" she responded. "I am not sure I get your point. Seymour has both."

  Seymour, hearing his name, looked up, eight links of sausage dangling from his mandibles. She smiled happily. "Such an appetite."

  "We are two hours before start of shift. Does everyone know what they need to do?" I asked, looking at my conspirators-in-arms.

  Seymour spoke first, swallowing down a mouthful of eggs.

  "Head into the building and make 200 copies of An Ode to Scrappy. These are to be placed in as many desks as possible without looking suspicious. I then send an email blast from the corporate email address to every employee in the company, with an electronic copy. Once HR comes in, I will present them with my rebuttal to alignment without saying a word, and then continue my day as normal."

  That was... perfect.

  "Well done, Seymour—word perfect." He bubbled lightly.

  "And Florence?"

  She sighed. "I wait for the ensuing golden alarms signaling melancholy alerts, and when everyone is distracted, head into Building 3S and break out Marketh, disabling anyone who tries to stop me." She flexed her tentacles. I am pretty sure if they could click, they would have.

  "Anthony?"

  The geist who had been dozing fitfully under the kitchen table opened one eye, and promptly went back to sleep.

  "And I," I added brightly, "will do some snooping. I noted from the thumb drive that the document mainframe is kept in Room 503. I want to get in there and find out more about Re-Burials acquisition. Something doesn't add up here.

  "We will all meet back here. Is everyone ready?"

  "Ready," they chimed in unison.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  08:15 a.m. – Everything was in place. I sat at my desk waiting, doubt gnawing away at me with such vigor that I might end up looking like Scrappy.

  08:20 a.m. – Seymour just walked out by my desk, the filing clerk holding his 200-page submission. Her slack jaw and vacant expression ejected my doubt immediately.

  And then it happened.

  "Melancholy Alert!"

  Theodore from Accounting was sadly reading the back of Scrappy's card—then another:

  "Melancholy Alert! Melancholy Alert!"

  And suddenly the dam wall broke, and it was a symphony; every golden alarm in the building sounded at once.

  Balloons poured down—the most colorful precipitation I have ever seen. Ghouls flooded the entire office, attending to the grieving workforce and their significantly reduced productivity.

  And there she was: agile, majestic, buoyant—Bethany. Her pom-poms were ablaze. She shot from one person to the next, a bullet ricocheting; I had never seen her so beautiful.

  She pirouetted past me as if in slow motion.

  "BEST... DAY... EVER," she murmured, dashing forward and giving 80% of what seemed to be a lap dance to Neil, a plump auburn-haired gentleman from Tech Support. His headset had fallen off, and I am not sure he knew where he was.

  It was the bedlam to end all bedlams—and then it happened.

  The large inner doors leading to the catacombs swung open, and out strode Jothin, two red-faced cherubs in tow. Their wings flapped in steady, rhythmic aggression.

  "Him!" Jothin screamed. "It was him." He gesticulated toward me, frothing at the mouth and reminding me a little of Seymour.

  I noted that each cherub had a blue sash, with large white letters that read, Lepa and Tona. Cherub names were weird.

  "What was me, Jothin?" I nodded respectfully to both Lepa and Tona. "Morning, gentle... uh, cherubs." I was not stupid enough to be openly hostile. They glared at me.

  "You printed and distributed these... these flyers." He waved the Scrappy card in my face, as if brandishing a very depressing knife.

  "I have no idea what you are talking about, Jothin."

  "I can prove it." The words came out a gurgled cry; the man was apoplectic.

  Lepa looked at me. "Keith, would you follow us to the printer?"

  I stood politely and nodded. "Yes, sir," doing my best to look confused and mildly interested.

  We made our way over to the large office printer, and Lepa opened the print history. His scowl deepened.

  "Jothin, come here," Lepa called, far too calmly. He crooked his finger as if calling a child.

  Jothin stepped forward and looked down. The small printer screen showed his name in tiny print, attached to 200 prints of Scrappy.docx.

  "Wait... no... how?" His rage had turned quickly to confusion and was now rising to abject panic.

  "No, it was HIM!" He pointed an accusatory finger at me. I don't even use Microsoft Word. I am a PDF man.

  "Do you have proof, Jothin?" I asked, trying to match Lepa's tone.

  Jothin thought he was smart, but your name backwards and an @ sign do not a password make.

  Lepa and Tona both looked at me, and somehow spoke in perfect unison.

  "We better not find that you were involved, Keith." Their voices were flat and mechanical—the scariest infants this side of hell.

  The two moved to either side of Jothin and lifted him up. He wasn't fighting anymore. Small and limp, he let the cherubs float him gently back through the office doors, his whimper cut off as they swung shut.

  Almost immediately, the company-wide announcement system clicked on, and I used the distraction to slip into the catacombs toward 503.

  "Attention, employees. It has come to our attention that an... impressive... injunction was put in place this morning by one Seymour Littleton: staying the re-alignment of employees. It is being routed through the appropriate subcommittees for review—a process that ensures all due consideration."

  "However. Let us clarify. That filing will complete in 10 minutes from now, and re-alignment policies are in effect until then. For his flagrant disruption of workplace harmony and unauthorized distribution of melancholy materials today, employee Jothin Brandshaw will undergo a—voluntary—Joyful Re-Alignment Initiative."

  "To showcase the positive change this brings to our employees, we will now broadcast the audio feed."

  A single, sharp click echoed through the room. We heard a muffled protest, quickly silenced. Then came the deep hum of what sounded like an industrial laminator warming up. It was followed by a rhythmic, percussive thump-thump-thump—some mechanical whirrs ending in a cheerful ding!

  "We are pleased to announce," the speaker intoned, "that re-alignment is complete. Jothin is... delighted."

  A giggle, that sounded exactly like Jothin, filtered through the room. "Yaaaay microphone!" he started to make buzzing noises like a motorbike. The speakers clicked off.

  Although I would no doubt prefer 'new Jothin', I still shivered. I made a note to buy him a toy motorbike.

  I found 503 and entered.

  The server hummed in the center of the room. A full data transfer would be too slow. The machine was old.

  Now came the hard part. Immortality-Corp’s server closets used a redundancy lock designed so no two engineers agreed on how it worked. Although dexterous, I am no lockpick.

  I pulled out the notes I had compiled the night before. The server kept up its comforting analog white noise, interspersed with occasional clicks—mildly concerning.

  My research found that a small sensor, if interrupted, would release the lock.

  I chose Form 8107-A. This was a personal stab at the Cherubs. It was a formal request to improve digital security. I held it to the sensor, and the lock chirped, then clicked.

  The compartment opened, and I had direct access to the drive. I removed it. No alarms, no warnings. I really would be filing 8107-A.

  I hurried back down the corridor and into the main office. The hard drive retrieved—it was time to rendezvous.