Vesta left in a hurry, explaining that the unofficial meeting in the next city would take her half a day—or more. She entrusted her employees to the new squad and hoped for the best.
"Okay, everyone, pack it up," IronFist Floella announced, her voice crisp. "We have a presentation for you—on the custom rules we've made for you to follow. If they're not obeyed... there will be severe consequences!"
"What could a serious consequence even be?" Code Kraken asked, brushing it off with a laugh.
"You'll find out soon enough," Barnacle Betty said, smiling innocently.
Pixel Pusher and Frame Rate Freddy sat next to each other. Frame clutched his stomach, drawing Push's attention.
"Frame, what's wrong?"
"I have a weird feeling... something's not going to be alright," Frame muttered.
"You must be imagining it. Look at them—pretty dolls serving us! You have a girlfriend; we don't. Let's savor the moment," Pixel whispered, grinning.
IronFist Floella clapped her hands to start. "May I have your attention? Hello, I'm your Managing Director, IronFist Floella. We conducted a small analytical study and discovered that if the work here is efficiently managed by us, profits can be maximized and the load on your team could actually decrease. Here's a chart explaining it better than I ever could in words."
The employees glanced at the chart, impressed.
"See, Frame? They're so efficient and pretty too!" Pixel whispered.
"All of us will be handling different tasks and enforcing certain rules," Floella continued. "Since I'm your Managing Director, my rule is called 'Silent Synchronization.' Every 90 minutes, the office activity must be documented and sent to me. I will review each report at the end of the day. Non-compliance will have consequences."
The employees nodded. The rule felt a bit over-the-top but... manageable.
Next up was Barnacle Betty.
"Hello, I'm Barnacle Betty, your Damage Control Coordinator. I help minimize potential damage, so my rule is 'Interpersonal Threat Assessment.' Mandatory daily self-reporting on any personal high-emotion interactions—arguments, laughter, even sarcasm—to document potential security breaches."
"Wait... what?" Debug muttered to Pip under his breath.
"We can probably handle this," Pip whispered back, trying to stay calm.
Dollar Dive Doris stepped forward next.
"Hello, I'm Dollar Dive Doris, your Budget Coordinator. My rule is 'Resource Relocation Rotation.' You're allowed a specific amount of resources per day. Wasting anything will not be tolerated. I'll make sure every penny—and paperclip—is accounted for."
"Okay... this one seems doable," Pip said quietly to Debug.
Commander Coral then approached, her posture flawless.
"Hello, I'm Commander Coral, your Operations Coordinator. My rule is 'Uniform Desk Alignment.' Keyboards, monitors, and chairs must be measured daily and aligned perfectly parallel to the office grid lines—within a 1-millimeter tolerance."
The employees exchanged uneasy glances. Something felt... very wrong. Still, they nodded.
Finally, Zen Zelda glided forward.
"Hello, I'm Zen Zelda, your Wellness Coordinator. I ensure you are fit, healthy, and focused. My rule is 'Mandatory Mindfulness Moment (MMM).' Twice daily, we will conduct 15-minute group meditation sessions, with enforced silence and specific posture requirements. Nutrition and health monitoring will also be enforced."
"Am not feeling good, Pixel," Frame muttered, clutching his stomach.
"Frame, it's just a few rules... it's not like they'll be seriously enforced, right?" Pixel tried to reassure him—but the unease in the room was palpable.
RAM Raider, pirate hat slightly askew, instantly sized up the new arrivals like a captain measuring the threat to his ship. His gaze drifted involuntarily toward the snack counter—the last safe harbor in this sea of tyranny. He moved stealthily, fingers already reaching for a chocolate bar and the final sachet of instant coffee in the Pixel Play break room.
"Excuse me," Zen Zelda intoned, appearing out of nowhere with the serenity of a meditating hurricane. "Resource usage irregularity detected."
RAM froze. One hand mid-air, coffee sachet trembling in his grasp. "I... I'm just refueling. For the brain. Creative energy!"
Dollar Dive Doris stepped up, clipboard flashing. "Excessive consumption logged. You have exceeded your snack quota for the day by six units and twenty-three milligrams of caffeine. Unauthorized ingestion of resources is a breach of compliance."
RAM's face fell. "B... but... it's just a coffee sachet!"
"It is not just a coffee sachet," Zelda replied softly, offering him a plate of bitter greens and foraged dandelion leaves. "It is balanced nutrition. Accept it willingly, or accept consequences."
Across the office, heads were turning. Pixel Pusher's jaw dropped. Frame Rate Freddy clutched his stomach nervously. Ctrl+Alt+Delilah's eyes sparkled with mischief. Even the normally stoic Sync Siren's brow twitched. The first casualties of the squad's strictness were evident: morale plummeting before the morning coffee had even begun.
RAM hesitated, chewing one bitter leaf before spitting it discreetly into a napkin. Doris noticed. "Noncompliance detected," she said, crossing off a tally on her clipboard. "Snack privileges revoked. Resource redistribution will be enforced."
Before anyone could react, Floella and Coral simultaneously swept through the snack area, confiscating the remaining coffee, chips, and chocolate bars. Every hidden stash was found—Frame's emergency energy gels, Pixel's secret granola bites, Ctrl+Alt+Delilah's bag of candy cleverly labeled "stapler parts." Barnacle Betty scribbled furiously in her notebook, documenting emotional responses to each confiscation.
The employees muttered, panicked. "It's just snacks!" whispered Pixel. "We can survive," Frame murmured, though his clammy hands betrayed him.
Floella's stopwatch clicked. "Unauthorized behavior observed. Immediate remedial action: mandatory group run. Now. Formation: single file. Pacing will be monitored. Compliance is non-negotiable."
Chaos erupted. RAM Raider bolted toward the designated running route, tripping over his own pirate boots. Pixel Pusher collided with Ctrl+Alt+Delilah, sending a cascade of papers fluttering like sails caught in a gale. Debug Diva grabbed Pip's hand and tried to sprint while shoving a secret chocolate bar into her pocket—momentary rebellion, immediately noticed by Coral's hawk-like gaze.
Employees scrambled, sliding over cords, dodging rolling chairs, and leaping over fallen notebooks. Floella barked timing instructions while Coral measured stride and posture with the precision of a military drill instructor. Doris trailed behind, tallying every calorie burned and comparing it to the confiscated snack count. Zelda's serene voice rang out over the cacophony, correcting breathing, posture, and stride: "Inhale. Exhale. Rank. Repeat. Maintain focus. Consume emotional energy appropriately."
RAM Raider was the first casualty. Sweaty and breathless, he collapsed against a cubicle wall, muttering something about betrayal and pirate curses. Pixel Pusher attempted to crawl under a potted plant for cover but found himself herded back into line by IronFist, clipboard snapping shut like a guillotine.
Barnacle Betty circled the employees, demanding mid-run Interpersonal Threat Assessment reports: "Document all high-emotion interactions. Include laughter, sighs, and muttered complaints. Noncompliance will result in extended punishment." Crash Override attempted to label his laughter as "system stress relief." Glitch Clicker argued that his exasperated groan qualified as a "QA metric." Betty's pen scribbled notes like a cannonball tearing through a pirate ship.
Attempts at stealth were futile. Ctrl+Alt+Delilah stuck sticky notes on Sync Siren's shoes reading "I LOVE MICROMANAGEMENT"—a feeble distraction. Coral noticed the misaligned sneakers immediately, issuing Uniform Desk Alignment sanctions to be performed after the run.
By kilometer four, the office resembled a mutinous crew fleeing a sinking ship: panting, staggering, and increasingly desperate. Pixel's sneakers squeaked, RAM's pirate hat was soaked in sweat, and Debug clung to Pip like a lifeline in stormy seas.
And through it all, the Strict Strategy Squad walked among them, serene, precise, and terrifyingly in control. Every misstep was noted, every infraction cataloged, every ounce of rebellion meticulously crushed under the weight of their rules.
Even the usually composed Glitch Clicker muttered, "It's like the office itself has turned against us."
The run continued, relentless, exhausting, and utterly merciless. Pixel Play's crew had already realized: the day had only just begun, and chaos was only getting started.
The Pixel Play office was barely standing after the morning run. Legs trembled, sweat dripped from foreheads, and the men's egos were bruised beyond repair. But instinct whispered that there might still be a corner of safety—a hidden refuge where the Strict Strategy Squad couldn't see them.
Ctrl+Alt+Delilah's eyes gleamed. "Games room," he whispered, voice hushed and conspiratorial. "We can hide there, maybe even grab a snack."
Pixel Pusher and Frame Rate Freddy exchanged nervous glances. Freddy clutched his stomach. "I don't know if my system can handle another rule today," he muttered.
Pixel shrugged. "We either hide or we die of boredom before they invent the next punishment."
The crew moved like a shadowy, clumsy commando team. RAM Raider's pirate hat bobbed behind them as he muttered dark threats about mutiny and treasure. Inside the games room, a faint smell of old pizza mingled with relief. Finally, a sanctuary, however temporary. Pixel pulled a hidden granola bar from under his hoodie, and Debug Diva quietly handed Pip a sachet of emergency coffee. For the first time all morning, the men felt a spark of freedom.
It lasted four and a half seconds.
IronFist Floella appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand, eyes icy and precise. "Unauthorized congregation detected. Games room privileges are suspended due to prior noncompliance. Extraction is immediate."
The men froze. RAM Raider's dramatic flair failed him. "Wait! This was supposed to be our safe harbor!"
Coral stepped in, map and laminated chart in hand. "All office areas are monitored. Any hiding, congregating, or unauthorized activity will be punished immediately."
Barnacle Betty twirled a pen between her fingers, a predator circling. "High-emotion interactions must be logged. Every sigh, laugh, or whispered complaint is to be documented and reported."
Zelda glided silently into the room, serene and terrifying, and her voice cut through the panic. "Wellness recalibration is mandatory. Begin planks now."
Panic erupted. RAM Raider vaulted onto the foosball table, colliding with Frame Rate Freddy, who yelped and toppled into Pixel Pusher. Ctrl+Alt+Delilah tried to squeeze behind a beanbag, but Zelda's hand descended like a silent guillotine, dragging him into perfect alignment on the floor.
Floella's stopwatch clicked. "Unauthorized hiding. Disciplinary measures: planks, squats, and emotional audits. Begin!"
The men scattered. Desks toppled, papers fluttered like sails in a storm, sticky notes clung to sweat-soaked foreheads, and RAM Raider's pirate hat slipped over his eyes. Pixel Pusher dove behind a desk, only for Coral to measure his position and bark, "Noncompliant with spatial alignment protocols. Immediate correction."
Doris swooped in, confiscating Pixel's granola bar and RAM's coffee sachet. Every crumb, every drop of caffeine, was cataloged in triplicate.
Barnacle Betty circled the room, pen poised. "Document your emotional response to confiscation. Sighs, groans, muttered curses—all of it."
The men's desperate attempts at evasion were pitifully comedic. RAM Raider shouted pirate curses as he tried to plank mid-slide. Pixel attempted to sneak crumbs under the foosball table; Doris confiscated them, adding the morsels to the ledger of "resource inefficiency." Ctrl+Alt+Delilah pretended to faint, only to be pulled into a corrective yoga posture by Zelda. Frame whispered instructions to Freddy, but Betty twirled her pen ominously, detecting the unauthorized whisper as a "high-emotion security breach."
The games room, once a sanctuary, had become a warzone. Yoga mats crisscrossed the floor like barricades, chairs teetered like masts in a storm, and every groan or muttered curse was meticulously logged. The men were exhausted, humiliated, and trapped in a maelstrom of relentless discipline.
Even Glitch Clicker muttered, voice hoarse, "We might not survive this day... and I don't mean deadlines."
Zelda's calm, unyielding voice rang out. "Optional fun does not exist. Compliance is mandatory. Continue planks, squats, and emotional documentation."
By mid-afternoon, the office looked like a pirate ship taking on water. Desks were overturned, yoga mats crisscrossed the floor, the men sprawled across the room alternating between planks, squats, and failed escape attempts. Snacks were confiscated, and every act of rebellion triggered an immediate, escalating punishment.
RAM Raider muttered under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow. "I should have stayed a pirate..."
And somewhere in the corner, the men realized it: there was no escape. Not snacks, not games, not even whispered alliances. They were trapped in a sea of perfect, merciless, hilarious order.
The Pixel Play office had settled into a tense, shivering silence after the morning run, confiscations, and relentless yoga-plank routine. The men were desperate, exhausted, and plotting their only remaining strategy: hide.
Sprite Byte, Crash Override, Ctrl+Alt+Delilah, Popup Pete, and Sync Siren exchanged hurried, panicked glances. There was only one place they could retreat: a bizarre, exotic corner of the office, a forgotten alcove cluttered with cardboard boxes, tangled cables, and a VR headset that smelled faintly of old energy drinks. To the men, it was a fortress. To the Strict Strategy Squad, it was a glowing, blinking target.
Sync Siren clutched his phone, hope and fear battling in his eyes. "Maybe... maybe we can call Vesta," he whispered.
"Quietly," Sprite Byte hissed, pressing himself into a box like a human filing cabinet.
Sync dialed, and when Vesta picked up, her voice was calm, dramatic, and oblivious to the chaos raging hundreds of miles away.
"Hello?"
Sync's voice cracked. "Everything... is... not... alright!"
But Vesta, trapped in another city by a raging storm, blocked roads, and landslides, misheard entirely. "Oh, wonderful! I'm so glad everything is alright!"
"No, Vesta, you don't understand—" Sync began, voice trembling.
"I would come immediately," Vesta continued, her voice booming theatrically, "but the storm, landslides, and army travel restrictions make it impossible. The network and roads are down! I cannot reach you—"
And then the call cut off mid-sentence, swallowed by static.
Sync Siren's scream filled the office, a true siren wail of male panic. Sprite Byte jumped onto a chair to try to muffle it. Crash Override leaped on top of him. Ctrl+Alt+Delilah shoved a VR headset over Sync's head. Popup Pete attempted to pin him from the side. But the noise only grew louder, more frantic, a banshee chorus of despair.
Then, as if conjured by fate, IronFist Floella appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and unblinking. "Caught."
The single word landed like a cannonball. Every man froze. Their fortress of boxes, cables, and VR equipment vanished in an instant. The exotic hiding spot was exposed.
Coral stepped forward, map and laminated charts in hand. "All unauthorized hiding detected. Immediate extraction."
Barnacle Betty twirled her pen, eyes scanning each employee as if weighing their panic on a scale. "High-emotion interactions must be logged. Every groan, yell, and whispered complaint will be documented."
Zelda glided silently into the room, her calm yet terrifying presence radiating from every step. "Wellness recalibration is mandatory. Begin planks immediately."
The men erupted into slapstick chaos. RAM Raider vaulted onto a foosball table, nearly knocking Crash into the wall. Pixel Pusher dove behind a desk, only for Coral to measure his position. "Noncompliant with spatial alignment. Correct immediately!"
Doris swooped in, confiscating any remaining snacks or caffeine with ruthless precision. Every granola bar and coffee sachet was cataloged as "Resource Misallocation" and filed in triplicate.
Barnacle Betty circled the room, pen poised. "Document your emotional response. Sighs, groans, and muttered curses—all of it. Failure to comply results in additional planks and squats."
The office exploded into pandemonium. RAM Raider shouted pirate curses mid-plank, Pixel Pusher attempted to sneak crumbs under a desk, Ctrl+Alt+Delilah pretended to faint, only to be pulled into a corrective yoga posture by Zelda. Frame Rate Freddy groaned continuously, whispering to himself and drawing Betty's pen like a magnet to metal.
Every hiding attempt, every move to evade the Squad, made matters worse. Chairs toppled, papers flew like sails, yoga mats crisscrossed like barricades, and even Glitch Clicker muttered in despair, "We might not survive today... and I don't mean deadlines."
By mid-afternoon, the Pixel Play office resembled a pirate ship in full battle: desks overturned, papers fluttering in the chaos, yoga mats entangling employees like nets, and every act of rebellion triggering immediate punishment.
Sync Siren, still wailing from the lost call with Vesta, slumped in his chair, while Popup Pete muttered, "Next time... maybe we hide somewhere... less exotic... maybe outside..."
Floella's cold, surgical voice cut through the room. "Outside is monitored. There is nowhere to hide. Compliance is the only path to survival."
Even amidst the chaos, Pip Gearheart and Debug Diva had carved out a fleeting, stolen moment behind a row of filing cabinets. They clung to each other tightly, hearts racing, trying to savor a small reprieve from the relentless supervision of the Strict Strategy Squad.
"We'll get through this," Pip whispered, his forehead pressed against hers.
Debug Diva's eyes softened. "Just a little longer... please."
But that "longer" didn't exist in the Squad's world. IronFist Floella's icy gaze landed on them instantly.
"Oh? A couple moment," she said, voice sharp as broken glass. "How inefficient."
Before they could react, Commander Coral moved with machine-like precision, separating them. Pip's hands slid from Debug's shoulders; she grabbed his arm in a desperate attempt to hold on, but it was useless.
Zelda's calm, unforgiving tone cut through the tension. "Office romances disrupt workflow. You two will be stationed separately for the remainder of the day. Efficiency must come first."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to tilt. They looked at each other, gripping the last seconds of connection, before being pulled apart. Pip muttered a frustrated, muffled groan; Debug Diva's shoulders slumped as she was ushered to a different workstation.
In that moment, they realized a terrifying, absurd truth: not snacks, not whispered alliances, not even heroic hiding—they were utterly, hilariously trapped in a sea of perfect, merciless enforced order.