Chapter 2: First Contact
Jim arrived at the office forty-five minutes early, armed with a large coffee and the expression of a man who'd cleared his schedule to watch a disaster unfold. He positioned himself at his desk with a perfect view of both the front door and Michael's office, where his boss was currently practicing handshakes in the mirror.
The documentary crew had multiplied overnight. Where there had been two camera operators yesterday, now there were four, plus additional sound equipment and lighting rigs. They moved through the space like an invasion force preparing for D-Day.
"Big day today," one of the camera operators said to Jim.
Jim nodded, sipping his coffee. "You have no idea."
At exactly 8:30 AM, cars began pulling into the parking lot. Jim watched through the window as five people emerged: one tall and anxious-looking guy in a hoodie, one shorter guy with an attitude problem written across his face, one methodically arranging equipment with disturbing precision, one who looked like he'd stepped out of a tech conference poster, and one who seemed to be apologizing to the air around him.
The door opened.
Richard Hendricks entered first, clutching a laptop bag like a security blanket. His eyes darted around the office space, taking in the fluorescent lighting, the beige carpet, the motivational posters featuring kittens, and what appeared to be a hand-drawn banner hanging above the reception desk that read "WELCOM TO THE FUTURE" in Michael's unmistakable handwriting.
Erlich Bachman followed, wearing aviator sunglasses indoors and radiating the confidence of a man who'd never encountered a situation he couldn't talk his way out of. Gilfoyle moved with predatory efficiency, his dark eyes cataloging every computer, every cable, every potential security vulnerability. Dinesh adjusted his jacket and immediately began comparing the office space to startup incubators he'd seen on Instagram. Jared brought up the rear, carrying enough equipment for three people and wearing an expression of determined cheerfulness.
Michael exploded from his office like a confetti cannon.
"Welcome!" he shouted, arms spread wide. "Welcome to Dunder Mifflin Scranton, the premier paper supply company in northeastern Pennsylvania, and as of today, your new business partners in digital innovation!"
Richard's face went pale. His breathing became shallow. Jim recognized the signs of an impending panic attack and found himself leaning forward with genuine concern.
"I'm Michael Scott," Michael continued, advancing on the group with predatory enthusiasm. "Regional Manager, mentor, and your new boss friend! And you must be the computer geniuses!"
"We're software engineers," Richard managed, his voice tight. "We develop compression algorithms for—"
"Algorithms!" Michael clapped his hands. "I love algorithms! I use them all the time. In sales, in management, in life! We're going to have so much to learn from each other!"
Erlich stepped forward, removing his sunglasses with theatrical flair. "I'm Erlich Bachman." He paused, clearly expecting recognition. When none came, he continued, "Founder of the Aviato radio on the internet, mentor to these remarkable talents, and visionary entrepreneur."
"A visionary!" Michael's eyes lit up. "Finally, someone who speaks my language! We're going to be great friends, Erlich. Great friends and great colleagues in the pursuit of great greatness!"
Richard looked like he was about to faint.
Meanwhile, Dwight had emerged from his desk and was standing with his arms crossed, studying the newcomers like a border guard examining suspicious passports. He'd changed into what appeared to be tactical casual wear: dark pants, a button-down shirt that could conceal weapons, and shoes suitable for both combat and customer meetings.
"These are the alleged tech workers?" Dwight announced. "I count five individuals, multiple electronic devices, and at least three potential security risks."
Gilfoyle's head turned slowly toward Dwight, his expression shifting from mild disinterest to predatory focus. "Security risks?"
"Standard protocol," Dwight replied, matching Gilfoyle's intensity. "All foreign personnel require threat assessment and clearance procedures before accessing sensitive corporate areas."
"Foreign personnel?" Gilfoyle's voice dropped an octave. "I'm from Canada."
"Exactly."
Jim nearly choked on his coffee. This was happening faster than he'd expected.
Angela had materialized from accounting, drawn by the commotion like a shark sensing blood. She took one look at the group—Erlich's leather jacket, Dinesh's designer jeans, Gilfoyle's all-black ensemble, Richard's hoodie, Jared's earnest smile—and her face pinched into an expression of moral disapproval.
"Are those..." she pointed at Dinesh's shoes, "...flip-flops?"
Dinesh looked down at his clearly expensive sneakers. "These are limited edition Jordans."
"On a Tuesday," Angela continued, "in a place of business."
"It's called business casual," Dinesh shot back. "This is how tech companies dress."
"This is how children dress," Angela replied.
Michael clapped his hands again, trying to regain control of the situation. "Everyone, everyone! Let's focus on the positive! We're making history here! We're creating synergy! We're building the future!"
He gestured toward the far side of the office, where a strip of blue painter's tape now divided the space exactly down the middle. On the Dunder Mifflin side, desks were arranged in their traditional configuration. On the other side, tables and chairs had been hastily assembled in what looked like a startup fever dream.
"As you can see," Michael announced, "we've created a collaborative workspace! Your side, our side, but we're all one big happy family!"
Dwight stepped forward and pointed to the tape. "This is the border. These are the regulations." He produced a laminated sheet from his pocket. "Article One: No crossing without proper documentation. Article Two: No accessing Dunder Mifflin equipment without authorization. Article Three: No industrial espionage."
Gilfoyle studied the tape for exactly three seconds, then deliberately stepped across it.
Dwight's hand moved to his belt. "Sir, you are in violation of Article One."
"I don't recognize the authority of your Articles," Gilfoyle replied, still standing on the wrong side of the tape.
"Then you recognize the authority of property law, network security protocols, and the inherent right of a business to defend its assets against unauthorized intrusion?"
Gilfoyle's eyebrows raised slightly. "Are you quoting statute or just making things up?"
"I know forty-seven different ways to secure a perimeter."
"I know forty-seven different ways to breach one."
They stared at each other across eighteen inches of office carpet, two immovable forces discovering they'd met their match.
Richard was hyperventilating.
Jim decided intervention was necessary. He stood up and walked over to the group, coffee still in hand. "Hey there. Jim Halpert, sales. Looks like you guys are setting up shop."
"Oh thank god," Richard gasped. "A normal person."
"That's debatable," Jim smiled. "But I try. What can I help you with?"
Jared stepped forward with the relief of a drowning man spotting a life preserver. "We just need to establish our workspace and begin setting up our development environment. This is so much better than our previous situation! At the last place, we had to share space with a yoga studio, and the ambient music was very distracting during code reviews."
Jim blinked. "Yoga studio?"
"Before that, it was the group home," Jared continued cheerfully. "But that's a much longer story and involves several social workers and one incident with a microwave that I probably shouldn't discuss in a professional setting."
"Group home?" Jim's concern was genuine now.
"Oh, not recently!" Jared assured him. "That was years ago. I'm much better at residential stability now, though I do still keep emergency supplies in my car, just in case."
Jim found himself liking this guy already, despite the disturbing implications of everything he'd just said.
Pam had been watching from reception, and now she approached the group with the calm confidence of someone accustomed to managing chaos. "Can I help you get settled? I know where everything is, and I might be able to explain some of Michael's... explanations."
Richard turned toward her like a plant seeking sunlight. "You work here?"
"Receptionist," Pam nodded. "But I know how everything works. What kind of setup do you need?"
"We're developing compression algorithms," Richard began, then caught himself. "Sorry, that's probably not very interesting to someone in the paper business."
"Actually," Pam said, "it sounds fascinating. How does compression work?"
Richard's face brightened, and he launched into an explanation that started technical and quickly became incomprehensible. "So middle-out compression leverages the mathematical properties of data redundancy to create optimized file structures that maintain quality while reducing storage requirements through algorithmic analysis of pattern recognition and predictive modeling based on statistical probability matrices..."
As he spoke, Pam began sketching on a notepad. Jim watched over her shoulder, amazed, as she translated Richard's technical rambling into visual diagrams. Circles and arrows, flowcharts and simple illustrations that somehow made sense of the word salad pouring out of Richard's mouth.
"Like this?" she asked, showing him the sketch.
Richard stared at the paper. "That's... that's exactly right. How did you—"
"I just drew what you described," Pam said. "Sometimes it helps to see things visually."
"But the data flow architecture, the compression ratio optimization—you understood all that?"
Pam shrugged. "It's not that different from organizing filing systems. You're just making things smaller and more efficient, right?"
Jim felt a strange mix of pride and concern as he watched his wife effortlessly grasp concepts that clearly intimidated most people.
Meanwhile, Jared was attempting to establish diplomatic relations with the rest of the Dunder Mifflin staff. He moved from person to person with the systematic thoroughness of someone accustomed to making the best of bad situations.
"Kevin, right?" Jared addressed the accountant. "I understand you handle financial operations. That's wonderful! I have extensive experience with burn rate management and runway calculations, though most of my expertise comes from situations involving actual survival rather than corporate metaphors."
Kevin looked up from his computer. "Do you like M&Ms?"
"I've never had M&Ms," Jared admitted. "The group home didn't allow candy, and by the time I was independent, I'd developed very specific dietary requirements for optimal cognitive function."
"You've never had M&Ms?" Kevin's expression suggested Jared had just confessed to never seeing the sun.
"Is that... bad?"
Kevin was already reaching into his desk drawer. "We need to fix this immediately."
As Jim watched Kevin begin what appeared to be a candy-based cultural exchange program, he realized that whatever happened next, it was going to be unlike anything the documentary crew had captured before.
Dwight and Gilfoyle were still locked in their staring contest. Michael and Erlich had discovered each other and were deep in conversation about "disruptive innovation strategies." Angela was documenting dress code violations on a legal pad. Richard was showing Pam more technical diagrams while she sketched improvements to his user interface concepts.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Jim caught the eye of one of the documentary cameras and gave a look that said everything and nothing about what they were all about to experience.
The collision had begun.