Morale is high, but it
ever is while the supplies last. Everyone is still well groomed and
civil, but already the cracks are beginning to show.
The chittering from our
headsets grows more insistent and angry, like hornets trapped in a
jar. Every howl from the People of the Broken Printers reveals the
depth of our painted-on smiles, the shaking hands holding our coffee
cups betray the whispering fears beneath the surface. When will it
stop? Will we hold or break?
We look to each other
for solace, hoping the endless stream of corrupted profiles and
servers shrieking their agony will cease before we run screaming into
the dark. We know it won't, but for now there is fragile, precious
hope.
Privately, we all
wonder who will be first to acquiesce to that dark temptation, to be
torn to pieces by the chanting masses, those unspeakable horrors
known only as the End Users. Perhaps the first will be speared by the
weapons of his fellows, envious of their new-found freedom from
sanity.
As I huddle deeper into
my blanket of apathy, part of me hopes I will be the one to run
first.
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