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.