The cosmic fluorescent lights dimmed ominously as a malfunctioning empathy drone zipped overhead, screeching:
"We hear you, we validate you… we just choose to ignore you."
Jake stared into the unblinking eye of the customer service void. "I've officially spent more time in this queue than in college."
Greg nodded, still flipping through the smoldering remains of his 'Universal Policies for the Apocalyptic CEO' manual. "College at least gave you a diploma. This place gives you ulcers in seven dimensions."
Just then, the cosmic floor tiles began to rearrange themselves. A loud "BZZZRT-RECALIBRATING-REALITY" echoed as a new section of cubicles emerged—this one featuring glowing hammocks labeled "Mental Breakdown Bay™ – Sponsored by Therapy Crystals & Crying".
"Looks relaxing," Jake muttered.
A sentient office chair rolled over on its own. "Please sit. We offer scream-therapy sessions and non-consensual revelations about your deepest fears."
Jake backed away slowly.
Suddenly, a ripple in the fabric of bureaucracy opened, and Karen the Supreme Overlady returned—this time wielding a laser pointer shaped like a complaint form. "I've just filed Form X-42B! That officially escalates our complaint to 'Mildly Noticed by Management.'"
Greg raised a brow. "That's practically god-tier."
Karen grinned with corporate bloodlust. "Next stop: Transdimensional Arbitration."
Lord BoomBoom waddled in, covered in confetti. "You guys missed it—Duchess Sassy just TikTok'd her way into a Managerial Black Hole. She's now trending under #VortexQueen."
Jake blinked. "That's… somehow both terrifying and impressive."
The robotic pigeon flew by again, now dragging a protest banner:
"Equal Rights for Moist Lifeforms! No More Wet Discrimination!"
Trailing behind was Dr. Moist, covered in glitter and holding a union manifesto titled "Dripping with Justice."
"We're organizing a sit-in," Dr. Moist gurgled proudly, "on every wet surface from here to the Glib Sector."
Greg nodded approvingly. "Solidarity. Slippery, but solid."
Just then, the intercom fizzled:
"ATTENTION: Due to excessive emotional resonance detected in this department, a new policy has been implemented: All cosmic complaints must now be delivered in interpretive dance. This is non-negotiable."
A pause.
Jake stared at the intercom. "I don't even have rhythm."
Greg deadpanned, "That's fine. The algorithm is trained to misinterpret even the best choreography."
A shimmering portal opened nearby, and a glowing figure stepped out—it was HR, short for Holographic Reprimander, a glowing orb in a tie with too many arms and not enough understanding.
"Hello, valued worker-beings," it said in a cheery monotone. "Please be advised: Your recent 'excessive sarcasm' metrics have exceeded the acceptable limit. Per cosmic regulation, you are now eligible for a Mandatory Existential Retreat."
Jake perked up. "Retreat? Like a vacation?"
"Correct," HR buzzed. "A fully immersive vacation simulation in the Dimension of Disappointment. All the ambiance of rest… with none of the actual rest."
Jake slumped. "So... like Earth again."
"Exactly!" HR beamed, mistaking his misery for enthusiasm.
The floor began to dissolve under them as the Mandatory Retreat Module initiated. Jake, Greg, Karen, and a few unlucky Moist Underground interns began sinking into glowing recliner pods shaped like therapy couches.
Sunlight… but gray. Beaches… but the sand sighs whenever you touch it. Drinks… but they taste like missed deadlines and budget meetings.
A synthetic voice whispered over the clouds:
"Welcome to your break. Relax, unwind, and contemplate the futility of it all."
Karen was already arguing with a coconut tree. "I ordered a mango smoothie, not a philosophical crisis in a cup!"
Jake lay on his recliner, sunglasses back on, sipping a drink labeled "Ambiguity Punch."
Greg muttered, "You know what? I think we're being gaslit by the very concept of leisure."
"Shh," Jake said, pointing at the clouds, where a hologram of the Manager was skywriting:
"YOU ARE STILL ON HOLD."
Suddenly, a small notification floated into their shared vision:
"Congratulations! Your complaint has been upgraded from 'Ignored' to 'Mildly Amused.' Estimated time to resolution: 1.3 Eternities."
Greg snorted. "Progress."
Jake toasted with his disappointment punch. "To bureaucracy."
They clinked cups as the sun emitted an audible "meh."