The gray sun above the artificial beach sighed for the fifth time that hour — long, drawn-out, and vaguely judgmental. Jake didn't blame it. After all, this was the Dimension of Disappointment. Even celestial bodies got tired of pretending to shine.
He was mid-sip into his drink ("Ambiguity Punch – Now With More Existential Aftertaste!") when the sky tore open like a corporate memo, spitting out a single glowing envelope. It hit him square in the chest, sizzling faintly.
He read it aloud.
"Congratulations, Jake. You have been promoted."
He blinked."Promoted to what? Chief of Despair?"
Greg leaned over from his recliner, straw in mouth. "Maybe Assistant to the Regional Nihilist?"
Before Jake could laugh, the envelope disintegrated into confetti. Out of the ashes floated a shining golden nameplate that read:
JAKE – REGIONAL MANAGER, AFTERLIFE QUEUE (TEMPORARY/PERMANENT)
Karen adjusted her sunglasses, unimpressed. "Temporary and permanent? That's the kind of clarity only management provides."
A portal opened under Jake's feet. He barely had time to yell, "I DIDN'T EVEN APPLY!" before reality folded and swallowed him whole.
He landed with a dull "thud" in an office that stretched forever. Cubicles as far as the eye could see. Every desk was occupied by ghostly workers endlessly typing and sighing. The fluorescent lights buzzed a faint hymn of despair.
A massive sign hovered above him:
EFFICIENCY IS ETERNAL. REST IS THEFT.
A digital paperclip with eyes and too much enthusiasm floated up beside him."Hi there! I'm Clippy-47, your assistant! Would you like help filling out your first employee termination?"
Jake rubbed his temples. "Please tell me you're kidding."
"Joking was removed from the corporate vocabulary last epoch," Clippy said cheerfully.
Jake sighed. "Of course it was."
Moments later, Greg appeared still in his vacation shorts, holding a coffee mug that read 'World's Okayest Human.'
"Dude," Greg said, looking around. "You got promoted to this? Looks like an IKEA showroom for the damned."
Jake frowned. "Apparently I'm the new Regional Manager of the Afterlife Queue."
Greg laughed. "Ha! You managing something? That's like putting a sloth in charge of a treadmill."
Before Jake could reply, Clippy popped up again."Actually, Greg, your existential productivity metrics are alarmingly low."
Greg blinked. "My what?"
"Your output of despair per hour has fallen below expectations. Please report to HR for unmanifesting."
Jake stepped forward. "Hold on, you can't just"
Clippy smiled wider. "Congratulations, Regional Manager! You're authorized to approve this termination personally."
Greg looked at Jake. "Bro."
Jake hesitated. The glowing form hovered in front of him Form D-404: Deregistration of Redundant Souls.
"Don't make me sign this," Jake muttered.
Greg shrugged. "Eh, might as well. I've been dying to get out of work."
Jake signed. The paper burst into pixels, and Greg slowly faded out, giving a casual thumbs-up as he disappeared.
"Tell my memes… I loved them," he whispered, vanishing into digital dust.
Karen stormed into the office moments later, fury radiating off her like a broken printer on fire."Jake! Did you just let HR delete Greg?"
Jake sighed, slumped at his desk. "I didn't let them. I just didn't stop them. Apparently, that's called 'leadership.'"
Karen threw a stack of glowing forms at him. "You've changed, man. You used to mock the system. Now you are the system."
"Karen, look around. There is no 'outside' the system anymore."
"Oh, please." She slammed a glowing tablet on his desk. "I'm filing a grievance with the Interdimensional Workers Union."
Jake frowned. "Good luck with that. The last person who tried to unionize was reincarnated as a spreadsheet."
Before she could retort, the office lights dimmed. The air shimmered, and HR the glowing orb with too many arms and not enough empathy descended through the ceiling like divine disappointment.
"Congratulations, Jake!" HR droned. "You've successfully completed your first moral compromise."
"I didn't"
"Correction," HR interrupted. "You did nothing. In management, that is action."
A medal materialized around Jake's neck: Certified Cog – Grade A+.
Karen rolled her eyes so hard reality briefly stuttered.
HR continued, "Per company policy, you now qualify for upper-level apathy benefits. Please schedule your empathy audit at your earliest disinterest."
And then it was gone.
Jake sat in silence for a while, staring at his reflection in the shiny black surface of his desk. It sighed back at him.
He whispered, "I used to hate this system. Now I'm a cog wearing a medal for doing nothing."
The computer chimed.
"Reminder: Empathy levels below minimum. Please schedule a compassion reboot."
Jake rubbed his face. "I miss when disappointment at least came with an umbrella drink."
Then a static hum filled the room. The monitor flickered, and Greg's pixelated ghost appeared on screen.
"Bro…"
Jake nearly fell out of his chair. "Greg? You're alive?"
Greg's face distorted. "Define alive. I exist as compressed regret in the company servers now. Unlimited Wi-Fi, though."
Jake chuckled weakly. "Of course you do."
Greg leaned closer. "You can still fix this, man. There's a form for redemption. Z-999. But it's written in existential tears."
Jake sighed. "Figures."
Moments later, Karen reappeared, clutching a folder labeled 'Rebellion Proposal Draft 1.'
"You in or not?" she said. "Because if I have to attend one more mandatory empathy seminar, I'm starting an uprising."
Jake looked at his medal, then at Greg's ghost flickering on the screen. He stood up.
"Alright," he said. "Let's do it."
Karen smirked. "Finally. So what's the plan?"
Jake cracked his knuckles. "Simple. We make management file a complaint against itself."
Karen blinked. "That's… insane."
"Exactly. But insanity's the only language they understand."
They slipped into the Core Bureaucratic Server that night an infinite cube pulsing with red tape and whispers. Karen held a flashlight made of pure frustration. Jake scrolled through the cosmic system menu until he found it:
"Terms and Conditions of Reality"[☐ Agree][☑ Do Not Agree]
He hesitated. Then clicked the box.
The building shook violently. Papers flew. Alarms screamed.
"WARNING: NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. INITIATING APOCALYPSE OF ACCOUNTABILITY."
Karen grinned. "Finally. A meeting worth attending."
As the walls dissolved into chaos and the lights turned into pure narrative instability, Jake laughed half terrified, half free.
"Guess I'm getting demoted for this," he said.
"Or promoted to godhood," Karen replied.
The floor cracked open beneath them. Reality blinked.
And the cosmic office went to hell literally.