Human Resources

Deliver files. Sit in the break room. Deliver more files. Sit again. Lunch break, stand in the break room and watch the workers consuming Food Items 1 through 30. Deliver files.

The orange slab he’d eaten carried him through a good while—about fifteen runs—before his legs began to ache, his pace slowing with every trip up and down the aisles. Rojif considered this a “day”, as he had no other means of gauging time. No sun, no clocks—only the tally of deliveries before collapse.

If he pushed himself, he could stretch a meal to last longer, about twenty-two deliveries. That was his “day and a half.” It was hard. Jelly water kept him hydrated but didn’t energize him. After about eight of his makeshift working days—the five meals barely pulling him through—the intercom once again blared through the office. He could hear the whole message now:

“Attention: weekly compensation has been disbursed. Employees may collect their pay from their designated slots at once. Reminder: contributions for Omar’s birthday gift can be dropped off at reception.”

Omar this time? Who were these people? It couldn’t have been any of the workers—they were the ones putting their tokens in for his gift, same as him. So who was collecting? Who was celebrating?

When Rojif stepped up to his slot, he noticed something new. The frame no longer read File Monkey. Now it proudly displayed Senior File Monkey. Promotion day, apparently. His status in his performance report had also shifted from “Poor” to “Acceptable”.

But the real upgrade was his wage. He now had eight tokens to splurge—minus one for the enigmatic Omar. Still, seven tokens in his pocket felt like riches compared to the five he’d been living on. A little more food. A little more strength. He could easily have one meal a day now.

This went on for a while. Every eight days was the same: they’d get their pay, and the intercom would mark the occasion of yet another birthday. Asuka and Diallo were the next lucky ones. Weeks blurred. Every time he ate—no surprise, every Food Item was the exact same—his body replenished, but his mind stayed stagnant. Thoughts dulled. He could still move, but it was no longer deliberate; his body followed the motions, the routine executed without thought.

It was Harvey’s birthday that week—around day thirty-two. Thirty-two? Or was it forty-two? That was when he made the blunder.

By then he felt like a puppet. His head had gone cloudy, muscle memory alone carried him through each day. He longed to sleep, to rest his thoughts, but his body refused—it didn’t need to. His cognitive fatigue was affecting his coordination; he staggered through the aisles, colliding with cubicles almost daily, and struggled to reach each worker on time.

Amidst this trance, he had just delivered to White Collar and was leaving the cubicle when he noticed Pink One far down the aisle, walking toward him. Rojif ignored it and kept moving. What was up with Pinky today? By now, Rojif was barely even thinking straight, and the sight didn’t even strike him as odd.

As Pink One’s figure grew larger in the aisle, only then did Rojif start to realize something was off. He shook his head, trying to regain mental clarity, and looked up again. Pink One was carrying files—and heading straight for him. Files? Why was he carrying files—that was supposed to be his job.

A sound from behind drew his attention. White Collar emerged from his cubicle, also holding files. What was going on? Rojif’s eyes darted to the front print on the ones White Collar carried: “Employee 1.”

No… Oh god no. In his daze, he’d mixed up White Collar’s and Pink One’s deliveries—that meant they had run out of their own files . . . and that meant he had broken a rule.

“Wait no—please, Pink guy—He—He’s the one with your files!” Rojif’s voice cracked as he shouted at White Collar, desperation clawing at him. This was not good—two workers had run out of files at the same time, even running would be impossible now.

He snapped his head back to see Pink One already looming over him. “No . . . Wait . . .” he begged, fear pushing hot tears into his eyes. “I can fix it! I-I’ll do better, just—please—”

Rojif’s plea ended in a strangled whisper as an arm flew over his head, striking Pink One’s neck. There was a wet crack as his body crumpled and hit the floor with a thud.

White Collar? Gasping, Rojif looked up. The figure stepped over him and moved toward Pink One’s limp body.

White Collar stooped, picked up his files from the floor, and returned as if nothing had happened, ignoring Rojif’s trembling presence entirely.

Did he just . . . murder Pink One? His thoughts barely had any time to form before they were interrupted by the intercom’s boom, filling the office with its crackling voice:

“Employee number 500, employee number 500, please report to Human Resources for immediate briefing regarding recent events. Repeat, employee number 500 to Human Resources at once.”

White Collar didn’t stop walking. He dropped his stack on the ground and exited the aisle, leaving Rojif alone with a scattered pile of files . . . and Pink One’s lifeless body.

Rojif got up slowly, knees shaking, and leaned over to examine Pink One’s face. Damn. He’d wanted revenge, but this . . . this was a bit much.

Then the body jerked violently. Limbs flailed outward at unnatural angles. Rojif stumbled back, heart hammering. He was still alive. Pink One’s body suddenly went motionless, then slowly began getting up.

This wasn’t over yet. Rojif snatched the files from the floor, hands trembling, first delivering to White Collar’s, then sprinting toward Pink One’s cubicle to deliver his batch.

Turning back to continue with the rest of the deliveries, Rojif saw Pink One walking toward him. Calm down. He’d technically delivered the files—there was no reason for Pink Once to show hostility. Still, he held his breath. Pink One’s head pivoted toward him as they passed each other. If he had eyes, it would have been a glare.

Rojif went on a few more delivery runs. White Collar’s cubicle remained empty—he was nowhere to be found in the office.

Making sure the other workers had enough files to work with, Rojif went to the break room, hoping to see White Collar there. Empty.

He slumped into a chair and stared at the floor. A fight between employees . . . he never would’ve thought. White Collar’s interference had managed to save him, though now he had vanished somewhere . . . somewhere outside this office.

As he got up to carry out more delivery runs, the intercom sprang to life:

“Senior File Monkey, please report immediately to the Executive Office for review and decision regarding your continued employment at January. Repeat, Senior File Monkey to the Executive Office without delay.”

Senior File Monkey . . . that was him. Was he in trouble now? He hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the break room.

His eyes caught another door at the end of the aisle to the right. Executive Office . . . was this where the boss worked? Walking towards it, thoughts darted around in his mind—something about continued employment. Was this the end of January?

He approached the door. It was pitch black, impossibly so—the ceiling lights didn’t touch it. His sweaty palms gripped the handle, a gleaming white, stark against the door it was on. Was White Collar here too?