Jim had barely put the gifted tech manual down since receiving it, carrying it around like a prized possession. He flipped through the yellowed pages every chance he got, chuckling to himself at the biting sarcasm and outdated troubleshooting flowcharts.

As he turned a page, a small slip of paper fluttered out and landed on his keyboard. Frowning, Jim picked it up.

The image on the front was of an ancient, dusty CRT monitor with the caption: “I may be obsolete, but at least I’m not your coworker.”

Jim chuckled, flipping it over. On the back, in X017’s unmistakably neat handwriting, were the words: “From your friend, X.”

For a moment, Jim allowed himself a rare, genuine smile. “You big, sentimental hunk of metal,” he muttered, tucking the slip into his desk drawer.

The warmth of the moment was promptly shattered as Douglas sauntered by, coffee in hand. “Don’t tell me you’re taking notes from that dinosaur of a book.”

Jim didn’t look up. “Don’t tell me you’re taking coffee tips from your tie. Oh wait—you are.”

Douglas glared; his tie still faintly stained from the morning’s mishap. “You know, it’s a miracle you’re still employed.”

Jim chose to ignore Douglas in favor of his manual, he was halfway through a particularly savage rant about “users who don’t know what ‘Any Key’ means” when the smell hit him.

Jim’s head snapped up from his manual, his expression shifting from amused to horrified as the unmistakable stench of burnt shrimp assaulted his senses.

“Oh no,” he muttered, clutching the manual like a shield Jim ran to the break room. In the hallway, the smell only intensified, and Jim could swear he felt his neatly pressed shirt collar wilting under the sheer force of the seafood stink. Very reluctantly Jim entered the break room.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

It wasn’t just shrimp. It was something far worse. This was… a ritual seafood sacrifice, a calamity of crustacean proportions.

The microwave door hung ajar, a plume of smoke still curling lazily out of it. Inside was a plate of shrimp that looked less like food and more like a crime scene.

Karen stood nearby, fanning herself with napkins. “Oh dear,” she said, coughing delicately. “That’s… pungent.”

Douglas, ever the contrarian, smirked from the breakroom doorway. “Who microwaves shrimp? That’s a war crime.”

“I think it’s… inside me now. The smell. I can taste it.” Worker 42 clutched her coffee cup like a lifeline in front of her nose.

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to gag. “Who did this? Who burned shrimp in the office microwave?”

A sheepish voice piped up behind Douglas in the doorway. “Uh… it was me.”

Jim turned slowly to see Tim, the quiet guy from accounting.

“Tim?” Jim said, incredulous. “You did this?”

“I was just reheating it! I didn’t think it would—”

“Explode?” Douglas cut in. “Because that’s what it looks like.”

“It didn’t explode!” Tim protested weakly. “It just… overcooked a little.”

“A little?” Karen gestured dramatically at the microwave. “You cremated it! All we need to do is pick and ocean to sprinkle the remains!”

Jim stifled a laugh, but the lingering smell made his stomach churn. “Okay, new rule: Tim isn’t allowed within ten feet of the microwave ever again.”

Jim glanced at X017, who had entered the room silently, his optics flickering as he scanned the charred seafood remains.

“Observation: This incident is an example of inappropriate equipment use with significant olfactory impact.”

Jim grinned despite the stench and moved closer to X to speak quietly, you’re saying we need a directive, aren’t you?”

X017 nodded. “Correct. A directive regarding seafood preparation and break room compliance would be logical.”

Jim’s grin widened as the gears of mischief clicked into place. He slung an arm around X017’s metallic shoulder and began steering him out of the break room, speaking in a low voice.

“Oh, we’re not just drafting a directive, X. We’re about to make history,” Jim said, his tone brimming with excitement. “This is going to be bigger than the Plant Height Standards. Bigger than Silent Soles. We’re going to need waivers, a workshop, and a compliance quiz.”

X017 tilted his head as they exited into the hallway. “Will the workshop include multimedia presentations? I have observed that humans respond favorably to slideshows.”

“Slideshows?” Jim smirked. “Oh, X, we’re about to redefine corporate annoyance.”

From the opposite corner of the break room, Douglas groaned loudly, his voice carrying through the open doorway. “I think I just developed a seafood allergy out of spite.”