The next morning, the office was quiet, the usual symphony of clacking heels and squeaky sneakers replaced by the near-silent shuffle of compliance-approved footwear. Most employees had grudgingly fallen in line with the directives, treating them as yet another corporate inconvenience to endure.
But, as always, Karen and Worker 42 had taken things to extremes: Karen had arranged her plants like soldiers for inspection, and Worker 42 was furiously muttering about hidden agendas and HR surveillance.
Karen sat up straight as X017 approached, suddenly gripping her recently trimmed ficus like a mother shielding her child.
X017: “Ficus measurement commencing.” He extended a sleek metal arm, producing a laser measuring device from his wrist.
“It’s definitely under 12 inches! I trimmed it last night. Twice!”, Karen responded rebelliously.
The laser scanned the ficus.
X017: “11.94 inches. Compliant.”
Karen exhaled in relief, clutching her heart. “Thank goodness.”
X017 treads softly in oversized bunny slippers to Douglas’ desk.
Douglas leaned back in his chair; arms crossed as X017 approached his towering cactus.
In typical smirking Douglas fashion, “Let me guess—you’re going to tell me it’s too tall, and I should chop off the top?”
“Cactus, 24.72 inches. Non-compliant by 12.72 inches.”, reported X017.
“And what if I don’t comply? What are you going to do? Confiscate it?”, becoming belligerent, Douglas questioned.
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X017 tilted his head. “Non-compliant plants are subject to relocation.”
Douglas responded incredulously, “Relocation to where? The Plant Gulag?”
“The break room.”, X dead panned.
“Over my dead—”
X017 interrupted, “Would you like assistance in trimming your cactus?”
“I’d like assistance filing a lawsuit, you walking compliance bot.”, Douglas stood up abruptly as if to throttle X.
Unperturbed of course, X017 interrupted again, “Complaints can be sent directly to HR via [email protected]. Please title your subject “Plant Height Compliance Complaint”.
X padded away softly as Douglas stook in his cubicle changing colors. Douglas removed his fleece lined house shoe and hurled it at X but missed of course.
Worker 42 panicked as X017 approached her tiny fern. “It’s under 12 inches! I swear! Look, I even repotted it just to be safe!”
X017 scanned the plant. “Fern, 10.02 inches. Compliant. Thank you for your diligence.”
Worker 42 muttered, “First, they monitor the plants. Next, they’ll control the photosynthesis. It’s all connected…”
As X017 finished his rounds, he returned to Jim’s desk.
“So, how’d it go? Break any spirits today?”, Jim sounding upbeat and resting his Converse clad feet on this desk.
“Compliance levels are increasing. Resistance remains localized.”, X intoned.
Jim chuckled. “Translation: Douglas still sucks.”
“His verbal output is… consistent.”, X replied diplomatically.
Jim leaned back, grinning. “You know, X, you’re really starting to get the hang of this human trolling thing.”
X017 tilted his head. “Acknowledged.”
A few days after the Silent Soles Directive took effect, Karen’s enthusiasm for the new policy was on full display.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Karen announced to no one in particular, “but I feel like my productivity has skyrocketed without all the scuffing, clicking, and clacking of hard-soled shoes. It’s like… my brain can finally breathe.”
Worker 42 repeated incredulously, “Your brain can breathe?”
Douglas rolled his eyes on his way back to his desk. “I think I’ve developed hard-soled-shoe nostalgia. I miss the clicking. It had character.”
Karen ignored him, typing furiously on her keyboard. “I can’t wait to see what HR improves next. They’re so innovative!”
Jim, still lounging in his chair with his feet up—black-and-white Converse on full display—exchanged a quick look with X017. “Karen,” he muttered under his breath, “is going to outlast us all.”
Douglas stood at his desk, defiant, the top of his cactus proudly poking above the fabric walls of his cubicle.