Episode 2 - The Testimonials

The office wakes up the way it always does.
Not because it wants to, but because the lights come on whether anyone’s ready or not.

Fluorescent panels buzz overhead, uneven and irritated. The printer coughs itself awake, jams immediately, then keeps coughing like it’s committed to the bit. Someone sighs nearby, long and deliberate, like it’s part of their job description.

Crashout is already on a call.

He always is.

He sits upright at his desk, headset on, voice warm and professional in a way that feels rehearsed down to the syllable. The kind of calm that isn’t natural, but practiced. Weaponized.

“No, Ma'am, we have never had a report of stress balls exploding from over-use,” he says, with almost a questioning tone like his person can't be serious.

He listens. He nods again. He mutes.

“Your IQ is not supposed to be the same number as your shoe size,” he says flatly, to no one.

Then he unmutes without changing his expression.
“You're welcome. Anytime you have a question, don't hesitate to call.”

A few desks away, McGurt hasn’t moved in several minutes. He sits perfectly still, eyes locked on his monitor, not because he’s working, but because he’s learned that motion attracts attention. Attention leads to questions. Questions lead to expectations. Expectations lead to failure.

Graff, meanwhile, is already fixing something. Something small. Something unnecessary. A spacing issue. A misaligned column.

Mortimer exists somewhere between desks. He always does. No one clocks him. No one ever does.

Then a Slack message pings.

A message from Ruckaz appears across screens.

Conference Room B.
We’re filming stress ball testimonials.
Yes, I know.
No, I can’t stop it.

There’s a beat where no one responds.

Then Rebelle grins.

“Are they serious? This is going to be a shit show.”

Doctor Gideon exhales through his nose. “This is how empires fall.”

Ruckaz doesn’t reply. She’s already halfway down the hall.

---

Conference Room B looks like it was designed by someone who hates personality but respects procedure.

A flat gray backdrop. A ring light set just a little too bright. One stool placed dead center like it’s about to be interrogated. On the stool sits a single stress ball. Bright. Innocent. Guilty.

Ruckaz stands behind the camera, clipboard in hand, relaxed in a way that should make people nervous.

“Okay,” she says. “It’s a stress ball. It squeezes. This should not require a personality.”

She looks at the group.

“But I know some of you.”

---

McGurt is first. He sits on the stool like he’s apologizing to it.

The camera rolls.

“It’s soft,” he says.

Ruckaz nods.

“People don’t talk to me when I’m squeezing it.” A pause. “That’s enough for me.”

She stops recording. “Five stars.”

McGurt leaves immediately, relief radiating off him like heat.

---

Graff goes next. He sits up straighter than he needs to.

“This thing survives getting crushed all day.” he says, smiling a little. “So yeah, I relate to it.” He laughs, like it’s a joke, but we all know it's not.

Ruckaz stops the camera. She doesn’t comment.

---

Doctor Gideon lowers himself onto the stool like it’s a formality he resents.

“As a doctor, I could help them more,” he says. “But that is just too much work, and for most people handing them a stress ball feels like a cure and they leave me alone.” A beat. “As a placebo? Would recommend.”

“Incredible bedside manner,” Ruckaz says.

“I do triage,” Gideon replies, already standing.

---

Luci-purr doesn’t sit so much as occupy the stool.

“Stress balls are for people who think thoughts and prayers do something.”

Ruckaz stops the camera immediately. “Perfect.”

---

Crashout sits next, posture immaculate.

“Most people squeeze the hell out of the stress ball,” he says, calm as ever, “but I have found that for maximum relief, chucking them at people’s heads like an emotionally unstable sniper works a lot better.”

Ruckaz doesn’t react. “We’ll circle back.”

---

Petty sits. Calm. Surgical.

“You can tell a lot about people by how they squeeze a stress ball,” she says. “The slow squeeze—those people know some secrets and they are only one minor inconvenience away from telling it all in a company-wide email.”

“You scare me,” Ruckaz says.

“Good.”

---

Brimsley practically bounces onto the stool.

“I honestly don’t understand the point of stress balls,” she says. “They say idle hands are the devil’s playground. Forget the stress ball, I’m ready to play.”

“HR will hate that,” Ruckaz says.

“They always do.”

---

Rebelle sits smiling. Too calm. Too pleasant.

“Most days I am squeezing through all my stabby thoughts that would send me straight to HR,” she says lightly. “Working here, I usually need quite a few in arm’s reach at all times.”

She pauses. Registers the room. The camera.

Her smile sharpens.

“Eh… yeah… they are durable and soft.”

“Beautiful recovery,” Ruckaz says.

“I remembered where I work.”

---

Nervin doesn’t sit at first. He stands in the doorway, already sweating.

“Before we start,” he asks, “who is going to see this?”

“It’ll be highlighted across all Squeeze and Cope social media,” Ruckaz says.

“Oh.” Nervin freezes. “This is for social media? Can I opt out?”

“No.”

The camera rolls.

Nervin stares directly into the lens. Eyes wide. Sweat forming. Breathing shallow. He doesn’t speak.

Ruckaz lets it run for a few beats longer than she probably should just to make Nervin's panic really sink in.

“Great,” she says, stopping it.

---

FAFO sits like he owns the room.

“I don’t need a stress ball,” he says. “I just add another name to my list.”

“Concise,” Ruckaz says.

“I practice brevity.”

---

Batrick sits quietly.

“I like watching how people use stress balls,” he says. “The harder they squeeze, the more they’re pretending everything’s fine.” A beat. “It’s very educational.”

Ruckaz nods.

She checks her clipboard once over seeing that everyone has given their testimonial, turns off the camera and starts breaking down the setup until she hears a soft noise of someone clearing their throat.

She freezes. Looks over to where the noise came from.

“…shit.”

Mortimer is still standing by the wall.

Everyone forgot him.

As usual.

Ruckaz waves him over.

Mortimer sits politely.

“Squeeze and Cope is really doing a lot of good for people,” he says, earnest. “Stress balls are not just fun to squish, they reduce anxiety by providing a physical outlet for tension, improving focus through tactile distraction—”

Ruckaz adjusts the tripod.

“—strengthening hand muscles for rehab or typing, and promoting relaxation through rhythmic squeezing—”

Ruckaz checks her phone.

“—acting as a simple, portable tool to manage stress, restlessness, and even aid in mindfulness.”

Mortimer smiles. Proud.

“Thank you.”

He leaves.

Ruckaz looks at the camera.

The record light is off.

“…oh no.”

She shrugs it off and moves along like nothing happened.

---

Ruckaz sends the file upstairs and doesn’t watch it first. She never does. Watching implies responsibility, and she’s already completed the task. The progress bar fills. The little checkmark appears. That’s it. Done. Another thing completed. Another fire quietly fed.

The office drifts back into its usual hum. Chairs creak. Keyboards resume their soft, meaningless tapping. Someone coughs like they’ve been holding it in for hours.

Then Slack pings.

The message is short. Clean. Polite.

Thanks for the testimonials.
Strong range of voices.
Please stay aligned with brand tone going forward.

Also, we noticed Mortimer did not participate in the mandatory testimonial process.
Please ensure full participation in future initiatives.

The room stills.

Across the room, Mortimer stares at the message.

He scrolls up. Scrolls down. Reads it again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something fair if given the chance.

They don’t.

He raises his hand halfway. Not high enough to demand attention. Just enough to signal that he exists.

No one notices.

He lowers it.

Ruckaz stands, stretching her arms over her head like someone who’s finished folding laundry. She glances at the Slack message, squinting slightly, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Huh,” she says.

She looks around the room, casual.

“Mortimer didn’t do one?”

Mortimer opens his mouth. There’s a moment—small, fragile—where he might say something. Explain. Clarify. Point out the obvious.

He closes it.

Ruckaz shrugs, already gathering her clipboard, the question evaporating the second it leaves her lips.

“Weird.”

Mortimer lowers his head and continues to work.

The lights hum.
The printer wheezes.
The office continues, unbothered.

No one follows up.

No one ever does.