Episode 3 - Thermostat Captain

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

Fluorescent panels flicker overhead, uneven and irritated. The hum settles into the walls and stays there, vibrating like tinnitus you can’t shake. The printer coughs itself awake, jams immediately, then keeps coughing anyway, like it refuses to let the moment pass without making it everyone’s problem.

Crashout is already on a call.

He sits upright at his desk, headset snug, posture immaculate. His voice is calm in the way only someone deeply unwell can maintain for long periods of time.

“No, sir, your frustration is one hundred percent valid,” he says gently.

He listens. Nods. Mutes.

“The people who tolerate you on a daily basis are the real heroes.”

He unmutes without changing expression.

“We appreciate your patience as we look into this situation.”

Behind him, the thermostat clicks.

Five degrees colder.

No one reacts.

Ten minutes later, it clicks again.

Three degrees warmer.

McGurt doesn’t look up from his screen, but he pulls his sleeves down over his hands, like the air just accused him personally. He holds there for a moment. Then pushes them back up. His body is negotiating without consulting him.

Rebelle stops typing. Slowly looks around the room.

“…Who touched it.”

No one answers.

Crashout ends his call and stands, stretching like a man warming up for violence. He walks over to the thermostat and stares at the display.

Sixty-one degrees.

“Seems like someone wants to match energy with the snowstorm outside,” he says. “This is stupid.”

Nervin clears his throat, already sweating.
“Did anyone actually see who’s changing it?”

Petty swivels in her chair before anyone can answer.

“If anyone touches that thing again,” she says flatly, “we are going to have a problem.”

She reaches into her bag, pulls out a taser, and triggers it twice. Just to make sure it’s listening.

Graff laughs too fast. “Okay, okay. It’s not that serious.”

Petty points the taser at him without hesitation.

“That is exactly what a guilty person would say.”

By midmorning, the temperature stops being a number. It becomes a vibe. Every few minutes, the air shifts. Jackets appear, disappear. Sleeves roll up, then roll back down immediately, like people regret having skin.

Someone adjusts it colder.
Someone adjusts it warmer.

No one coordinates. No one confesses.

It is everyone for themselves.
It is an all-out war.

Crashout finally says what everyone is thinking.

“This is starting to feel like an MKUltra experiment,” he says. “And I am about to crack.”

Graff gestures helplessly at the room. “We could just… agree?”

Petty laughs. Sharp. Mean. “You’re adorable.”

Crashout snaps his fingers. “We need a Thermostat Captain.”

The room stills.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Rebelle says.

“And yet,” Crashout replies, “it’s about to happen.”

They all look at Graff.

“No,” Graff says immediately.

“Yes,” Petty says faster.

“Why me?”

Crashout smiles. “Because you said it was fine.”

“That feels like a trap.”

Petty leans forward. “Say no again and I’ll kick you so hard you’ll have gender dysphoria.”

Graff stands up.

He walks to the thermostat and sets it to what he calls a neutral temperature. He says it confidently, like confidence might help. Then he walks away as if that solved anything.

It didn’t.

McGurt murmurs, “It’s kind of cold.”

Click.

Rebelle fires back, “Now it’s hot.”

Click.

Nervin raises a hand. “Are we tracking—”

“If you make a spreadsheet about this,” Petty snaps, “I will end you spiritually.”

The complaints get tactical.

Crashout plants himself directly under a vent. “It’s arctic right here.”

Click.

Rebelle wheels in a fan from somewhere no one remembers storing a fan. She plugs it in. Papers lift and scatter across the room.

“Personal airflow,” she says.

Crashout responds by dragging in an oversized industrial heater and cranking it to maximum. It hums like it wants to kill someone.

“This feels unsafe,” Graff says.

“Everything here is unsafe,” Petty replies. “You’re just noticing.”

Someone opens a window.

Snow detonates into the room.

Someone else slams it shut.

The constant opening and closing jams it open.

Graff is sweating now. Shivering. Clicking the thermostat like it owes him money.

The screen flickers.

Then goes black.

Dead.

The air ducts fall silent.

Outside, January shows its teeth.
Inside, the temperature drops fast.

They rush the windows.

They don’t move.

Cold air pours in like punishment.

Nervin panics out loud. “Okay. This is environmental now. This isn’t interpersonal.”

Upper management is called. Then maintenance.

“It’ll be about four hours,” maintenance says. “Roads are trash.”

Rebelle folds her arms tighter. “It’s colder than Luci-purr’s heart in here. We should be allowed to go home.”

The request is denied.

“…But we may have a solution.”

A few minutes later, an intern appears. Or a runner. Someone designed to be forgettable. They’re holding a sagging cardboard box with LOST & FOUND scrawled on the side.

“This should help,” they say, already backing away.

“Help with what,” Rebelle asks.

“Layering,” the intern replies.

They leave.

The box sits there as snow dusts the cardboard.

Petty opens it.

Inside is a museum of neglect.

A single glove. Left hand only.
A scarf that smells like cologne and regret.
A windbreaker from a company that no longer exists.
A pilled hoodie stretched permanently at the elbows.
A child’s knit hat with a pom-pom.
A single flip flop.

“This isn’t lost and found,” Petty says. “This is abandoned.”

Nervin sniffs a scarf and immediately recoils. “This smells like my racist grandfather.”

They claim items like survivors.

Crashout takes the windbreaker. It doesn’t close.
Rebelle layers scarves until she looks braced for impact.
McGurt tries to fit both hands into the single glove.

Luci-purr sits back and waits.

At the bottom of the box is a pink, glittery puffer coat.

Petty lifts it. “Looks like this is the last thing, Luci-purr.”

He stares.

“I would rather freeze.”

The cold gusts again.

He sighs, takes the coat, puts it on, and zips it slowly.

Everyone chokes back a laugh and pretends to work.

Keyboards clack slower. The printer gives up entirely. Snow lands on desks, too cold to even melt. Papers curl and warp.

Crashout answers a call, teeth chattering. “N-n-no sir, I’m not outside.”

Nervin can’t feel his hands and narrates his panic under his breath.
Rebelle vibrates with rage under scarves.
Petty stares straight ahead, daring anyone to speak.

Luci-purr types in the glitter coat like it doesn’t exist.

Petty finally looks at him.

“You look like a rejected K-pop girl group singer because you said ‘uwu’ unironically.”

He doesn’t look up. “Remember when I asked for your opinion?”
He does look up now.
“Me either.”

Silence returns. Heavy. Punitive.

Four hours stretch.

Maintenance eventually arrives and fixes the thermostat and windows in ten minutes.

Heat returns.

Luci-purr removes the coat, folds it carefully, and places it back in the box.

The next morning, a sign hangs above the thermostat:

THERMOSTAT CAPTAIN: OPEN POSITION