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DJ

The entire point of a fort is to insulate oneself and one’s friends from members of the opposite gender, which makes things awkward when HR holds their annual antidiscrimination seminar.

“It’s not that we don’t want women in the department!” says Walmsley, his careful stresses muffled by the cushions they brought from home. “But the productivity gains we’ve achieved in here certainly encourage more–”

“Segregation?” snaps DJ.

“No!” says Walmsley. “Merely separation! A separation of equals.”

“Keep ’em talking, Agent W,” mutters Northwood. He’s almost finished scrawling out their attack plan, and Smithfield is due any second with the water balloons.

Smithfield

“We were brothers, Worm,” snarls Smithfield. “Do you remember? The hazing, the drinking, the house, the nights–God, the nights–”

“We were rented friends.” Walmsley sighs. “Not that I’d choose this, but you and the rest of IT are in the way.” He smashes a glass paperweight into Smithfield’s hand. “Development will have those rack servers.”

“Never!”

“Give it up, Smithfield!” Walmsley roars. “You’ve lost! We’ve taken Shipping, Receivable, HR–there’s no rescue coming! Now tell! Me! The password!”

Smithfield opens his mouth, and Northwood bursts into the meeting, silk tie around his bleeding head, battlemouse whirling so fast it keens.

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