PART II — PROTOTYPE

internal field report from the r&d division — part 2 of 3

May Season Studio Archives

by Gintare O.

It started with an email marked urgent that wasn’t. Everything from R&D is labeled urgent, including the birthday reminders and the spreadsheet that hasn’t been updated since 2019. I took the prototype home because it was easier than pretending I wasn’t behind. It fit in my tote bag between my lunch container and my badge lanyard, humming like it was already judging me.

Now it’s sitting on my counter next to yesterday’s mail. I keep telling myself it’s fine — just a “scent-based memory retention module,” whatever that means. Marketing will rename it something dramatic like The Nostalgia Capsule, probably with a 40-slide deck explaining how it will “disrupt aromatic recall.” The thing looks like an overpriced candle you buy at O’Hare because your flight was delayed three hours. My cat stares at it like she knows something I don’t. Which honestly checks out.

I keep refreshing my inbox, waiting for the inevitable Do Not Take Home the Prototype email. Nothing. Just the usual Monday meeting spam and an HR reminder about wellness week. I’m sure this qualifies as wellness somehow. Emotional wellness? Respiratory wellness? Hard to say.

Around eleven, the prototype starts vibrating. Not loudly — just a passive-aggressive little tremor, like it’s cold or offended. I tap the side with a spoon because that’s how adults troubleshoot appliances. It goes still, then lets out a tiny hiss. Like it’s sighing at me.

The air shifts. Suddenly it smells like the office — burnt coffee, toner, and that citrus perfume a middle-aged lady wears so aggressively it should count as hostile workplace behavior. I haven’t been there since five, but now it feels like I never left. I tell myself I’m imagining it. Then I check my laptop. It’s on. I definitely shut it down. Annoying.

Juniper hops onto the counter, tail puffed. She stares at the prototype, then at me. I tell her we don’t do night shifts here. She gives me a look that says she absolutely does not care and walks away.

I turn on the TV for background noise and pull out the test file. I skip the date and time. I’ll fill that in Monday. No one needs to know this is happening in my kitchen at 11:23 p.m. while I’m wearing mismatched socks.

The prototype sits in front of me, pretending it’s innocent. I twist the dial on top — one notch. Click. Nothing. I just stare at it. Amazing. Broken already.

I go looking for the spoon again, and when I turn back, there’s a neat stack of sticky notes on the counter that definitely did not exist two minutes ago.

I pick one up.

Release 51378Z

Another says:

Call Jerry back — cold test report

Sure. Why not. Sticky notes are teleporting now. Either I’m exhausted or I’ve achieved a new form of burnout that produces office supplies.

I tap the prototype again. Nothing. I turn the dial one more notch and it releases a puff of steam like a diffuser that’s trying too hard. I jot down: inconsistent release — possibly alive?

Then the TV goes silent. I look up. The product promo we play on loop in the lunchroom is now playing on Netflix. My ad-free Netflix. Perfect.

I open the request email and finally read the disclaimer I ignored before:

MIGHT CAUSE THE USER’S SURROUNDINGS TO CHANGE.

All caps. Bold. Underlined. Great.

So now it’s redecorating my apartment in corporate misery. Laptop turning on. Sticky notes materializing. HR propaganda on Netflix. What’s next, Karen appearing behind my couch?

I try to focus on the report, but my brain keeps drifting back to work — the burnt coffee smell, today’s fifteen-dollar dry sandwich, and the fact that I turned down lunch with Karoline and Tom. I know I should’ve gone. I don’t socialize, but apparently I also don’t learn.

I snap myself out of it. This thing is definitely making me think about work. Or maybe I’m just pathetic. Hard to tell.

I type the summary:

TEST FAILED. EXCESSIVE MEMORIES. UNEXPECTED CHANGES IN SURROUNDINGS.

I switch the device off and shove it into my tote. I’ll return it Monday. Let Facilities deal with the demon candle.

I close my laptop and glance at the TV. Still the promo. The window next to it is fogged over, and in the condensation, someone wrote:

May Season Studio

I take a deep breath. Amazing. Not only do I not have a life outside the office — now my apartment is filing a complaint about it.

Author’s Note:

At may season studio, research and development believes in innovation, caution, and pretending nothing is ever our fault. this entry was recorded after a late-night testing incident, which we consider a successful reminder that our products may cause “minor environmental adjustments.” we appreciate your patience as we determine whether the prototype is safe for public use or should be buried behind the loading dock again.

written and designed by gintare okrzesik, creator of may season studio — a fictional corporation exploring beauty, bureaucracy, and quiet corruption through narrative design.

Filed under: r&d division / from the may season studio employee files — part 2 of 3