SERVICE REQUEST
internal account from end user support
May Season Studio Archives
by Gintare O.
Genny did not need another reason to go to the basement.
The email had shown up two weeks ago with the subject line: PC/Hardware Refresh Eligibility. At first she ignored it. Anything with the word “eligibility” usually meant more training or some corporate initiative that required pretending to care. Then her laptop froze for the third time that day, fan screaming, the screen stuck on a spreadsheet she definitely did not remember updating.
She shut the lid. Opened it. Undocked it. Nothing. It stayed black for a full minute before waking up like nothing had happened.
That was enough. She clicked the email.
The process looked simple. Submit a ticket. Wait for approval. Pick up a new device at the Tech Bar in the lower level of Building 8. Whoever named it the Tech Bar deserved a raise. It sounded like a place that served mocktails and light bites, not where IT lived next to a storage closet with flickering lights.
She filled out the form on Friday afternoon. By Monday morning, the appointment was set.
“New laptop?” Karen said when Genny mentioned she’d be stepping away. “Oh, that must be nice. Didn’t realize you needed a new one already.” The smirk felt like a tap on the shoulder with a ruler.
Genny never knew if Karen was joking. She doubted Karen knew either.
She grabbed her old laptop, the one that had been overheating since late spring, and walked toward the elevator. The Lisle headquarters always looked impressive from the parking lot. Glass buildings reflecting the sky. Landscaping trimmed to corporate perfection. A campus layout that looked intentional from far away.
Inside, it was humming lights, carpet that always felt slightly damp no matter the season, and that smell every corporate building had: stale HVAC mixed with something citrusy that had long given up. Still nicer than her previous job.
The elevator was the only reliable route to the lower levels. Only certain stairwells went all the way down; the rest stopped at floor one like the building forgot to finish itself. She had stopped questioning it.
The doors opened to the familiar basement hallway. The air was colder, sharper. The lights buzzed just a little louder. The Tech Bar sat at the end of a T-intersection, glowing slightly too bright under recessed lighting. You could walk the other direction, but no one ever explained what was down there, and Genny wasn’t curious enough to find out.
The sign outside read:
MAY SEASON STUDIO
END USER SUPPORT
TECH BAR — WALK INS WELCOME
Someone had drawn a tired-eyed smiley face next to it. It felt accurate.
Inside, it looked exactly like IT. Tall counters. Rolling chairs. Racks of labeled cables. A dented coffee maker that made a clicking noise every few minutes. Holiday decorations taped to the walls, slightly crooked. Today’s theme was Fall Harvest. Someone had aggressively committed to orange garland.
Three Threadlings stood behind the counter, all wearing slate sweaters with their badges clipped neatly to their collars. They looked composed and ready, like they were waiting for the next crisis with a calmness that almost felt practiced.
The one closest to her looked up the second she stepped forward.
“Hi,” he said. “Ticket number or employee ID, whichever you prefer.”
“Uh,” she said, lifting her laptop. “I have an appointment. Hardware refresh. For Genny.”
He nodded halfway through her sentence. “Genny from Product Classification. Twenty-seven lifetime tickets. Four hardware. Nine software. The rest access-related.”
He said it like he was reading a weather report. Neutral. Factual. Not even a hint of judgment.
Another Threadling, shorter and rounder, slid a rolling chair behind her like he knew she’d appreciate it before she realized she did.
“How do you know that,” she asked.
“We read,” he said. “We remember. I’m Rowan.”
His badge confirmed it. His eyes were a brown-gold shade that shifted slightly with the overhead lighting. If she stared for more than a second, the threads in his sweater seemed to align with faint lines beneath his skin. Classic Threadling detail. Just noticeable enough if you caught it at the right angle.
She did not stare.
Rowan took her old laptop carefully. He checked the tag, ran a diagnostic, and winced when the fan sputtered like an old lawnmower.
“You really used this one to the end,” he said. “It earned retirement.”
He disappeared for a moment, spoke with another tech, and returned with a new machine. Matte finish. Neutral.
“Here you go,” he said, turning the screen toward her. “Already imaged. Network share mapped. Common apps installed. The rest will load on their own. Your files should show up within the hour.”
He said it like a traffic update on the radio. Calm. Predictable.
Another tech set a small packet on the counter. Microfiber cloth. Cable tie. “Getting started” card. Two granola bars.
“We see a lot of empty lunchboxes during refresh week,” he said.
“You give everyone snacks,” she asked.
“Only the ones who definitely skipped grocery shopping,” he said.
He wasn’t wrong.
She left with the new laptop and the strange sensation of having been handled with extreme care.
Upstairs, the new machine worked perfectly. No screaming fans. No freezes. No passive-aggressive pop-ups. Even Karen correcting her work felt manageable.
Day two started fine.
She followed her usual morning routine. Badge in. Coat on chair. Lunch in fridge. Coffee at her desk. She placed the cup far from the docking station. Responsible. Mature.
Halfway through an email to Engineering, someone pinged her with an urgent description change. She clicked over. Then another window opened. And another. She reached for her notebook, clipped her coffee cup with her wrist, and watched it tip as if in slow motion.
It poured directly across the keyboard.
The sound was tiny, but it stabbed her right in the stomach.
The screen flickered. A warning flashed too fast to read. The laptop powered down gently, like it was bowing out of the conversation.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
She grabbed napkins and tilted the laptop, hoping gravity might show mercy. The coffee ignored her and streamed straight into the vents.
She tried the power button. Nothing. Unplugged it. Plugged it back in. Nothing. The only sign of life was the warm smell of coffee and melted plastic.
Her first thought: maybe it will dry.
Her second: it definitely will not.
Her third: now I have to tell Karen.
Shame washed over her. She wasn’t someone who broke things. Her phone, three years old, still looked brand new. This felt personal.
She walked to Karen’s cube, cradling the laptop like evidence.
Karen looked up instantly. “What happened.”
Genny almost said “it stopped working,” but she swallowed the lie. IT logs never lied.
“I spilled coffee on it,” she said quietly. “It won’t turn on.”
Karen inhaled sharply, the same way she did when someone used the wrong hyphen in a title.
“You just got that laptop.”
“I know.”
“How much coffee.”
“Maybe half a cup.”
Karen looked past her, calculating whatever calculations Karen did.
“Submit another ticket,” she said. “They’ll scold you less than I will. Do it now.”
That was support, in Karen language.
Genny submitted the ticket from her phone. Selected “liquid damage.” Typed the truth. The system assigned a late-morning appointment.
The walk to Building 8 felt longer. The elevator felt slower. Even the hallway lights buzzed louder.
When she stepped into the Tech Bar, Rowan looked up like he’d been waiting for her specifically.
“Back already,” he said.
She placed the laptop down. “I broke it.”
He touched the lid gently. “What happened.”
“Coffee,” she said. “A lot.”
He nodded like this was a forecast he had predicted. The other Threadlings barely reacted.
“This week has been heavy on liquids,” he said. “Someone put theirs in the dishwasher last month. Thought it would help the keys.”
“That makes me feel worse.”
He smiled. “We told them the same thing I’m telling you. These machines are replaceable. You’re not.”
He tilted the laptop. A slow drip fell from the vent. He watched it like a scientist timing a reaction.
“Still coming out,” he said. “Good for honesty. Terrible for the motherboard.”
She wanted to disappear.
“Are you going to write this up,” she asked.
“We write everything,” he said. “But names only matter when they matter.”
Another tech tagged the laptop and placed it in a bin labeled RETIREMENT. Three others sat inside, all looking equally defeated.
“So what now,” she asked.
“Now we give you another one,” Rowan said. “Same model. New attempt.”
He returned with a sealed replacement and opened it gently. The default wallpaper glowed like it was judging her life choices.
The shorter tech slid another packet toward her. Another cable tie. Another cloth. Two new granola bars.
Rowan watched her carefully.
“Do me one favor,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Don’t give this one a bath again.”
He said it kindly, which made it worse.
Her face heated. “I’ll move my coffee.”
“Good plan,” he said. “Left side is safest.”
He said it like he had personally witnessed every spill in the Midwest.
She signed the handheld. He thanked her by name. In the hallway she passed someone from Finance holding a cracked monitor with the same defeated look. That helped a little.
Back at her desk, she placed the new machine in the center and moved her coffee to the farthest possible location. It required more reaching. She deserved that.
The laptop booted fast. Her files were back. Even the unfinished Engineering draft. The only evidence of the disaster was a damp napkin in the trash.
Karen walked by and paused.
“That was quick,” she said.
“Yes,” Genny said. “IT was really nice about it.”
“They always are,” Karen replied. “That’s what makes me nervous.”
She kept walking.
Genny looked at the new laptop, her distant coffee, and the quiet office. She thought about how many tiny disasters the Tech Bar handled without anyone upstairs noticing. There was something comforting in that.
She opened a new document and got back to work.
In the Tech Bar, Rowan logged the ticket, resolved it, tagged the replacement as issued, and added his note out of habit.
User tendency: high empathy, high spill risk.
Recommendation: keep snacks stocked and lids on beverages.
Then he helped the next person in line.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
at may season studio, we are very serious about routine disasters. coffee spills, broken devices, and quiet panic in the basement all count as data.
this entry is part of the ongoing employee accounts from inside may season studio, where the product lines look normal but the people and creatures keeping it running sometimes are not.
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: end user support/ from the May Season Studio employee files
If you’re following Genny’s case file, begin with The Lunch Hour.
