The doorbell rang.

  "I’ll get it," I called, but Seymour was already scuttling for the door.

  He flung it open and immediately took a step back. Florence stood there, twelve tentacles waving uncertainly in the too-small doorway. I had never seen her interact with anyone outside of work before.

  The two stared at each other, but Florence wasn’t flipping him off. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

  "Seymour," I said, giving him a gentle prod, "aren’t you going to introduce yourself?"

  "Hi, I’m Seymour. Welcome to my home. Please come inside." His voice was wavering between welcoming and panic.

  Florence, by contrast, was smoother than I’d ever seen her. She extended a tentacle toward Seymour’s still-vibrating claw. "Aren’t you going to show me around? I am a guest, after all."

  He stared at the tentacle as though it were venomous, but took it more gently than he handled any of his trains, and guided her in. She sidled right up next to him, like a cat drawn to a guest with allergies.

  "Hi, Florence," I waved from behind Seymour. She gave me a brief smile and flipped me off behind his back.

  "So, Seymour," she said, wrapping a tentacle over his shoulder and tapping his chest, "I hear you’re in a spot of trouble, though I can’t imagine how anyone could give you trouble." She glanced meaningfully at his massive claws.

  "Keith never mentioned you were Arthropodian."

  And there it was: one, two, three tentacles flipping me off. If she added any more, she’d look like some obscene peacock.

  "So rare," she murmured, wrapping another tentacle around his waist. "So handsome." Another slid around his midsection.

  Seymour stared at me in a panic and mouthed, What do I do? Help me.

  I had no idea. Joylin’s face popped into my mind: equally powerful, equally sticky, and possibly more dangerous. I smiled stupidly, then caught myself and coughed.

  "Well, team, time is short. Florence, if you will—"

  She released him but didn’t stop gazing into Seymour’s… everything.

  "We’ve set up a space in the lounge. It’ll do for rebellion headquarters for now. Biscuits, Florence?" I offered a silver tray Seymour had put together. She rolled her eyes.

  I gathered the recruits. "First point of order: are we happy for me to lead this rebellion, at least analytically?"

  "Well, you’re not going to be the muscle," Florence quipped, glancing again at Seymour’s claws.

  Seymour, mid-sip from a tall glass of milk, choked out a laugh and sprayed it halfway across the living room floor. Mutiny this early.

  "I, for one," Seymour said, regaining his composure, "think Keith would be an amazing leader. The best, even."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Fiiiine," Florence grumbled. "But if we need muscle, I’m not against tearing off some cherub wings."

  Seymour edged away from her—impressive, given his girth. Then thunk—eight suction cups latched onto his back and slowly reeled him in.

  Florence wasn’t even looking at him, but she was grinning from ear to ear.

  Seymour turned to look at her—hard not to when you’re being dragged across your own carpet—and Florence’s whole body shifted from light blue to a very distinct pink. Who knew octopi could blush?

  She gently detached herself, thumped the floor a few times in the most awkward drum solo I’d ever seen, then turned to me.

  "Can we please get to planning? We only have one day."

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Okay, we have two main objectives to achieve." I pointed at my large display board. In massive block letters, I had written:

  SAVE SEYMOUR

  RETRIEVE MARKETH

  "First, Seymour." Seymour’s eyes shot from the display board to me. "Are you ready?" I smiled confidently.

  "Form 602-J lays out…"

  Florence’s eyes instantly glazed over. I threw chalk at her, and it bounced off her head with a satisfying ping, leaving a small white mark of my disapproval.

  "As I was saying…"

  And I laid out the plan. The notification and implementation of re-alignment both directly contravened Form 602-J, which was perhaps the most ironclad form in Immortality-Corp. All actions conducted by employees must be in the service of joy, where statistics in Report 88T note that joy is tightly coupled to productivity. I had them, and this little mistake would cost them a lengthy audit by three different independent firms.

  This, of course, was a summary. I slammed a stack of two hundred neatly piled and heavily populated papers onto the desk and winked at Seymour.

  "And you, Seymour, are going to file these." They would never see it coming. Immortality-Corp had not been introduced to the genius of Seymour, but they were about to be—and not just because of my paper stack.

  Seymour had begun to tear up again. Without looking, one of Florence’s tentacles produced a tissue and placed it lightly into his claw.

  "Alright, Florence." Much to my surprise, Florence’s eyes shot to me with rapt attention. Apparently, helping Seymour had notched my position up a bit.

  "We need to get Marketh. Anthony, we need you here, too."

  Anthony bounced off of Seymour’s head to join the group.

  "I call this plan Down with Joy," I announced. "Anthony, how sad can you look?"

  Instantly, Anthony’s tail tucked between his legs and his head drooped low.

  I looked at him critically. "Sadder."

  Apparently, ghost dogs had skills I didn’t know about. He sucked in his breath, and ribs suddenly protruded from his ethereal sides.

  "Perfect."

  Seymour and Florence were both looking at me like I had completely lost it. Seymour’s jaw even sagged open slightly.

  "Trust me," I laughed. "Now, Seymour, do you have a lawn sprinkler and a camera?"

  Forty minutes of work, and it was done: the saddest card I had ever seen. On the front, an emaciated-looking Anthony sat seemingly alone in pouring rain (sprinklers), under the title: The Death of Scrappy: The Unloved and Forgotten.

  Turning it over, the sadness continued. An Ode to Scrappy went on to detail the life of an abandoned dog shunned by its family, needing to fend for itself on the cold streets of London. But Scrappy was not a survivor. He died alone, cold, and hungry.

  Seymour and Florence were both tearing up now. Even I had to wipe some moisture from my eye. Dust. It was perfect.

  "Okay, we just need four hundred more of these, and we need to slip them into every desk we can find. Seymour, I am counting on you."

  Seymour looked at me blankly. "Keith, I… I can do that, but what are we doing?"

  "We are weaponizing the Melancholy Alert," I said, trying to modulate the glee in my voice. "When they read this card, every person in Immortality-Corp that still has a heart—beating or not—will trigger a melancholy alert. The company will be in chaos."

  Then to Florence, whose eyes now held a mad gleam, "And then, it’s your turn. I found from Petunia’s thumb drive that Marketh's being held in a small subsection of Immortality-Corp while awaiting his hearing with the Dread Tribunal. You are going to use the chaos to excavate him. Rip off as many doors as you need to."

  Her tentacles flexed menacingly. "I would follow you to hell, sir." She was all in.

  "Thank you, Florence, but Immortality-Corp is considerably worse."

  And with the planning done, it was time for the tea-filled calm before the storm.

  We waited for tomorrow.