My coworker came into my office wearing a full suit of armor—knight’s armor, big steal pauldrons, gauntlets, helmet, visor up.
“Could you email me those reports?”
She put her visor down and stepped back. “The ones I asked you for last week?”
I sighed and closed my laptop.
“I sent you those two weeks ago,” I reminded her.
She put one gauntleted hand on the doorknob.
“Are you sure?” She asked.
“Pretty fucking sure,” I said, “but—“
I paused opening my laptop because as I’d said, “fucking”, she’d crouched, reaching to her side where she kept a brutal-looking long sword.
“You okay?” I asked.
She gripped the hilt of her sword. “You really shouldn’t say the f-word at work,” she whispered, barely audible behind her visor.
“Sorry. Habit.” I opened my laptop. The sudden movement must’ve startled her because she jerked her arm up, knocking it into the glass panel on my door, shattering it. She drew her sword and turned around. Through the window, Mr. Pluck stood, startled, holding a coffee on the other side of the door.
“Okay then,” he said, then frowned at my coworker. “Why the fuck are you wearing armor?”
My coworker crouched into a battle stance. She opened the door and scootched around him, pointing her sword out at him, then me, then him, then me, crunching glass as she went.
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