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Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Drone (Serial Designation N x Reader)
Story Masterlist
You’ve often wondered how you ended up here.
Your desk, a grayed-out island surrounded by a sea of other identical workstations, has seen better days. The once-shiny JCJenson logo etched into the corner is now dulled, just like your enthusiasm for the corporate grind. The monitor flickers faintly as you scroll through endless spreadsheets, each cell populated with strings of numbers that meant nothing to you beyond "quarterly projections" and "acceptable casualty margins."
You sigh, leaning back in your chair. A branded pen rolls off the edge of your desk, landing with a dull clatter on the tile floor. You don’t bother picking it up; there’s a whole box of them in the supply closet.
Today’s tasks are, as always, a parade of monotony. Data entry, damage reports, and the ever-fun task of shredding documents that were marked CONFIDENTIAL in red ink. As you feed another stack of papers into the industrial shredder, you catch snippets of text:
"Serial Designation X-0T1010110 failed containment—Incident resulted in 14 human casualties...""Cost analysis of drone-related repairs versus human replacements..."
You shove the papers in faster, unwilling to linger on the details. It’s easier not to think about what these reports mean.
The office air is stale, recycled a thousand times over by a ventilation system older than most of the drones JCJenson manufactures. The faint hum of machines, the clicking of keyboards, and the distant buzz of the breakroom microwave form a symphony of corporate drudgery.
“Hey, you coming to the quarterly review meeting?” asks a coworker as they pass by, holding a coffee cup with JCJenson’s slogan: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result."
You force a polite smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
They nod and shuffle off, leaving you alone with your spreadsheets and the nagging feeling that, for all the talk of liability and safety, the only thing JCJenson seems passionate about is grinding the life out of its employees.
The meeting is exactly as insufferable as you expected.
You sit near the back of the room, a strategic choice to avoid being called on for any questions or insights. A projection screen at the front displays an overly cheerful PowerPoint deck. Each slide is crammed with pie charts, bar graphs, and buzzwords like "synergy," "stakeholder alignment," and "Q4 optimization goals."
A senior manager drones (ha) on in a monotone voice, flipping through slides as though he’s on autopilot. You catch snippets of phrases:
"Revenue up by 0.3%...""Minimizing liability in high-risk sectors...""Drone maintenance backlog—actionable in Q1..."
Your mind drifts. You find yourself staring at the JCJenson motto printed at the top of every slide: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result." It’s hard not to read it sarcastically.
Occasionally, someone in the audience offers a nod or a murmured "good point," though it’s doubtful they’re any more engaged than you are. At one point, the manager makes a joke about "cutting-edge safety measures" that earns a smattering of polite chuckles. You don’t even bother to fake it.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the meeting adjourns. You’re free—at least for the next five minutes.
You join the shuffle of employees heading to the breakroom, each of you moving with the enthusiasm of a dead lemur. It’s time for the corporate-mandated 5-minute donut break, a peculiar ritual meant to boost morale.
The breakroom smells faintly of coffee and powdered sugar. A box of donuts sits on the counter, already half-empty. You grab one without looking and take a bite, barely tasting it as you lean against the wall. Conversations buzz around you, but none of it registers.
For five blissful minutes, you don’t think about spreadsheets, shredders, or casualty reports. Just you, your donut, and the fleeting illusion of freedom.
The break ends far too soon, as it always does, and you find yourself back at your desk. The donut was mediocre, and the coffee left a bitter aftertaste that matches your mood.
Your next task: complaint emails. A never-ending stream of them floods your inbox, each one angrier than the last. You open the first message, its subject line screaming at you in all caps:
"RE: MY DRONE ATE MY DOG AND BURNED DOWN MY HOUSE."
You sigh, already bracing yourself. Without even reading the body of the email, your fingers move to type the same canned response you’ve sent a hundred times before:
"Dear Valued Customer,We are very sorry to hear you are dissatisfied with the quality of your JCJenson Drone. Please note that our products undergo rigorous testing to meet our industry-leading standards. Your feedback is important to us and has been forwarded to the appropriate department. We appreciate your patience and understanding during this time.Kind regards,JCJenson Customer Care Team."
Click. Send.
The next email isn’t much better:
"RE: WHY DID MY DRONE DROP MY GROCERIES AND ATTACK MY MAILMAN?"
You adjust the response slightly to fit, but the template remains the same. Apologies, assurances, and a whole lot of nothing.
It’s easier not to think about the implications of the complaints—the lives disrupted or ruined by faulty drones. You wonder if the people writing these emails ever get a real response. Probably not.
Your inbox refreshes, and another batch of complaints pours in. You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning quietly to yourself. It’s just another day at JCJenson, where liability is our passion —and, apparently, yours to deal with.
The clock finally ticks over to quitting time, and you hit send on your last email with the same mechanical motion as every other. The subject line, "RE: MY DRONE LEVELED MY GARDEN SHED AND STOMPED ON MY CAT," disappears into the void of customer complaints, and you let out a long, cathartic sigh.
The weekend. Two days of freedom stretch before you like a mirage, promising peace, quiet, and absolutely no mention of drones, casualties, or pie charts. You’re already halfway to the coat rack, hand reaching for the worn overcoat you’ve had for years—it’s practically a relic of a simpler time.
But just as your fingers brush the fabric, a manila folder slams into your hand.
“Hold it right there, kid!”
You flinch at the unmistakable bark of your boss. He looms over you like a storm cloud, his perpetual scowl deepening as he gestures to the folder. He looks as though he’s about to chew you out but instead slaps you on the back, nearly knocking you off balance.
“Big job, huge job,” he says, his voice booming enough to turn a few heads nearby. “And you’re just the person for it!”
You open your mouth to object, but he barrels on, not giving you a chance to get a word in. “I handpicked you for this assignment because you’re the best we’ve got!” he declares, eyes darting suspiciously over his shoulder.
It’s then that you notice the unmistakable gleam of a golf club sticking out from behind his back. The clinking of clubs gives him away, but he quickly shifts his stance to obscure them further.
“Yeah, yeah,” he continues, waving vaguely at the folder in your hand, “confidential, high-priority, yada yada. Needs to be handled ASAP! ”
“Wait, what is—”
“No time for questions!” he interrupts, already backing toward the elevator. “You’re a pro! I know you’ll knock it outta the park! Or, uh—whatever it is you do!”
The elevator dings, and he practically leaps inside, his golf caddy rattling behind him. He stabs the “close doors” button repeatedly, giving you a quick salute as the doors slide shut.
“Good luck! Don’t mess it up!” he shouts just before disappearing entirely.
You’re left standing there, the manila folder in your hand, the weekend slipping away before your very eyes.
You stand there for a moment, folder in hand, watching the elevator doors close. Then, with a long, resigned sigh, you rub the bridge of your nose and trudge back to your desk. The coat you were so close to grabbing sways mockingly on the rack as you pass it by.
Your chair creaks as you sink back into it, tossing the folder onto the desk in front of you. You take a moment to glare at it, as if sheer willpower might make it vanish. It doesn’t.
With a heavy sense of inevitability, you flip the folder open. The first page stares back at you, black text on crisp paper, but you barely register what it says at first. You’re too busy mourning the weekend plans that had been so rudely snatched away from you.
Plans. Ha. Like you had anything ambitious in mind.
You were going to swing by the pizza place on the way home, pick up a large with extra cheese, and spend the evening on the couch watching the same YouTube documentary about dog breeds you’d already seen five times. The narrator’s voice was comforting, and you always liked the section on Golden Retrievers.
Instead, here you are. Another late night, courtesy of JCJenson. But hey, at least you have all the branded pens you could hope for.
You shake your head and focus on the contents of the folder. It’s filled with the usual corporate nonsense: incident reports, legal disclaimers, and technical diagrams of drones. But halfway through, something unusual catches your eye—a requisition form stamped with bright red ink:
"URGENT: TRANSFER PROTOCOLS FOR TEST UNIT N-0X0010010.”
The rest of the document is dense with jargon, but one thing is clear: you’re being tasked with supervising the “home protocols” of one of the company’s experimental drones. Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a task you’re qualified—or paid enough—for.
You lean back in your chair, staring at the requisition form. “Perfect,” you mutter to yourself, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “There goes my pizza night.”
With a groan, you shove the folder under your arm and head toward the elevators. The requisition form gives you just enough information to know where you’re supposed to go—down to the warehouse. You’d never been there before, but you’ve heard the stories: endless rows of drone parts, the hum of assembly lines, and an atmosphere so heavy with tension it feels like the walls themselves are judging you.
The elevator ride is mercifully short. The doors open to reveal a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of grease and scorched metal. You follow the signs toward the warehouse, boots clacking on the scuffed floor as the sound of distant machinery grows louder.
Finally, you reach a massive set of double doors, with a glowing neon sign above them that reads:
“AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. HARD HATS REQUIRED.We have lawyers. You don’t. Wear a hard hat!”
You stop in your tracks, staring at the sign. A sigh escapes your lips, louder than you intended. Of course. Of course they’d make you turn back after getting all the way down here.
Muttering under your breath about liability paranoia, you retrace your steps to the maintenance closet you’d passed earlier. Sure enough, there’s a stack of faded yellow hard hats sitting on the shelf, each one more battered than the last. You grab the least crusty-looking one, dust it off, and jam it onto your head.
“Safety first,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back toward the warehouse. The hard hat sits awkwardly on your head, just a little too small, the strap digging into your chin. You resist the urge to rip it off as you push open the double doors and step inside.
You push the warehouse doors open, greeted by the echoing hum of machinery and the acrid scent of oil and melted plastic. The place is cavernous, rows of shelves stretching up toward the high ceiling, filled with spare parts, crates, and what looks like a disassembled drone that probably belongs in a museum.
As you step into the loading bay, a familiar voice calls out: “Yo, dude! Wassup?”
Oh no. Not him.
Brad, the shipping manager, waves lazily from behind a forklift. His perpetual slouch and that ridiculous mop of sun-bleached hair make him look like he got lost on his way to a surf competition.
“Boss said you’d be droppin’ by,” he drawls, sauntering toward you like he has all the time in the world. He’s wearing a JCJenson polo shirt that looks one size too big, untucked and wrinkled, like he grabbed it off the floor this morning.
You’ve met Brad a handful of times—mostly at company retreats and awkward holiday parties. He’s the guy who raids the snack table and disappears halfway through the event, leaving you to wonder how anyone can eat an entire bowl of chips by themselves.
“Uh, yeah,” you reply, already exhausted by his energy. “Boss said there was something for me?”
“Totally, totally,” Brad says, gesturing vaguely toward a massive shipping crate sitting on a pallet. The thing is huge, easily taller than you and sealed with bright red warning labels.
“All yours, bro,” Brad says with a lazy grin. “I’ll load it into a truck for ya. Y’know, company wheels. Real sweet ride.”
You glance at the crate, then back at him. “And what am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”
Brad shrugs, leaning against the forklift like he’s in a photoshoot. “No idea, dude. I just move the boxes.”
You resist the urge to rub your temples.
“Oh, heads up, though,” he adds, as if remembering something important. “Truck’s got GPS, so, like, don’t even think about takin’ a joyride. You go anywhere but where the bigwigs said? Boom. Pay docked. Or whatever. Not my problem.”
He says it all with such a lack of enthusiasm that you’re not entirely sure he’s serious.
“Great,” you mutter, staring at the crate as Brad ambles toward the forklift. This was shaping up to be such a fun weekend.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching Brad maneuver the forklift with surprising precision. For someone with the demeanor of a guy who says “radical” unironically, he handles the equipment like he’s been doing it for years.
The massive crate is lifted and gently deposited into the bed of a JCJenson-branded pickup truck—a surprisingly seamless process. You raise an eyebrow, almost impressed, but quickly squash the feeling.
“Boom. Done,” Brad says, hopping down from the forklift and tossing you the keys. You barely catch them, fumbling for a second before they settle in your palm.
“Thanks,” you mutter, making your way toward the driver’s side.
“Enjoy the ride, dude!” Brad calls after you, already heading back to whatever it is he does when no one’s watching. “And don’t forget the GPS thing! Seriously!”
You don’t bother replying, sliding into the truck’s seat and slamming the door shut behind you. The truck smells like stale coffee and something faintly metallic, and the dashboard is cluttered with enough buttons and dials to make you feel like you’re piloting a spaceship.
The keys turn in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. You grip the wheel tightly, eager to get this over with. The sooner you’re home, the sooner you can—well, not relax exactly, but at least pretend to.
As you pull out of the warehouse and onto the road, your mind starts to wander.
This whole thing is ridiculous. Not just the last-minute assignment, but the fact that they’ve shoved you into a task so far outside your job description it’s laughable. You’re customer support. Your life is answering emails about worker drone-related catastrophes and shredding documents that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Testing experimental drones? Ha. Not even close.
You’ve never owned a drone. Not that you’d want to. The thought of one of those unpredictable, clunky metal bipeds stomping around your apartment is enough to make your skin crawl. You’ve read way too many emails about battery failures that turned into small fires or drones deciding to interpret their owner’s sarcastic remarks a little too literally.
“RE: WORKER DRONE SHATTERED MY KITCHEN WINDOW WITH A FLYING PLATE”—that one stuck with you.
And then there were the personality glitches. Oh, the personality glitches. Reading through frantic emails about drones throwing tantrums, refusing to perform tasks, or just standing in the corner staring at the wall for hours… yeah, you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life.
Besides, it’s not like you get paid enough to afford one anyway. Ha.
You glance at the GPS display, following the glowing line that marks your route home. The crate rattles slightly in the back with every bump in the road, a constant reminder of the weekend you didn’t sign up for.
The truck hums along, the city lights blurring past as you make your way toward home.
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