#That Fuckwit from Field Services

[freelanceexorcist]

Reason# 248583947 Why Sephiroth Lost His Shpadoinkles

He got fed up with the aggravation of SOLDIER and took that easy-looking job in Procurement instead.

And then The Incident happened.

Sephiroth: (thinking) "You sure can tell it's the day before a holiday. This place is like a graveyard and I haven't had one request all morning. Surely there won't be any civilization-ending emergencies with no one else here, right? I might even be able to sneak out a little before 5:00 myself."

Sephiroth's email: "DING!"

To: NoLastName, Sephiroth

From: From Field Services, That Fuckwit

CC: Deusericus, Lazard; Hojo, Professor; Shinra, Rufus; Shinra, President; Herself, The Goddess Minerva; Planet, The

Time/Date: [ ν ] – εγλ 0001, 4:38 pm

Subject: ***URGENT!!!*** ***EXPEDITE!!!*** ***EMERGENCY!!!***

Hey buddy! Can you knock this one out for me real quick? It has to be ordered today for delivery tomorrow. I've attached the requisition I put together three days ago using a quote I've had for a month and the lead time says 12 weeks BUT IF IT DOESN'T GO OUT RIGHT NOW AND ARRIVE TOMORROW THE ENTIRE PROJECT IS GOING TO BURN TO THE GROUND AND IT WILL BE ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"

Warmest Regards,

That Fuckwit From Field Services

====

To: From Field Services, That Fuckwit

From: NoLastName, Sephiroth

Date:  [ ν ] – εγλ 0007, 4:39 pm

Subject: Re: ***URGENT!!!*** ***EXPEDITE!!!*** ***EMERGENCY!!!***

That Fuckwit,

The requisition cannot be accepted in its current form, and until the corrections below are made, policy prevents us from issuing a PO that includes The Shinra Electric Power Company's terms and conditions.

Rev 4 of this form has been obsolete since 0001. Please resubmit using current Rev 23.

The requisition does not have a valid approval for this gil amount. Gary the Field Services Tech has not worked for Shinra since 0003 and was never a designated approver or delegate. Please resubmit with the approval of Cathy the Field Services Manager.

The gil amounts and quantities on the requisition do not match the quote. Please clarify if there has been a price increase or change in the requested quantity.

[Insert continued list of dealbreakers here. Use your imaginations. --Freelance Exorcist]

Your prompt correction of these errors will ensure that your goods will arrive to site in time to prevent a work stoppage.

For future reference, please send purchase requisitions only to the Procurement department. Dir. Deusericus, Professor Hojo, the Vice President, the President, The Goddess Minerva Herself and The Planet are not currently members of the Procurement team.

Thank you.

Sephiroth

===

To: NoLastName, Sephiroth

From: From Field Services, That Fuckwit

Date:  [ ν ] – εγλ 0007, 4:41 pm

Subject: Re: ***URGENT!!!*** ***EXPEDITE!!!*** ***EMERGENCY!!!***

-Automatic Reply-

Hello,

I will be out of the office on PTO from [ ν ] – εγλ 0007 to [ ν ] – εγλ 0007 without access to email, Teams, my phone or my laptop and will in fact temporarily cease to exist. If you require immediate assistance, please contact Gary the Field Services Tech but please be advised that he is currently working on an offshore platform with inconsistent cell phone reception and network access.

Thanks and have a great holiday!

[keferon]

i was inspired by your tf mecha au; do you think that pharma loses his mind working with the pilots similar to the way he loses it at delphi?

like the pressure of being the cmo of so many people who go out and come back dead or injured to the point of decommission isn't going to make him crack, but maybe fielding shockwaves requests for experiment subjects for whatever he's cooking up...now he's forced to choose which of his patients go back out into the field and which ones go to shockwaves lab

and if one of said (technically on his roster) patients is his ex-coworker first aid, whos now drawn shockwaves attention for being mixed up with vortex? 

______________________________________________________________

He was going to kill that motherfucker First Aid. 

The next time the little twerp showed up and buckled into the cockpit, Vortex was going to cause a catastrophic casualty event inside the hangar. Lots of blood. Lots of screaming. Lots of body parts scattered around. Lots of blaming First Aid for going postal before Vortex liquifies his brain. The resolution to murder his pilot eases Vortex’s sour mood slightly, the promise of First Aid’s agonized screams a small comfort. 

The unfortunate part? He really had been starting to like the guy. Shit pilot, but Vortex didn’t need him touching his controls or fucking around with his cockpit settings. First Aid- Felix was a rapt audience when needed and knew how to whimper and complain just right- if he gave into Vortex’s whims too fast, it was no fun. Too long, and Vortex would actually get pissed. First Aid got the timing just right to make twisting the metaphorical screws into him interesting. Hell, First Aid himself was the most interesting thing to crawl into his cockpit. Soft little base-bound medic, ostensibly devoted to the greater good and helping others and whatever bullshit medics liked to harp on about. But there’s no hiding anything that goes on inside Vortex from Vortex, and the way the EKG and brain activity readouts from the pilot’s helm spike during battle is more than just fear or adrenaline. It was cute.

And now the little sad-sack piece of shit was standing him up. 

Not once but twice now the deployment klaxons in the hangar have gone off, and not once but twice the technicians and pilots have swarmed every other mech and left him idle in his docking bay. First Aid didn’t even show up in between raids, leaving Vortex to stew alone. Didn’t come stand in his cockpit, playing the too-loud music Vortex liked best. Didn’t come deliver those dataslugs with information about the various battlefronts opening and closing across the planet and the latest pop-culture updates. Vortex had threatened to drop his canopy on First Aid the last time he’d added that stupid shit, but he’d thought the threat had been hollow enough. First Aid didn’t even come and eat his lunch out on the walkways of the service tower like the fucking loser he is.

The first time Felix failed to show, Vortex had wormed his way into base records to make sure that no fuckwit armchair tactician had reassigned his ‘Aid, but nope, there was First Aid’s actual, government name, faithfully logged against Vortex’s designation in the roster, active duty. 

And maybe he’d checked the roster every day since, so what? It’s called being thorough. 

The hangar salles are emptying of the remainder of the technician crews, skittering well clear of Vortex so he can’t even stage a little accident for the rats. He lets his internal targeting programs pick the white-hot infrared figures out from against the hangar floor and imagines shooting them into pulp. It doesn’t help.

 Two tiny figures push through the doors and make their way across the hanger towards Vortex. He points his chassis cameras at them and adjusts the focus. One is limping, pilot’s helmet tucked under his arm. The other strides next to him, every half-step sideways as they lecture the first. They approach slowly, weaving around technicians and stacks of equipment and Vortex starts flicking through his weapons and motor systems so he can stage the wettest, goriest accident for them (with a big splash radius!). 

The two come closer, the limping one taking his sweet fucking time getting close enough for Vortex’s cameras to pick out details. 

First Aid looks like someone spent a good few days beating the fuck out of him, then went back and made sure to beat the shit out of him too. The pilot is pale and unsteady looking, and one leg of his pilot suit is hiked up over the knee to make space for a bulky medical brace that encases his entire lower leg. He needs help scaling the service tower and limps down the umbilical catwalk, gripping the railing like it’s going to protect him from Vortex’s wrath. Behind him, Pharma’s shiny shoes click with finality, blue-gloved hands clasped neatly over his stomach. 

Vortex pressurizes his hydraulics too fast, the pistons hissing under the weight of his cockpit canopy lifting. Get the fuck in, First Aid, Vortex thinks vengefully at the pilot. Get the fuck in so I can kill you. 

First Aid, damn him to hell and back, takes for-fucking-ever to even get close to Vortex, medical boot clanking unevenly against the walkway. Active duty, Vortex’s giant metal ass. He stops, leaning one hand against Vortex's hull, just enough to the side of the canopy that Vortex can't drop it on him. Asshole. Pharma doesn't even come close enough to him, keeping well enough away that Vortex can't do shit to him. First Aid's hand is a tiny point of warmth against his plating and Vortex is going to kill him out on the catwalk if he doesn’t get in the cockpit right fucking now.

“Felix, you absolutely cannot perform in your condition.” The CMO says stridently, with the conviction of a man who has never heard the word no. “You are not recovered. There is absolutely no reason to risk your safety-”

First Aid’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, unable to get a word in around Pharma’s tirade. The medic blathers on about reinfection, delayed reaction times, yadda yadda yadda proteins and antigens and bullshit Vortex couldn’t give a shit about. 

“Pharma-”  First Aid interrupts with a reedy voice, “I really- I need to go.”

He stumbles into Vortex's cockpit, awkwardly dragging his braced leg over the threshold. Vortex depressurizes the cockpit hydraulics and slams the canopy shut behind him, locking First Aid into his darkness. Pharma stands on the catwalk, looking like someone shoved a lemon through his teeth.

“Pharma’s gone insane.” First Aid blurts. Vortex’s infrared cameras train on him. “He-”

A nervous laugh and his heat signature sways drunkenly.

“I think he's trying to kill me.” First Aid whispers, “I'm sick, but it's not-”

[SIT DOWN]

He collapses into the pilot’s chair, and Vortex pulls the restraints around him tight enough to make him wheeze.

“Vortex-” Vortex drops the tangle of neural-net connectors onto his head with an audible thwack, and the medic dutifully snaps them into place on his helmet, the iris of the connection spinning wide between them.

 First Aid is trembling in the pilot’s chair, hands folded in his lap as if prayer has any chance of saving him. Vortex spins up his powertrain, pressurizing his hydraulics and shouldering free of the service tower’s struts. After a moment’s thought, he turns down his gyroscopes, letting each step rattle the cockpit. He can feel the other’s mind in his systems, fenced in by Vortex’s firewalls, churning with the franticness of a small animal caught in a trap. Vortex calls up a memory of the cockpit oozing with viscera and gore, what remained of the pilot settling into pulpy piles across the cabin floor, directing it at First Aid with viscous intent. The pilot rewards him with a shudder, shoulders hunching and curling into himself. His hands are shaking, and his internal temperature spikes even higher in the infrared. 

Vortex steps out of the hangar, already slotting the set of response coordinates into his navigation system. The shift from idle to top speed has First Aid rattling against his restraints, and each step afterwards knocks his boot against Vortex’s instrument panels. He hopes it hurts. He lets the navicomputer guide his steps, turning his attention back to his captive audience, sending a crackle of electricity through the helmet connections. First Aid spasms in his seat with a grit-toothed moan of pain. Vortex shocks him again to hear that growled sound. Then again, just for good measure. The medic sags forward with a whimper. 

Vortex reaches through their connection, dragging electric claws against the pinned-open neural clusters comprising First Aid’s mind. He spasms again, boot kicking uselessly against Vortex's instrument panels, fingers clawing at the restraints mindlessly. First Aid’s memories flick by him and Vortex’s internal data readouts ping him that his pilot is suffering acute distress. Good. He pushes further, every metric flipping red as First Aid thrashes, consciousness pinned tight by Vortex’s code and picked open like a dying lamb before a vulture. More memories flash by. Cold medibay, cold room, shivering alone under too-thin covers, cold fluid seeping down a IV drip, fever searing too-hot too-cold sick sick sick why not getting better getting worse cold cold cold-

Pharma.

Pharma’s voice, cold and demanding. Pharma’s hands, blue-gloved and cold against First Aid’s skin, pushing in more needles, attaching more sensors, pulling down the covers to check his body- always so, so cold. Memory-First Aid shivers and burns and heaves and there's always, always more cold fluid seeping into his system.

Klaxons. Vortex; he has to-

Pharma pushes him back down and he goes back to shivering and burning and heaving, time slipping by unevenly. Seconds in hours, days in seconds, whole nights spent torturously aware something is wrong with Pharma’s care, wrong with the IV that itches and creeps through his systems, wrong with the so-called disease- not a disease- that's burning through him, only to lose track once again with day. The klaxons go off, and memory-First Aid heaves himself up- why is his leg?- pulls off the sensors and disconnects the turbid IV line with shaking hands- his suit, where’s his- 

The memories slip through Vortex’s grasp- 

The hall is so, so, cold but First Aid had fumbled his way back to his room, found his helmet and pulled his drivesuit on. The klaxons have fallen silent but- 

Pharma. The sight of the CMO makes First Aid falter and draw back, turning a random corner and leaning against the wall. Uncharacteristic fear fills him, and First Aid gags, empty stomach roiling- he needs to run, hide, needs-

Vortex gets a better grip on the panicked memories; the tide of fear permeating them through the haze of sickness is familiar to follow. First Aid’s emotional state thrums through them, his fear of Pharma, the medibay- whatever the fuck was in that IV. Vortex has seen this kind of instinctive fear before- the base, hardwired need for self-preservation that has seasoned pilots screaming for reinforcements or cutting from a fight altogether. He’s caused this feeling enough times. Hell, he remembers before he died- 

First Aid tries to retreat, but Pharma corners him- the panic surging chokingly high- get away get away get away-! The ex-medic’s memories swirl, brain too hazy for a plan- can’t fight Pharma out here in a public hallway- only thing to do is run- run where- pilots don’t run- what do pilots do when they run?

Return to base.

Return to safety.

Return to Vortex.

The thought crystallizes out of First Aid’s chaotic mind. Return to Vortex. Vortex means safety for First Aid, and that’s- why the fuck? Vortex is a violent, awful man turned into a violent, awful, storeys-tall killing machine. He’s tried to kill First Aid before. But here sits First Aid, trembling in fear underneath Vortex’s iron fist and still thinking safe when he thinks of Vortex, standing deep in the bowels of one of the most secure facilities on earth. 

Vortex needs to kill something. Messily. 

Vortex’s radar pings, alerting him to the fact that the aliens will be obliging him today. He barrels forth, pulling his awareness out of First Aid and engaging his combat protocols, the cockpit’s running lights dimming. The first little fucker dies before its fellows can swing around to face Vortex, blades driving home through its technorganic chassis. The spray of mineral-rich arterial fluid spatters across his visor as Vortex rips free of it, already turning to face the next one. First Aid, dazed and infirm as he is, makes a breathy sound of approval as Vortex butchers his way through second with ease. 

Vortex loses himself in the slaughter, hacking his way through the field of enemies with fluid ease. His visor is completely smeared with gore, and somewhere along the way he’d stepped in the deactivated frame of one, organic intestines wrapping around his pede and squelching into his seams. He vents the excess steam from his drives, the heavy plume trailing him as Vortex stomps across the silent, cratered battlefield. He’s not going to indulge First Aid and let him dismount to collect trophies today. His radar cycles quietly, only returning back the signatures of co-pilots. Vortex toys briefly with the idea of killing one of them to finish off the day, but dismisses it. His previous anger has cooled to the point where he can restrain himself from doing something that would definitely get First Aid court martialed and executed.

The RTB order comes crackling through his comms soon enough, and Vortex sets a direct route back to base. First Aid has gone quiet now that the battle is over, the excitement warring with his fatigue and losing, brain activity slowing. Vortex is halfway back to his hangar when realization hits him- First Aid has fallen asleep in the pilot’s chair, head nodding down over his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. Son of a brazen bitch. Vortex has to double check his internal readings and cockpit cams to confirm it; opening the piloting connection again to poke at First Aid before stopping.

It would be so easy to mash his digital fingers into the slumbering jello of First Aid’s brain, reach back through the electronics and grind it into pulp before the medic could even scream, punish him for being late, being absent, being…First Aid. He ghosts over the steady stream of First Aid’s biometric data filtering through his systems, studying the slow ripple of sine waves and EKG readings. The urge to redirect his ventilation systems and fill the cockpit with carbon monoxide itches through his circuits. Send ‘Aid off nice and easy. The thought isn’t as fun as it should be.

Vortex adjusts his gyroscopes, changes his mind, sets them back, then changes his mind and adjusts them again. He goes back to half-watching the biodata’s scroll as he navigates back to base. First Aid sleeps on, limp in the pilot’s chair and head lolling. He’d bit his lip hard enough to bleed during the battle, and the dried blood is beginning to flake off.

Vortex returns to the hangar, perfectly navigating into the docking bay and shifting his systems towards idle. First Aid is still dead to the world, brainwaves ticking nice and open for Vortex to page through. He loosens the pilot’s restraints. No response.

You gotta be dumb as hell to fall asleep inside of an active mech and even dumber to fall asleep inside Vortex. First Aid didn’t seem to get that memo, or maybe he really was too tired to care.  

A technician comes down the walkway, hesitating before knocking on Vortex’s cockpit. He lets his engine rumble and still-warm weapons systems spin warningly until they back off, the whole crew retreating to what they probably think is a safe distance. He checks First Aid for the nth time; still sleeping. He thinks about frying his little pilot’s brain, forcing his way into the unguarded neural pathways and wreaking havoc until ‘Aid is just another gibbering husk the techs will have to haul out of his cockpit. No matter how many different scenarios he comes up with, how many different ways he imagines mutilating and killing First Aid, it feels hollow. Bland. Lacking imagination. A baby's temper tantrum.

The memory of First Aid’s trust sits deep in Vortex’s memory banks. The fragile data points and bioscans are tucked safely away in the core of his processor, spelling out V-O-R-T-E-X and S-A-F-E-T-Y in their cross-referenced entirety. He’s so- stupid, dumb, trusting ‘Aid. Vortex reaches through the connection, pushing back into First Aid’s mind with ease. The pilot twitches in his sleep, groans a little, but there’s none of the expected base fear and get-out instinct as Vortex pets gently over the fragile organic network, trailing electric signals across his nervous system. Brain cells or someshit. Where the hell is memory stored in this thing?

He presses on a neural cluster, sends Vortex rippling through the neurons and gets back shit like strong and terrifying and a complex little series of impulses that feels like a combination of safe and trust, which are words that have no business having any relation to Vortex. Sickening. He thinks about pressing further in, muscling into Felix’s welcoming brain like he did into the mech’s systems when he first died and staying there. He sends Vortex out again, receives trust and safe and-

Vortex withdraws. The technicians are setting up hoses for spraying his plating with solvent so he slams his outer vents shut and switches the cockpit to internally filtered ventilation. Felix doesn’t need to be breathing in whatever the hell shit they use to dissolve the alien viscera off of his hull. He turns the heat up in the cockpit after checking the infrared again. The cold wash of solvent courses over his plating and obscures his external sensor net so Vortex turns his attention back to Felix. 

Idiot still didn’t wake up even with Vortex actively playing piano on his brain strings. He displays that thought on his cockpit readout along with several more choice thoughts about Felix’s parentage and character. Still sleeping. 

Which is- it’s- Vortex is surprisingly fine with it. Felix might be dumb, and naive, and far too willing to let Vortex into his shit and a shit pilot on top of all that; but he’s Vortex’s dumb, naive and shit pilot.  If he wants to sleep off whatever Pharma pumped him full of inside Vortex’s cockpit, fine. Vortex will pressurize the hydraulics and drop the locking pins and keep him there until his Felix is crying to be let out. 

Then he's going to kill that motherfucker Pharma.

anon. ANON WHOEVER YOU ARE LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND AND HUG YOU. WRITING THIS ABSOLUTE BANGER OF A TEXAID AND SENDING IN ANONYMOUSLY?? THATS SOME KIND OF FANFIC VERSION OF SECRET IDENTITY SUPERHERO BULLSHIT RIGHT HERE /pos

I LOVE IT. I LOVE IT I LOVE IT I LOVE IT I LOVE ITTTTT YOU WROTE THEM SO GOOD ITS FKKGMGNGMGMGMGMG IM BREWING YOUR COFFEE WITH MY MIND

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[bread-roses-and-chrome]

Contractual Obligation (4)

"...You do enough," she told him. "Mack-Ras is a stable job. It's corporate. It's never gonna go away. The pay on the factory floor's not good, the regulations ain't enough. But just...stay there. Back me up. If something happens to me, I--" "Shaylee." "Hun, don't call me that. Please." "...I met Lee. The man, downtown. The Korean. The one that looked to be about forty, the one you told me about. He introduced himself. He was a contractor for Weaver Industrial, just like you said. Served in Siberia. He says he'll help us." "For how much?" "...He didn't name a price. He just said he'd come by tomorrow. He said he knew Mack-Ras technology from back in the war. Said it looked enough like P.L.A. tech for him to get a closer look." "Hrm." She mused. If he could see her smile. "Conflict of interest. Making use of the services of members of rival corporations. I'm not the only..." She stopped. She knew that calling him a partner-in-crime would make his jitters worse. Kurt gave her a hearty little chuckle. "You know a lot about this sort of stuff now. Maybe we should get you into Legal. Mack-Ras would appreciate a lot of good lawyers like you. You're not a freak-show. Not like the little shit in the barrel they brought in as the new foreman yesterday." "I don't have a degree, you fuckwit. Mack-Ras likes degrees. I can't even afford a degree for my kids. You think I'm gonna push myself to college?" "Hey, it's never too late!" "Shut up. I'm not that old." "Neither am I!" "With that salt-and-pepper beard of yours, I'd peg you at about sixty." She loved when they just talked like this. All their weeks. Their lives. Through Lima Blight in Aklan and the rot in the fields. Through the checkpoints and the on-foot walk through Luzon. Through the drudgery and the mud and the grinding monotony of living area projects the government abandoned in the '60s. Through the reddening skies and the smell of ethanol fumes. What she could make of their lives. Kurt stayed on this for a while, hovering over the last cable port. Through this, she'd connect to the computer she used to govern her affairs. Govern her business arrangements. He remembered looking at her in that chair of hers, back in their little home out near the floodway. Live-selling. He smiled. As much as he could. "You ready for this?" "Ready." The plug went in. ****** Out, out, did that data go. Across the cables, between the messengers, across the millions upon millions of little intranets that men hiding from the State had crafted in times long past. To keep themselves secure. To keep everyone in this little thread of sanity secure. It was not a name for themselves that they needed. Kurtis and Shaylee Dagohoy, for better or for infinitely worse, would get one anyway. For in three months' time, a minister of the Republic would be dead. Chairman of the Council of National Preservation, Emilio Abracosa, would declare martial law. Amidst famine and death. Corruption. Hatred unparalleled for the death of millions. The final breath of the illusion of a great leader that could save them all from mankind's last days on Earth. The wrath of the state would be the order of the day. There would be blood on the street. Students on the cobblestone. And men and women across the city, and across the country, would start asking them why. ================================================ Previous. Back to the first page.

[freelanceexorcist]

Filling out forms wasn't great. The reports kinda sucked as well. But what really did him in, what really made him cross the Rubicon was the emails. Oh, holy buckets of chum, the emails.

Nibelheim really happened because in his distress and haste, he accidentally brought his phone down into the library with him and...emails.

Like the three in a row from that fuckwit from Field Services who sat on something for a week and now it's an emergency that will lead to the collapse of society if Sephiroth doesn't drop everything and address it immediately. Or the entirely-too-long email chain that the other fuckwit from Field Services copied him in on even though it had nothing to do with any of his duties because there's a chance he might be peripherally involved some day.

And Teams is blowing up, too, because fuckwit #1 was messaging him a nanosecond after hitting Send on the emails to make sure he got them and why send one message when you can hit the enter key after every few words you type and send 15 of them in rapid succession? The last thing Sephiroth saw before giving in to madness was

sephiroth

hi

did u see my email

i sent it over a minute ago

and you havent responded yet

getting kinda worried

i was really hoping youd get on that

can u do that

thx

👍😊

Nibelheim didn't have a prayer after that. Shame on you, Janice and Keith. The blood of innocents is on your hands.

"Sephiroth doing paperwork" gets treated like a funny meme about the peculiar fixations of fanfic writers, but if you think about it, the guy's job ��� at least pre-losing-his-shit – is to somehow be a corporate middle manager and a cop at the exact same time, both professions which are notable for the unbelievable quantities of bullshit paperwork they generate. He would absolutely be filling out Form 27-B.

[freelanceexorcist]

Reason# 193847493 why Sephiroth lost his ever-loving marbles:

That Fuckwit from Field Services sent him an email to tell him they were going to send him an email shortly.

[freelanceexorcist]

Reason #403749263 why Sephiroth’s lost his ever loving shit in Nibelheim:

Over the span of less than 60 seconds, he received the following from That Fuckwit From Field Services:

An email

A Teams message notifying him that an email was just sent

A phone call from That Fuckwit asking if he’d seen the email and Teams message

[freelanceexorcist]

Dear Co-workers,

*If you're standing over my shoulder and asking me if I read the email you just sent before said email has even had time to hit my inbox, you need to settle the fuck down.

*If you're sending me a Teams message to tell me you'll be sending me an email, you need to settle the fuck down.

*If you're sending me an email to tell me you'll be sending me another email later, please go to the restroom of your choice and give yourself swirlies.

*If your email contains an "emergency" that you're sending me after 4pm on a Friday, please punch yourself in the face and don't stop until I tell you.

*Also, if you're sending me rapid fire Teams messages one after the other while I'm trying to address your "emergency," please ask the person sitting beside you to break your fingers with a hammer.

*If your "emergency" is only an emergency because you sat on it until the last minute or forgot about it and civilization will collapse unless I make it my emergency, well, if I said out loud what I want you to do, I'd probably end up on some kind of watchlist.

*Finally, if the way you handle IMs and text chat would get you booted from a Discord server for being a colossal nuisance, delete Teams until you can behave like a civilized professional and not a squirrel on meth.

[freelanceexorcist]

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines an emergency as an unforeseen combination of circumstances or the resulting state that calls for immediate action.

That Fuckwit from Field Services defines an emergency in four distinct ways when it comes time to get Procurement involved:

1. I sat on this until the very last minute and now it’s your problem.

2. I completely and utterly boogered up this project, which has created an emergent situation and now it's your problem.

3. I refuse to schedule the weekly check ins with my customer at any time other than Friday afternoon, I promised them the moon and they want it onsite tomorrow so here’s a red hot requisition for you at 4:45 pm and now it’s your problem.

And

4. It’s not really an emergency but I want you to drop everything and tend to me first so I’m going to tell you it is and now it’s your problem.

*Sigh*

[freelanceexorcist]

Sorrynotsorry about this.

The Ballad of Sephiroth vs. That Fuckwit From Field Services (2747 words) by ghostofgenerayburn Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII), Lazard Deusericus Additional Tags: Somewhere in the FFVII multiverse this shit happened, FFVII multiverse, That Fuckwit From Field Services, sorry attempt at humor, Whole lotta F-bombs dropping on this soil Summary: Sephiroth got fed up with the aggravation of SOLDIER and took that easy-looking job in Procurement instead.

[freelanceexorcist]

Reason# 2048572 why Sephiroth’s lost his ever loving shit in Nibelheim:

After dealing with his email inbox being under heavy bombardment all morning from that fuckwit from Field Services demanding updates every 15 minutes on the thing they need him to do immediately if not sooner, he finally had his fill when said fuckwit sent him a Teams message to tell him that they were sending him another email demanding updates.

And when he requested information about another matter from said fuckwit, the response was basically "screw you, not my problem, and why do you even think you can ask me this?"