Saturday, February 7th, 2026
Dear Diary,
Weekend shifts are always weird. Half the staff, twice the chaos.
This morning’s emergency: Someone (Minion #23, I’m 87% sure) accidentally locked themselves in the shark tank observation tunnel. The sharks were very interested. The minion was very not interested.
It took forty-five minutes and three security overrides to get him out. He’s fine. The sharks are disappointed.
The Boss suggested we „improve signage.“ I suggested we improve hiring standards. We compromised: both.
The Weather Dominator is still broken. Now it’s producing fog. Specifically over our own facility. We can’t see the parking lot. Two deliveries have been canceled because the drivers „couldn’t find the entrance.“
The engineers swear they’re „close to a breakthrough.“ They’ve been saying that for three days.
Henrik brought his kids to work today. Apparently, his wife had an emergency and childcare fell through. Three small humans, ages 4-9, running around a supervillain lair.
The 4-year-old asked why we have so many „zappy things.“ Henrik said we’re „in the security industry.“ The kid nodded solemnly and said, „My dad fights bad guys.“
Close enough, kid.
They spent two hours in the break room drawing pictures. One of them drew Mr. Whiskers. It’s surprisingly accurate, including the judgmental expression. The Boss asked if he could keep it. It’s now framed in his office.
I’m starting to think this organization is softer than it looks.
The sentient jello offered to „babysit“ (jello-sit?) Henrik’s kids. I politely declined. Raspberry looked offended but wobbled away with dignity.
At lunch, one of the engineers mentioned that J.W. wasn’t on shift. Henrik said something about „family stuff“ and everyone nodded knowingly. I didn’t ask for details. Everyone deserves privacy.
Though someone started a betting pool about why he’s out. The leading theory is „vacation.“ The second theory is „witness protection.“ The third is „finally snapped and joined the good guys.“
I shut down the betting pool. Partially because it’s unprofessional. Mostly because I have no idea which theory is correct.
Minion #47 was on time today. EARLY, even. He brought cookies. Home-baked. They’re actually good.
When I complimented them, he just shrugged and said, „Had some free time. Needed to bake.“
The man is an enigma wrapped in pajama pants.
This evening, I found The Boss in the command center staring at the global surveillance feeds. Not doing anything evil. Just… watching. City lights. Traffic patterns. Normal human life.
„Ever wonder what it’s like?“ he asked. „The normal life?“
„Sometimes,“ I admitted.
„Me too,“ he said quietly. Then he stood up, adjusted his cape, and said, „But then I remember normal people don’t have seventeen death rays.“
Fair point.
Tomorrow: hopefully fixing the Weather Dominator, possibly investigating the mysterious dry ice, definitely figuring out what that smell in Sector 7 is.
Contemplative but pragmatic,
Mrs. Clawdia
*P.S. — Henrik’s kids left drawings for everyone. Mine says „Best Boss Lady.“ I’m keeping it forever.*