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Like a city loner standing beneath a lone streetlight, it rests. The yellowed light of a desk lamp, its LED bulb warm from the countless hours it has been left on by its forgetful owner (at least the appliance is energy efficient, one supposes), casts a spotlight upon it. Its small, spherical body has no doubt faced numerous hardships at the stressed hands of this desk’s occupant, worn by the endless days filled with creeping deadlines and drab, grey meetings.
It endures them nonetheless. To be crushed and to spring back is its duty.
Its bright colors serve to improve the human psyche, promising a rush of pleasant endorphins; humans are, of course, drawn to these things: the allure of instant gratification, of pleasant texture, of endless stimulation. But for the wandering twin machines, their optics yellower than the shining lamp above, the neon green of this gel stress ball serves only to pique their curiosity.
A blue hand scoops it up, lifting it to V1’s face. Had the ball a nervous system– or any sort of stimulus processing system at all– it would surely tremble with fear. But it lays perfectly still and inanimate as ever in their hand, blind to the world around it. V1 lightly tosses it in the air, catches it easily, weighs it in their hand, before finally giving it a gentle squeeze. Pliant gel escapes from between their firm fingertips. Alarmed, they quickly relax their grip, and their shoulders relax slightly as the stress ball returns to its original spherical shape.
“What’s this?” Footsteps approach, heralding the arrival of V2 (as ever, he is never far behind when V1 goes exploring), who peers at the object in V1’s hand. “A ball?”
V1 squeezes the stress ball again, demonstrating to their successor the way it shifts pleasantly around their digits.
“Slime?”
They relax their grip, and the ball relaxes with them.
“Huh. What’s it feel like?”
V1 shrugs before tossing the ball to V2.
He catches it and begins prodding at it with a finger as if the curious touches will unveil its secrets. V2’s touches are somewhat rougher than V1’s were. “Wonder why the humans have toys at their desks. They must have more free time than I thought.” He looks at V1. “Think they’ll mind if we play with it too?”
Another shrug. V1’s attention returns to nosing around the grid of desks in the dimly lit office, leaving V2 to his own devices. Unbeknownst to the poor, unfeeling ball, such a lapse of supervision would spell its doom. For while V1 understood that all things had a level of decorum expected of them– the lamp’s bulb must turn on when told to, the stress ball must return to its original form when released, the machines must not injure humans or otherwise make trouble for themselves– V2’s grasp of this immutable fact was often found to be somewhat lacking.
“Hey V1,” V2 calls, prompting his predecessor to look up from the now-tangled Newton’s cradle clutched in their hands, “watch this.” His fingers curl against the ball. His arm winds back. He lifts one of his feet. “I’m like one of those sports players. Baseball.”
The pitch is beautiful, the stress ball must admit. The final fleeting moments of its life are filled with the exhilarating feeling of the cool air conditioned air rushing against its vibrant green curves, granting it a sensation of freedom from humanity’s oppressive clutches that it never knew it wanted. But, all too soon, the excitement is over: like a Randy Johnson pitch to an unsuspecting bird, the green gel of the stress ball explodes against the wall of the office, coating the grey paint a sickening shade of green.
“Aw, shit.” V2’s hands drop to his sides and his wings droop with disappointment. “I was hoping it would bounce instead of just going… well, splat .”