Material XJ-41

Recovered from the archives after the incident, lightly redacted for dignity and several passive-aggressive comments. The original file was discovered in a cabinet labeled “Legacy Procedures.”

Letter 1

April 2

From: Dr. Lucinda Vale, Senior Research Chemist

To: Dr. Martin Crowe, Theoretical Physics

Martin,

The sample arrived this morning in a crate labeled “FRAGILE: PROBABLY.” An encouraging omen, like finding “Good Luck?” stitched into a parachute.

The company claims it was unearthed beneath the foundation of an abandoned corporate headquarters—sealed inside what they described as a “records sub-basement.” The building had been condemned. The filing cabinets were structurally intact.

Material XJ-41 appears inert at room temperature, except when observed, measured, discussed, evaluated, acknowledged, or emotionally perceived. When left alone, it is a dull gray lump. When watched, it rearranges itself into shapes resembling laboratory equipment, as if attempting camouflage with the confidence of a raccoon who has recently discovered credentials.

Its density is inconsistent. I placed it on a scale.

The scale sighed.

Please advise. Also remind me why we accepted a sample from a company that communicates exclusively through haiku and invoices in vibes.

Lucinda

Letter 2

April 2

From: Dr. Martin Crowe

To: Dr. Lucinda Vale

Lucinda,

I warned you about industrial poets. They romanticize extraction and invoice in metaphor.

Your description suggests a non-Newtonian, observer-reactive lattice—possibly a quantum adaptive solid. Or a prank subsidized by performance art grants and misplaced confidence.

Did the crate smell like almonds, ozone, or corporate negligence?

Run thermal tests. If it melts, freezes, vibrates, whispers, reorganizes, or begins hosting a thought-leadership podcast, document everything.

If it asks about your weekend, evacuate immediately. That is how infiltration begins.

And do not—under any circumstances—humanize it. That way lies projection, attachment, and eventually a steering committee.

Martin

Letter 3

April 3

Martin,

Thermal testing complete.

At 20°C: solid.

At 50°C: soft, like clay.

At 80°C: firm again, but resentful.

At 100°C: it extruded a spike, punctured the heating plate, and cooled itself in what I can only describe as retaliatory self-regulation.

Spite, Martin.

It weaponized spite.

I am aware that assigning motive to a mineral is unscientific. Unfortunately, the mineral appears to have assigned motive to me first.

At one point I distinctly heard “rude.” This may have been thermal contraction. It may also have been my conscience unionizing.

Additionally, it has relocated itself twice. It now occupies a different bench and is positioned at an angle I would describe as evaluative.

I am locking the lab.

Possibly from the outside.

L.

Letter 4

April 4

Lucinda,

Spite is not a recognized state of matter. I confirmed this via the periodic table and—during a moment of professional weakness—my horoscope. The latter warned: “A legacy issue resurfaces today. Before reinforcing it, consider whether it still supports you.” I object to its tone and its accuracy.

However, my shard refracts light inconsistently. Each laser test returns a different wavelength and what I can only describe as posture. One beam bent into a question mark. Another into a raised eyebrow.

More concerning: it vibrates in proximity to my calendar—particularly on days labeled “Meeting,” “Sync,” and “Quick Touch Base.”

It hums during performance review season.

It grows visibly agitated near archived policy binders. The older the document, the stronger the reaction. It nearly levitated beside a framed poster reading We’ve Always Done It This Way.

We may be observing an emergent property tied to institutional anxiety.

Or institutional memory.

Also, if you have named it, I will deny knowing you at conferences.

M.

Letter 5

April 5

Martin,

I have not named it.

I did, however, refer to it as “Buddy” once—purely sarcastically—after it obstructed the centrifuge lid with what I can only describe as a pseudopod.

The centrifuge now refuses to operate until I apologize.

Additionally, the sample has begun mimicking textures. Yesterday it was smooth stone. Today it feels exactly like a badly photocopied HR form—dry, faintly hostile, and inexplicably adhesive.

The forms it resembles are discontinued. Outdated logos. Obsolete titles. Policies replaced but never rescinded. It seems drawn to what we no longer use yet never fully discarded.

I do not appreciate being psychologically profiled by a mineral.

L.

Letter 6

April 6

Lucinda,

Mine has developed an internal structure resembling a flowchart. I’ve attached a sketch. You’ll note several arrows loop back into a box labeled “Further Review,” which feeds into “Revisit in Q4,” and from there appears to lead nowhere measurable.

When exposed to acoustic vibration, it emits a sound somewhere between a fax machine and a disappointed supervisor saying, “Interesting,” in a tone that suggests documentation will follow.

I attempted encouragement. It expanded.

I attempted criticism. It expanded significantly.

I attempted strategic neglect. It followed me home, dissolved into mulch on my porch, and reorganized my recycling according to guidelines I do not recall approving.

We are not conducting this experiment.

We are onboarding it.

M.

Letter 7

April 7

Martin,

Emergency.

“Buddy” (I will not be shamed) has infiltrated the building’s infrastructure.

The floor tiles now provide traction only when forms are completed in full.

The lights flicker in Morse code spelling “CC ALL.”

The elevator requests deliverables before granting access to upper floors.

Worse: the material appears to understand hierarchy. It pools beneath authority figures. Dr. Henshaw’s office is now partially load-bearing and emits a low, continuous hum of strategic alignment.

Administration has scheduled an inspection.

The material has increased in density since receiving the calendar invite.

If this is how I die, delete my browser history and inform my plants that I loved them unevenly, but with intention.

L.

Letter 8

April 7, later

Lucinda,

Breakthrough.

We have misidentified the phenomenon.

This is not a material reacting to bureaucracy.

It is bureaucracy.

An adaptive procedural organism. It thrives on ambiguity, approvals, provisional language, and emails that begin with “per my last message.” The more rules you apply, the more it expands. It metabolizes memos and secretes action items.

I suspect it is not made of matter but of accumulation. Every unresolved process. Every policy quietly left in place. Every meeting that should have been an email but calcified into tradition.

We did not discover it.

We inherited it.

Counterproposal: starve it.

M.

Letter 9

April 8

Martin,

Starve it how?

It ate my out-of-office notice and scheduled three follow-ups—attendance optional, consequences implied.

It has drafted a mission statement.

Feedback is requested by end of day.

L.

Letter 10

April 8

Lucinda,

Total procedural collapse.

No forms.

No approvals.

Radical clarity.

Open doors.

Unlabeled snacks.

First names only.

I wore a Hawaiian shirt. The material recoiled like a vampire confronted with a timesheet filled out honestly and submitted early.

I told it—sincerely—that it was doing fine. That its metrics did not define it.

More importantly, I told it we were allowed to let things go.

It contracted.

Lucinda.

It shrank.

M.

Letter 11

April 9

Martin,

You are both a genius and a public liability.

I implemented your protocol. Removed signage. Cancelled meetings. Replaced the mission statement with: “We’re figuring it out.”

The material panicked. It attempted to form a subcommittee and failed for lack of quorum.

Buddy is now paperweight-sized—warm to the touch and faintly humming “Kumbaya,” though no measurable outcomes are being tracked.

The building feels lighter.

Not just structurally.

Emotionally.

As if the walls had been carrying decades of unexamined procedure. We took down the framed slogans and the ceiling stopped creaking.

Dr. Henshaw admitted half our policies predated the internet. He cried—not entirely from fear—and has taken up pottery.

Someone laughed in the hallway without filing a request.

I think we have been feeding this thing for years.

It’s unsettling to realize how much of that habit felt like safety.

We should publish immediately.

Before it remembers how to schedule a meeting.

L.

Letter 12

April 10

Lucinda,

You’ll be pleased to know the situation has stabilized.

Material XJ-41 has been reassigned to Middle Management. The transition was seamless. It appears to find the climate favorable.

A few standing recommendations:

Do not feed it metrics.

Do not expose it to synergy.

If it begins forming action items, maintain eye contact and speak plainly.

Casual Fridays are mandatory.

And for the love of physics, do not CC All.

More seriously—

XJ-41 appears most stable in environments where outdated practices are acknowledged, thanked for their service, and formally retired.

It does not survive sustained clarity.

If it begins to grow again, resist the instinct to search the filing cabinets.

First, determine what you are still reinforcing without intention.

Then decide whether it still deserves to be load-bearing.

We mistook inheritance for necessity once already.

Proceed accordingly.

M.