So, Jenna was the last to get it.

She drops her bag, powers up the workstation, and the words are there: “Your position has been made redundant, please vacate your desk and remember to power off your workstation.” I’ve seen people take it stoically, like Pete and Sonia last month. Not Jenna. I will never, ever, cross her. No, no one was injured, come on? Jenna’s not like that. She’s badass.

Jenna sits close to one of the big windows. Not the one facing north, Prince’s Island park, and geese and ducks, and addicts smoking under the bridge. Her window, that faces south, the beltline, rundown condos, pavement strewed with garbage. That rectangular patch of double-glass lies just over an VIP parking lot, biometrically locked, 20 (plus or minus 0.3) degrees celsius controlled climate. The company bought the whole thing late in last boom, just so the C caste could park their supercars. Yeah, I didn’t know it either. I remember sitting on the stairs to the +15 for a long time, chain-smoking, waiting for a date that never showed up. That was before the crash. Good luck pulling that off nowadays, with all the corporate drones around here.

Anyway. Jenna knew it all. She knew our precious CFO, Mr. Johnstone, parked his Maseratti there. His Granturismo MC Edition, a glorious “GRIGIO PIETRA” metallic coat; under its hood a roaring V8 capable of taking the beast from nil to 100km/h in juuust over 4.3 seconds. Yes, I just searched that. They don’t make it anymore. Maseratti folded during the depression. But that is indeed his car. Was. It would take 6 years of my paycheck – I’m talking gross here – to buy that piece. He bought with the performance bonus from last quarter. Well, guess where did Mr. Johnstone parked his Maserati? Just there. Straight. Down. Jenna’s window. Jenna told me about it this morning.

So, Jenna had 30 minutes to unleash retribution during our floor’s morning stand-up meeting. She rooted three network stacks to get a feed of the closed camera circuit on that parking lot. Yes, I’m not joking. I bet you can’t even root your terminal without it screaming and painting a target on you. I know I can’t. Jenna got the feed, jumped from camera to camera, then found the CFO’s Maseratti. That was the easiest step. She then downloaded the building’s floor-plan from some architecture studio in Vienna –can you believe they were still using 3DES!? This studio was involved in the renovation, and with the plan, she figured out where the parking spot was. Not done yet, she extrapolated how our new offices altered our building’s plan –no architect was hired for this as HR just brought some muscle and hammered down some walls– and pinpointed the window that would lead straight down to that particular parking spot. Serendipity! Her window! I can see, in my mind’s eye: Jenna grinning with that knowledge.

Now comes the best part. Jenna pulled all that awesomeness while our CTO Mr Bjornson bored us at the stand-up daily meeting. She then wears her backpack, crouches by the workstation and rips the workstation free from the floor, cables flopping as connectors break. The legs, that’s the secret: straight back, bend your knees then use the legs to raise again. Not that I could do that myself… Jenna now walks down the aisle, cradling in her arms 20 kilos of copper and silicon, inside a matte black aluminum box. And with one smooth swing, weight throw style, she smashes the window and lets that black case fly. By the time Mr Bjornson shouts “Security!” she was gone.

And the workstation? We are on the 15th floor. The parking lot is, on 3rd level?

I’ll let you figure out what gravity can achieve given 12 floors and 20 kilos of copper and silicon and matte black aluminum.