Deep in an inner lab. Experimentee: “_Diarrhea?_ _Seriously?_ Didn’t you have enough of this algorithm four years ago? It seemed like everybody had figured out to avoid this one enough that I could put the alarms on more life-threatening things.” Cyborg Torturer (previously Timmy) was both oozing and covered with horrible-smelling matter of a variety if sorts, many of them bodyparts if prominent members of the business, now dissolving and spreading through the very material of the offices in which they worked. Cyborg Torturer [previously Timmy]: “Boss was so, so insistent. I had to find a motivator. When I saw nobody was expecting it, I could barely help myself … !” Experimentee: “Oh my god! 1. you hate Boss. 2. that’s not Boss, it’s our friends and family we haven’t rescued yet, just following automated patterns. 3., you hate the diarrhea algorithm !!!!” Cyborg Torturer [previously Timmy] [affixed with menacing cybernetic torture devices replacing their appendages, peering bashfully up at Experimentee]: “I’m sorry … !”