The Monday Office
Everything in here deserves it.
Laptops, a printer, a whiteboard, a clock that will not hurry. Five coworkers across the aisle, and two beside you who leave at the first tap.
Free
Sometimes you just need to smash stuff.
A room full of things that have it coming. Tap one until it breaks. Then the next. When the room is clear, one question: how did that feel?
You stand at your desk in an open-plan office. Everything in it breaks: the laptops, the printer, the plant, the clock, the whiteboard, the desk you stand at, even the wall. Each tap chips a piece off, cracks it a little further, and on the last one it bursts into pixels.
Your coworkers across the aisle notice. Some cheer. Some run. Nobody gets hit: a tap on a person goes straight through to whatever is behind them.
Clear the room, and it asks one thing: how did that feel? Much better, needed more vases, or still not over it. Your answer and your time go on a scoreboard that never leaves your phone.
No levels, no points, no daily reward. It is not a game, and it is not therapy. It is a room, and you are allowed to smash it.
One room is free, for good. The others come with the one unlock, and each can be played once for free first.
Everything in here deserves it.
Laptops, a printer, a whiteboard, a clock that will not hurry. Five coworkers across the aisle, and two beside you who leave at the first tap.
Free
Somebody's birthday. Nobody knows whose.
Balloons to pop or let go, a cake to squash, a piñata full of sweets. Everyone blows a horn at the end.
In the unlock
The lights go out as you smash.
Three racks, a cooling unit, and the sysadmin's desk. Each rack you wreck takes its lamp with it, and the on-call phone counts the alerts.
In the unlock
Dig down. Something is waiting at the bottom.
Seen from above: four layers of cables, keys, batteries and takeaway menus. Every drawer hides one find, and it is never the same twice in a row.
In the unlock
It jammed one time too many.
One machine, seven stages, from the paper tray to the cave-in. Paper storms, a toner cloud, and three coworkers watching through the window.
In the unlock
Things fall on things.
Break the bottom plate and the rest follow. Snap a shelf and its jars come down. The fridge really wants to open.
In the unlockEach of these has one free go first, so you can see it before you decide.
Every blow lands three times as hard, and leaves a dent where it did not break through.
Draw a line, and it swings through up to three things on it. Sometimes one leaves the building.
Not for smashing. For prying: drawers, keyboard keys, servers, cupboard doors.
Sits on your keyboard and pushes things off your desk. You can pet it. You can never hit it.
Write a short line. It goes up on the whiteboard, your laptop or the poster, and then it goes.
The office after hours. The lights are off, every tap is a torch, and the guard is on their rounds.
“Unlock everything” is one payment, and it unlocks:
You pay once. There is no subscription. The store shows the price for your country, in your currency, before you buy.
Bought it before, or on another device? The app restores it from the same store account.
One payment, asked for once. No coins, no second purchase, and no ads, ever. The Monday Office stays free.
Nothing in it is a recording, either. Every room is drawn on your phone, one pixel at a time, and every crash, crack and splat is a sound made by code.