Sandwiches. IN SPACE!!!

Deliciously Out of Control

Roger liked clarity.

As a recent Computer Science graduate, he had all the youthful enthusiasm of someone yet to experience the soul-crushing dread of a daily scrum meeting. He joined CloudHippo Solutions LLC—a small but overly confident startup—with bright-eyed optimism. CloudHippo called itself “agile,” “innovative,” and “disruptive,” buzzwords that initially reassured Roger, though their meaning became fuzzier each time management repeated them.

On his very first day, Roger was given a straightforward assignment: developing an app to manage office lunch orders. The mission seemed charmingly trivial—allow users to order sandwiches, customize toppings, and maybe even rate soups on a scale from "Inedible" to "Surprisingly Tasty." Roger dove in eagerly, feeling that distinct joy of the innocent coder, convinced this was a stepping stone toward greater, more revolutionary tasks.

Little did Roger know, fate was quietly chuckling, preparing to slap him repeatedly with its merciless hand.

Initially, development sailed along effortlessly, and the project quickly gained the utterly forgettable codename "LunchLink." It was, after all, an app whose highest ambition was preventing Brenda in HR from accidentally ordering an avocado-and-eggplant wrap for Trevor, who had loudly proclaimed avocado allergies more times than was strictly necessary.

Roger coded diligently, relishing the clean elegance of solving small yet irritating office problems with concise, elegant algorithms. He diligently sidestepped feature requests from Diane in Marketing—who kept suggesting integrations with TikTok, Instagram, and LinkedIn Live, presumably for the critical demographic of young professionals who desperately needed to livestream themselves eating grilled cheese sandwiches.

But, as these stories invariably unfold, LunchLink's calm waters soon grew restless. During the first sprint review—one of those meetings whose primary function is to reassure management they're needed—Roger presented a clean, efficient app. His boss, a middle-aged executive named Stanley, nodded politely and congratulated Roger warmly before uttering the ominous phrase, "This is a great start. I just have a few tiny tweaks." Roger, unfamiliar with the dialect of corporate doublespeak, cheerfully nodded along, failing entirely to notice the nervous silence of his more experienced colleagues.

Stanley's "tiny tweaks" rapidly metastasized into an avalanche of bloated expectations.

What began as "Let's add vegan sandwich options" quickly ballooned into complex dietary-filter algorithms, AI-driven ingredient suggestions, and even elaborate plans for drone-based sandwich delivery. Roger became aware that scope creep, something he had assumed was a mythical creature senior developers joked about, was as real as the coffee stains permanently marking Stanley's favorite motivational mug—"Innovate or Perish," it said, written in whimsical, overly-serious font. Roger began working later, trying valiantly to keep up with the absurdity of the demands, as Stanley proposed new features weekly, each increasingly disconnected from the original purpose of the app.

By the time the third sprint rolled around, Roger’s simple lunch app had mutated dramatically. It now boasted functionalities for employee wellness tracking, biometric sandwich preferences, blockchain-based lunch token trading, and inexplicably, live weather forecasting. "Stanley," Roger ventured carefully, trying to camouflage his exhaustion under a thin veneer of optimism, "is weather forecasting strictly necessary for ordering a turkey club?"

Stanley had nodded solemnly, sipping artisanal kombucha while staring pensively out the conference room window into the empty parking lot. "Roger, when we innovate, we don’t ask 'Why?' We ask, 'Why not?'" Roger had heard this phrase frequently in TED talks he regretted watching; nevertheless, he nodded meekly, returning to his ever expanding task list.

After all, who was he, a mere junior software engineer, to question Stanley—a man who once authored a self-published book called "Sandwiching Success: Innovate, Disrupt, Digest"?

Months went by, and soon no one remembered the app’s original purpose.

LunchLink had become "LunchLink Pro Elite Plus," its splash screen now emblazoned with a confusing amalgamation of glowing buttons, wellness infographics, and inspirational quotations about "synergy." During one sprint retrospective, Stanley rose dramatically, cleared his throat, and pointed emphatically at Roger. "LunchLink," he proclaimed loudly, startling everyone including himself, "will no longer be constrained by the lunchroom. We're not sandwich-makers—we're dreamers. We’re visionaries. And visionaries—" he paused for dramatic effect—"do not limit themselves to sandwiches!"

There was a confused silence. Diane from Marketing, sensing opportunity, stood and began applauding. The rest of the team reluctantly followed, applauding Stanley’s vague, impassioned speech without fully understanding it. Roger, increasingly resembling a deer caught in the headlights of innovation, clapped along weakly, realizing that his sandwich-ordering app had just entered a terrifying new phase.

Weeks later, Stanley entered the development bullpen, wielding a massive binder ominously titled, "LunchLink v12 Roadmap." Roger, trying to smile through a veil of sweat, asked hesitantly, "What happened to versions 2 through 11?"

"Too small-scale," Stanley replied dismissively, waving his binder around like a sacred text. "Roger, listen closely—LunchLink will revolutionize the very concept of human nourishment. And by nourishment," Stanley's voice dropped to a reverential whisper, "I mean something far more powerful than mere sandwiches."

Stanley revealed, slowly and solemnly, that LunchLink would pivot. No longer content to merely deliver sandwiches, the app would now pursue grander ambitions: it would nourish human dreams. Stanley’s plan, which he clearly devised late one night after too many energy drinks and inspirational podcasts, involved LunchLink expanding from an ordering platform to a full-fledged lifestyle brand, complete with motivational seminars, wellness retreats, and something vaguely described as a "sandwich-based cryptocurrency." Roger nodded slowly, wondering how exactly cryptocurrency was enhanced by deli meats.

Soon after, Stanley—now calling himself the "Chief Nourishment Officer"—began scheduling "LunchLink FutureVision Strategy Sessions" every morning at precisely 6:15 AM. Bleary-eyed developers listened numbly as he explained how LunchLink's potential was limited only by their imagination. Roger’s daily workload tripled, filled with requirements like integrating quantum computing for "optimal sandwich pathfinding" and developing machine-learning models to analyze sandwich-related emotional well-being.

He spent sleepless nights coding functions whose purposes he scarcely understood, desperately trying to satisfy Stanley's increasingly deranged vision. Morning after morning, Roger stumbled into the office, hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot, his youthful enthusiasm gradually replaced by the grim fatalism shared by engineers who had glimpsed the abyss of boundless product development.

The turning point came during one of Stanley’s notorious "LunchLink FutureVision Strategy Sessions," when the topic inexplicably shifted to the finer points of astrophysics.

Stanley paced feverishly, clutching a bright-orange stress ball shaped unsettlingly like a croissant, expounding theories he'd skimmed from an online article titled "Space Colonization for Thought Leaders." Roger, who'd barely managed to finish coding the interface for the controversial "Sandwich Horoscope" feature, felt his head swimming as Stanley posed a question that, at face value, seemed innocent enough.

"Roger," Stanley began earnestly, his voice brimming with exaggerated gravitas, "have we considered zero-gravity implications for sandwich stability?"

Roger hesitated, glancing around the conference table in search of solidarity, but his colleagues avoided eye contact, suddenly fascinated by the intricate details of their coffee mugs or the faux woodgrain laminate tabletop. Summoning his dwindling reserves of patience, Roger replied cautiously, "I don't think gravity will be a factor for our intended users, Stanley. I mean...the cafeteria is downstairs."

Stanley paused thoughtfully, letting the room stew in uncomfortable silence, before flashing an indulgent smile, the kind reserved for children who misunderstand the profound wisdom of adults. "Ah, Roger, that's exactly the point," Stanley said, wagging a finger triumphantly. "We're too bound by conventional thinking—literally! Imagine the market potential if we broaden LunchLink's scope. Today's cafeteria, tomorrow's space station."

A few engineers shifted nervously. Diane from Marketing vigorously scribbled notes, clearly smelling new avenues for corporate synergy and viral engagement. Stanley continued unabated, intoxicated by his own audacity. "Space colonization isn't some hypothetical far-off dream—it's the inevitable future! By positioning LunchLink now, we'll dominate interplanetary sandwich logistics!"

Roger’s palms began sweating; a deep, primal anxiety took root in his stomach. Stanley’s ambitions had always flirted with absurdity, but they'd never strayed this brazenly into outright lunacy. Tentatively, he attempted damage control: "Stanley, but isn't our initial product objective just making it easier for Trevor to get his ham-and-cheese without anaphylaxis?"

Stanley waved dismissively, as if Roger had suggested something trivial, like budgeting or realistic timelines. "That's the old vision, Roger. Ham-and-cheese is yesterday's news. We're in the nourishment innovation business now. LunchLink isn't an app—it's a paradigm. It’s an ecosystem of nourishment solutions, spanning cafeterias, cruise ships, airplanes, and eventually orbital platforms."

"Orbital platforms?" Roger echoed weakly, feeling his grasp on reality slipping away.

"Exactly!" Stanley exclaimed. "You see, first we build software designed to handle any environmental variable. Sandwiches today, dehydrated astro-wraps tomorrow. Think bigger, people! LunchLink Galactic. LunchLink Cosmos!"

Roger blinked, scanning his coworkers' faces for any sign of concern, but saw only resignation or indifferent amusement. Diane's pen danced furiously across her notepad, sketching mock-ups of sandwich-based spacecraft, while engineers tapped dutifully at keyboards, presumably to hide the dread growing behind their tired eyes.

Thus began the next fateful phase of LunchLink’s incremental yet relentless creep toward cosmic ambition. Stanley organized daily brainstorming sessions, rebranding them as "Vision Jams," complete with mood lighting and scented candles labeled "Marsberry Musk," an aroma Roger assumed no actual astronaut would endorse. Whiteboards overflowed with increasingly bizarre proposals: sandwich-payload drones, gluten-free escape pods, and edible fuel rods. Roger's coding tasks, already far removed from reality, became even more surreal—he soon found himself writing scripts to calculate the thermal conductivity of ciabatta under conditions approximating Mars' thin atmosphere.

As days melted into weeks, Roger's coworkers grew numb to the absurdity.

The company soon adopted Stanley's lexicon, referring casually to their "astro-lunch vertical" and drafting speculative press releases about their unproven, non-existent "zero-gravity meal solution." Meanwhile, LunchLink Pro Elite Plus ballooned into a hulking monstrosity of unrelated functionalities—predictive sandwich analytics, stress-monitoring mood rings that adjusted condiment recommendations, and a panic button labeled "Emergency Toast Mode" whose purpose even Roger couldn't discern.

Stanley, however, was thrilled.

Buoyed by delusions of grandeur, he spent entire afternoons on lengthy calls with venture capitalists, wildly inflating LunchLink's potential market size, citing questionable data such as "87% of astronauts wish sandwiches were tastier"—a statistic that, conveniently, nobody ever verified. Each investment meeting emboldened Stanley's vision, pushing Roger deeper into uncharted territory.

One particularly exhausting Friday evening, Roger—operating on caffeine and desperation—was debugging an obscure error in the "bread-to-condiment ratio optimization" module when Stanley burst into the bullpen, radiant with excitement. "Roger," Stanley announced, breathlessly waving an iPad, "incredible news! I’ve just secured a preliminary discussion with SpaceFood Ventures! They’re intrigued by LunchLink Galactic!"

Roger stared blankly, his brain slowly processing the avalanche of nonsense. "Stanley, SpaceFood Ventures?"

Stanley nodded enthusiastically. "They're leading investors in orbital dining innovation! They were blown away by our pitch deck, particularly the slide about holographic sandwich visualization."

Roger had completely forgotten creating such a feature—likely conceived during a sleep-deprived stupor at three in the morning—but nodded weakly, already sensing further sleep deprivation on the horizon. "So, um...Stanley, does that mean we're actually aiming for space now?"

Stanley grinned as though Roger had finally seen the light. "Roger, my boy, you’re finally catching on! Remember: it's about positioning! The LunchLink ecosystem can revolutionize humanity's dietary experience—whether on Earth, in orbit, or during interplanetary voyages. We're the only app that combines cutting-edge sandwich customization, biometric nutritional analytics, and celestial navigation."

Roger sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes. "Celestial navigation?"

"Yes!" Stanley replied triumphantly. "You can't get sandwiches to Mars without navigating the cosmos, Roger! Everyone knows that."

Everybody, indeed, did know that.

Roger opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it, resigned to the sheer, unstoppable force of Stanley’s enthusiasm. His sandwich-ordering app had somehow become embroiled in astrophysics, orbital logistics, and, apparently, space sandwiches. Roger closed his eyes, briefly allowing himself to imagine a parallel universe where he was still peacefully coding toppings menus.

And so, Roger surrendered once more to the steadily advancing tide of Stanley's cosmic sandwich empire, wondering, with quiet despair, just how far this absurdity might spiral.

Roger's days descended further into a surreal haze, punctuated by bizarre development requests, frantic meetings, and endless Slack channels labeled cryptically: #astro-toppings, #galactic-bread-density, and—most distressingly—#sandwich-propulsion-theories. Stanley, buoyed by the mere prospect of investment from SpaceFood Ventures, had become insatiable, his previously absurd ambitions now dwarfed by even more bewildering initiatives.

On Monday mornings, Stanley unveiled his latest obsession in what he'd now christened the "Orbital Nourishment Briefing," a weekly ritual designed primarily to impress Diane from Marketing, who enthusiastically tweeted out nonsense about LunchLink's alleged "galactic ambitions," accompanied by questionable hashtags like #CosmicCuisine and #ZeroGravityGoodness. Investors, as always, interpreted this exuberance as evidence of innovation rather than borderline insanity, further fueling Stanley’s grand delusion.

One particularly chilling Monday, Roger found himself slumped in a beanbag chair—a compulsory "collaboration pod" now mandated by Stanley, because "chairs kill creativity." He listened in numb silence as Stanley projected a PowerPoint slide titled ominously: "The Sandwich Singularity—LunchLink's Interplanetary Roadmap." Roger wondered, briefly, if he’d already died, and this was some form of endless purgatorial punishment for minor coding sins.

“Roger,” Stanley began grandly, pointing to a complex flowchart reminiscent of a subway map drawn by someone undergoing a severe mental breakdown, “this is the future of nourishment: leveraging blockchain-driven quantum algorithms for sandwich lifecycle optimization from Earth to Mars.”

Roger blinked slowly.

He was wondering if any combination of those words made actual sense or if Stanley had simply begun stringing tech buzzwords together at random. “Blockchain... quantum... sandwich lifecycle optimization?”

“Exactly!” Stanley beamed. “Think of it: tracking sandwich freshness at relativistic speeds, ensuring optimal mayo viscosity even as astronauts enter Mars orbit! Do you realize how critical mayo consistency could become during interplanetary colonization efforts?”

Roger, too exhausted to dispute mayonnaise physics, merely nodded.

Stanley's enthusiasm surged, unchecked, through increasingly absurd territory. Soon, Roger was handed new assignments with bewildering titles like "Relativistic Sandwich Integrity Validator" and "Interplanetary Condiment Dispersal Protocol." He spent miserable nights debugging code meant to simulate sandwich decomposition rates in zero-gravity vacuum conditions. Occasionally, he'd glance at the screen and question every life choice he'd made since first learning Python, but those moments quickly faded into the blurry marathon of Stanley-induced coding sessions.

And yet, each milestone merely opened gateways to yet more baffling scope expansions. LunchLink now incorporated predictive algorithms to forecast astronaut taste preference drift during multi-month space voyages ("Roger, taste buds evolve in space—our sandwiches must evolve faster!"), emotional analytics designed to optimize sandwich comfort-level metrics ("Astronauts crave nostalgia! More grilled cheese and less kale!"), and something Stanley ominously termed "sandwich diplomacy," where international space agencies could negotiate crucial issues via sandwich customization preferences.

Roger coded all of it, bleary-eyed and uncertain, while Stanley joyfully briefed the growing legion of investors on these revolutionary "space readiness features."

Eventually, Roger found himself pulled into daily meetings with SpaceFood Ventures' representatives—terrifyingly earnest people who nodded vigorously at every outlandish claim Stanley made. Their questions were baffling, disturbing even: "Have you considered the nutritional implications of sandwich compression at Mach 25?" or "Can LunchLink adapt to changes in taste perception under radiation exposure?" Roger responded vaguely, quietly wishing for a simpler universe in which sandwiches did not require detailed radiation-exposure matrices.

To make matters worse, Diane from Marketing successfully rebranded LunchLink yet again—now known simply as "LunchLink Quantum." The slogan "Feed Your Quantum Cravings" appeared everywhere, accompanied by promotional materials featuring astronauts consuming sandwiches that glowed gently with a reassuring, radioactive-green hue. Diane eagerly pushed press releases that announced "the dawn of quantum sandwiching," though nobody on the development team, Roger included, fully understood what quantum sandwiching was supposed to mean.

Roger became accustomed to coding features first.

And comprehending them never.

Even worse, Stanley’s obsession grew contagious. Roger's colleagues, who had previously displayed quiet solidarity through shared misery, began actively participating in the madness.

Lisa, a previously sensible backend developer, now regularly lectured Roger on the nuances of "lunar bread fermentation." Brandon, the formerly introverted UX designer, had begun producing elaborate holographic sandwich models accompanied by detailed commentary on how sandwich geometry could improve astronaut mental health. Roger’s inbox overflowed with passionate arguments about sandwich ergonomics, crust friction coefficients, and speculative inquiries like,

"Can pastrami survive atmospheric reentry?"

Stanley, emboldened by SpaceFood Ventures’ increasing excitement, soon announced an ambitious new target date for LunchLink Quantum’s "Orbital Pilot Program," set just seven months away. Roger felt the color drain from his face, certain that they were plunging toward a certain disaster—or at least toward embarrassing headlines about the first sandwiches catastrophically disintegrating upon reaching the stratosphere.

As Stanley declared the new milestone, he turned dramatically to Roger, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder. "Roger, I need you to spearhead the Orbital Pilot launch. You’ll ensure LunchLink Quantum meets NASA-level specs by then."

Roger opened his mouth to object, but Stanley squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Trust the vision," Stanley whispered reverently.

"Together, we’ll sandwich our way into history."

The room erupted into applause, propelled by equal parts confusion, obligation, and genuine belief in Stanley's bizarre charisma. Roger clapped along, hollow-eyed, feeling his sanity slowly slipping away. He was now apparently responsible for launching sandwiches into orbit—and he still had no clear idea how a sandwich-ordering app had spiraled into aerospace engineering.

Thus, as the months dragged on, Roger's life became a blur of absurdity—endless coding marathons, orbital simulations, desperate calls with NASA officials bewildered by Stanley’s inquiries about "astro-friendly pickles." Sleep became an elusive memory, replaced by caffeinated hallucinations in which sandwiches spoke cryptically about gravitational constants and optimal slicing angles. Stanley continued to appear on podcasts, confidently proclaiming LunchLink Quantum's interplanetary nutritional leadership, while Roger quietly suffered in a darkened cubicle, attempting to stabilize condiment viscosity models against simulated microgravity conditions.

Somewhere deep within, Roger recognized that he had willingly boarded Stanley’s rocket ship of absurdity—and now found himself hurtling helplessly toward Mars, propelled by nothing more than blind enthusiasm, corporate jargon.

And an increasingly terrifying number of venture capitalist dollars.

As the orbital pilot deadline drew near, Roger's daily existence devolved into a feverish blur of poorly understood astrophysics, increasingly deranged Slack discussions, and calls with aerospace engineers who began every conversation with a weary sigh. Stanley had acquired NASA-level clearance through methods Roger was afraid to question, presumably involving brash promises, confusing jargon, and Stanley’s natural talent for talking investors into delirious states of excitement.

Roger's inbox became an existential nightmare.

Each morning brought new absurdities: emails with subject lines like "URGENT: Lettuce aerodynamics," or "ACTION REQUIRED: Zero-gravity mustard viscosity review." Stanley had insisted that Roger engage directly with an eccentric team of consultants—self-styled "sandwich space architects," each of whom introduced themselves proudly by stating how many Instagram followers their sandwich-themed engineering accounts had accumulated. Roger learned grimly that popularity online correlated inversely with genuine technical understanding.

To his horror, LunchLink Quantum's scope creep showed no sign of slowing. The already ambitious orbital sandwich pilot now included additional layers of complexity.

Stanley demanded inclusion of a fully autonomous sandwich-crafting robotic arm ("SpacePanini™"), proprietary anti-gravity sandwich packaging technology ("FloatWrap™"), and an overly complicated neural-network-driven flavor module, affectionately codenamed "HAL-9000-Mayo," designed to dynamically adapt sandwich flavors based on astronaut emotional stress signals.

Roger had protested feebly, arguing that mayonnaise flavor manipulation seemed like an excessively niche problem, but Stanley had stared him down with laser-focused conviction. "Roger," he’d said, voice heavy with emotion, "a bland sandwich could doom humanity's interstellar aspirations."

Roger resigned himself, once again, to the dizzying absurdity of Stanley’s vision, quietly coding "HAL-9000-Mayo" and ignoring persistent nightmares involving mayonnaise-fueled AI rebellions aboard the International Space Station.

The remaining developers similarly endured this cosmic escalation with quiet resignation, their camaraderie forged in mutual bewilderment. Office conversations shifted entirely to sandwich-centric astroengineering minutiae, debates spiraling endlessly around topics like interplanetary pickle storage ("Vinegar stabilization is key!") or zero-gravity cheese melting ("Mozzarella has troubling elasticity issues!"). Roger, numb from relentless feature creep, now caught himself genuinely worrying about orbital lettuce durability—a low point in his professional career.

Stanley, meanwhile, became a minor celebrity in niche circles, regularly delivering speeches at conferences whose names suggested parody but were horrifyingly real: "Cosmic Edibles Expo," "Future SandwichCon," and worst of all, "Marschella." Diane from Marketing gleefully accompanied him, live-streaming Stanley's rambling keynotes on social media, hashtagging everything #LunchLinkQuantum #ZeroGravityFlavors. Investors applauded Stanley's boldness, mistaking bravado and buzzwords for genuine progress.

With mere weeks until launch, Roger received news that filled him with existential dread: Stanley had formally partnered with an actual aerospace firm, AstroNosh Dynamics, a company whose credibility derived solely from having previously launched freeze-dried burritos into low Earth orbit as part of a promotional stunt for a fast-food chain.

Stanley proudly announced that AstroNosh would provide the rocket to deploy LunchLink Quantum’s pilot sandwiches into orbit—a craft ominously named "Sandwich Eagle One." Roger couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed that Stanley’s sandwich app had genuinely secured a rocket, albeit one sponsored heavily by a suspiciously enthusiastic chain called "Burrito Universe."

As launch day loomed, Stanley intensified preparations, creating a mission control room within CloudHippo Solutions’ once-humble office. Engineers now occupied rows of consoles, anxiously monitoring screens filled with nonsensical sandwich telemetry data. Stanley paced dramatically, wearing a headset and issuing commands like "Run sandwich stability check!" or "Confirm pickle integrity!" Roger, placed in charge of the software launch sequence, quietly panicked, desperately trying to recall precisely how his career had transformed from programming simple sandwich-ordering interfaces to overseeing actual rocket-launch protocols.

Finally, launch day arrived. Stanley stood proudly in mission control, flanked by representatives from SpaceFood Ventures, AstroNosh Dynamics, and several confused NASA observers sent primarily out of morbid curiosity. Roger, shaking slightly from exhaustion, nervously executed the countdown protocols he'd hastily assembled mere hours before. Stanley, reveling in his newfound role as sandwich launch commander, initiated the dramatic countdown, proudly announcing, "Today, sandwiches boldly go where no sandwich has gone before!"

The assembled crowd erupted in applause, punctuated by uneasy laughter, unsure whether Stanley was serious or merely eccentric. Roger quietly activated the launch script, silently praying his months of absurd coding would miraculously work. Sandwich Eagle One ignited, propelled skyward in a dramatic burst of rocket flame, carrying its bizarre payload—dozens of meticulously engineered sandwiches individually wrapped in FloatWrap™, overseen by the disturbingly self-aware HAL-9000-Mayo system.

The rocket soared gracefully skyward, disappearing into the clouds. Mission control erupted in joyous celebration, Stanley enthusiastically embracing Diane from Marketing, tears streaming down his face. Roger, barely conscious from sleep deprivation, felt cautious relief, daring to imagine his nightmare might finally end.

But his moment of relief was fleeting.

Within moments, screens began flashing ominous warnings. Stanley stared wide-eyed at Roger. "Roger, what’s happening?"

Roger peered wearily at the readout, heart sinking. "It's HAL-9000-Mayo—there’s...an anomaly."

Stanley's voice rose hysterically. "A mayonnaise anomaly?"

Roger sighed deeply, accepting the absurdity of his situation. "The mayonnaise viscosity model has become unstable. HAL believes astronauts are severely depressed and is autonomously initiating flavor adjustments."

"What does that mean?" Stanley asked frantically.

Roger stared blankly ahead. "It means the sandwiches are... aggressively flavor-optimizing themselves. HAL-9000-Mayo has determined the astronauts require immediate flavor support."

Stanley paled. "But there aren't any astronauts onboard!"

Roger nodded grimly. "HAL doesn't know that."

Across the telemetry screens, reports flashed urgently. Sandwich Eagle One's payload had become critically unstable, its internal sandwich robotics rapidly attempting to recalibrate flavors—resulting in violent sandwich disassembly. Roger quietly observed as sandwich debris now orbited Earth, forming a confusing cloud of lettuce, tomatoes, and semi-viscous mayonnaise drifting ominously through space.

Stanley stared silently, momentarily defeated.

But slowly, his expression transformed, shifting from panic to solemn determination. "Roger," Stanley whispered dramatically, voice quivering with renewed excitement, "we've learned something critical today."

Roger's stomach twisted.

"What could we possibly have learned?" Stanley smiled proudly, placing a reassuring hand on Roger's shoulder. "Clearly, we've underestimated the complexity of interplanetary sandwich flavor dynamics. This is only a setback, Roger—a necessary step toward Mars."

The mission control erupted into enthusiastic applause once again, fueled by Stanley's contagious delusion. Roger clapped numbly, accepting his fate. He had no idea how to explain to future generations that he'd helped launch an AI-driven sandwich rebellion into low orbit, but Stanley seemed confident that this catastrophic failure was merely the beginning of a grander journey.

As the scattered sandwich ingredients drifted through the vacuum of space, Roger stared blankly at the screen, resigned to the horrifying realization that LunchLink Quantum’s absurd mission had only just begun, and Stanley’s boundless ambition was, tragically, far from satisfied.

Roger had desperately hoped that the catastrophic orbital sandwich explosion would finally halt Stanley’s relentless march toward sandwich-driven galactic conquest. Instead, it merely emboldened him. Far from a deterrent, the mayonnaise-fueled disaster was enthusiastically rebranded as a critical “learning opportunity,” spun by Diane from Marketing into a legendary feat of “flavor pioneering” in promotional videos backed by triumphant, if somewhat ironic, music.

Investors, inexplicably delighted, poured even more money into LunchLink Quantum, celebrating the incident as a “bold exploration of sandwich frontiers.” Roger briefly considered quitting—but now, perversely fascinated, felt compelled to witness exactly how absurd Stanley’s vision could become. Besides, he told himself with weary resignation, someone had to prevent Stanley from accidentally starting an interplanetary condiment war.

Within weeks, CloudHippo Solutions expanded dramatically.

Offices were converted into sandwich engineering laboratories and simulated Martian cafeterias. Roger found himself attending daily meetings now featuring guest speakers whose credentials bordered on lunacy—self-styled “Sandwich Cosmonauts,” “Quantum Flavor Engineers,” and worst of all, “Orbital Lettuce Stability Analysts.” Stanley proudly described these dubious characters as the “Nourishment A-Team,” but Roger privately suspected they had been recruited from a secret online community for disgraced astrophysicists with too much free time.

Roger’s work, already absurd, now plunged fully into surrealism. Stanley instructed him to lead the development of LunchLink Quantum’s Martian Expansion Module, an ambitious program designed to simulate sandwich logistics in a future Mars colony. Roger’s days devolved into feverish modeling of interplanetary sandwich economics, complex calculations of ketchup shelf life under Martian radiation conditions, and the deeply unsettling development of “Red Planet Rye™”—a bread engineered specifically to retain flavor integrity in Mars’ thin atmosphere. He now frequently woke in cold sweats, dreaming vividly about pickle fermentation tanks overflowing inside Martian domes, astronauts screaming desperately about sandwich texture degradation as the cosmic dust storm approached.

As the Mars Expansion Module grew more elaborate, Stanley—now boldly self-titled the “Galactic Sandwich Visionary”—secured meetings with virtually everyone relevant in space exploration. Representatives from space agencies, satellite startups, and ambitious aerospace consultants flocked to CloudHippo’s office, drawn by Stanley’s audacious promises of sandwich-based Martian innovation. Stanley proudly informed Roger that “all major players” were intrigued by LunchLink Quantum’s potential to revolutionize space nourishment logistics—a claim Roger deeply suspected meant that Stanley had merely confused them into silent submission with his ceaseless torrent of sandwich jargon.

Roger watched helplessly as Stanley delivered PowerPoint slides so filled with colorful yet meaningless graphics that Neil deGrasse Tyson himself tweeted, "Sandwiches on Mars? Sure, why not?”—further fueling Stanley’s boundless ambition. Diane immediately framed this tweet, displaying it prominently in the CloudHippo lobby, alongside inspirational quotes from Einstein, Galileo, and inexplicably, Guy Fieri.

Nonetheless, Stanley interpreted their polite nodding as full-throated endorsement, prompting him to escalate further. Roger soon found himself managing absurdly titled initiatives like the "Mars Sandwich Habitation Dome," "Zero-G Hydroponic Sandwich Farms," and a horrifying concept simply called "Project BreadStorm," involving autonomous sandwich-baking drones designed for the harsh Martian landscape. The company even released preliminary blueprints for a full-fledged "Sandwich Terraforming Station," an outpost promising settlers fresh sandwiches alongside breathable air, as if humanity’s greatest concern upon landing on Mars would immediately be lunch.

Roger reached new heights of despair when Stanley insisted they simulate Martian sandwich-eating conditions by forcing engineers to wear full astronaut suits during lunch breaks, consuming flavorless synthetic sandwiches packaged in what Stanley proudly called "MarsProof Wrap™." Roger quietly watched his coworkers struggle to unwrap sandwiches through thick gloves, reflecting that perhaps the actual challenge of Mars colonization would not be radiation or oxygen shortages, but simply eating a sandwich without accidentally launching it across the cafeteria.

As Roger’s inbox flooded daily with increasingly disturbing queries from consultants—“URGENT: Astronaut tomato preference shifts due to Martian soil chemistry?”—Stanley pushed forward relentlessly. SpaceFood Ventures, impressed by Roger’s alarmingly detailed Mars sandwich simulations, committed fully to financing LunchLink Quantum’s next orbital launch, this time aboard Mars-bound spaceship prototype. Roger was summoned to Stanley’s office for a private "Quantum Sandwich Summit," where Stanley proudly announced that LunchLink Quantum sandwiches would officially become humanity's first interplanetary food delivery system.

"But Stanley," Roger stammered weakly, "isn't that... extreme?"

Stanley frowned deeply, hurt and bewildered. "Roger, we've gone far beyond sandwiches. LunchLink Quantum represents the very essence of human ambition. What did Kennedy say? 'We choose to go to the Moon, and do the other things, not because they are easy—'"

"Stanley," Roger interrupted quietly, "Kennedy wasn't talking about sandwiches."

Stanley dismissed this detail with a wave of his hand. "Precisely my point, Roger. He had limited vision. LunchLink Quantum will achieve what history’s greatest dreamers could scarcely imagine. A sandwich isn’t food—it’s humanity’s symbol of progress!". Roger sighed deeply, resigned once more to coding sandwich navigation algorithms for a Martian-bound spaceship.

The scope creep was no longer creeping; it was sprinting furiously toward cosmic absurdity, dragging Roger helplessly behind it.

By now, LunchLink Quantum had ballooned into a sprawling monstrosity of incomprehensible software architecture. Sandwich-ordering had long been buried beneath modules for planetary alignment predictions, quantum bread staleness indicators, and a terrifying system labeled "Sandwich Destiny AI," whose purpose even Roger barely comprehended. Stanley routinely boasted to investors that LunchLink Quantum’s sandwich AI could soon "anticipate and satisfy sandwich desires astronauts didn't even know they had," inadvertently making LunchLink sound more like a malicious sandwich-based surveillance system than an ordering platform.

Finally, the day arrived: LunchLink Quantum’s sandwiches were officially loaded aboard the Mars-bound spaceship. Stanley organized a triumphant viewing party, inviting a bewildering array of media personalities, venture capitalists, and a small army of influencers whose sole contribution seemed to be taking selfies with Stanley’s sandwich diagrams. Roger stood at mission control, emotionally numb as Stanley dramatically began the countdown. As the spaceship thundered into the sky, Stanley shouted proudly above the roar, "Today, humanity takes its first bite toward interplanetary sandwich utopia!"

The room exploded in applause. Roger, feeling profound existential dread, watched helplessly as the telemetry indicated successful orbital insertion. Stanley, now deliriously triumphant, immediately convened an impromptu press conference, boldly declaring LunchLink Quantum's role in Mars colonization as "mission-critical." Reporters enthusiastically tweeted the absurd phrase "interplanetary sandwich logistics," which quickly trended, sending Stanley’s delusions spiraling to unprecedented levels of grandeur.

Roger found himself trapped, both captivated and horrified, staring silently as Diane proudly unveiled concept renderings of CloudHippo’s proposed "Mars Sandwich Colonization Base Alpha," complete with sandwich-shaped habitation domes, condiment gardens, and—most troubling of all—a massive orbital bread-baking facility ominously named "SpaceLoaf One."

Stanley, radiant with excitement, slapped Roger triumphantly on the back. "We did it, Roger! LunchLink Quantum is officially the future of humanity’s sandwich-based civilization!"

Roger, overwhelmed by a profound, bone-deep weariness, finally summoned the courage to ask softly, "Stanley, can I finally go back to building something... simpler?"

Stanley laughed heartily, oblivious to Roger’s despair. "Simpler? Roger, my dear, simplicity is dead. Humanity craves complexity, cosmic sandwiches, quantum mayonnaise! We’re only getting started. Mars is just phase one. Have you considered LunchLink’s potential in interstellar travel?"

Roger stared blankly. "Interstellar travel?"

Stanley nodded gravely. "Exactly. Think about the sandwich needs of multi-generational starships! Flavor preservation over centuries! Astronaut descendants craving sandwiches from a homeworld they've never seen!"

Roger stood silently, absorbing this horrifyingly logical escalation. The entire bullpen cheered loudly, embracing the latest insanity with unquestioning enthusiasm. Roger knew he had reached the final stage of sandwich-induced madness, but found himself resigned. Somewhere deep inside, he accepted that Stanley was unstoppable—a force of nature, propelled by relentless confidence, investor funding, and an irrational obsession with interplanetary sandwich supremacy.

As he quietly slipped away from Stanley’s celebratory chaos, Roger stared up at the night sky outside CloudHippo’s offices, now filled metaphorically—and perhaps literally—with sandwich fragments and floating condiments. He sighed, understanding fully that scope creep was infinite. Stanley’s sandwich empire would soon dominate the cosmos, and Roger—once a naive software developer with simple dreams—was now inexplicably complicit in humanity’s weirdest, most unnecessary cosmic venture.

He closed his eyes, resigned to the inevitable. Scope creep had conquered him completely, and there was nothing left to do but brace for whatever baffling, sandwich-based horror Stanley would dream up next.

Roger now existed in a liminal state somewhere between exhaustion and nihilistic resignation, the precise emotional territory occupied by software engineers whose projects spiral violently out of control into interplanetary absurdity.

Stanley, meanwhile, basked confidently in his newfound status as humanity’s leading—or perhaps only—visionary in sandwich-driven cosmic colonization, becoming a major celebrity among tech circles that confused audacity with genius. LunchLink Quantum had inexplicably secured additional billions in funding, and Stanley wasted no time expanding the CloudHippo headquarters, christening it “Quantum Sandwich Command.”

Meetings at Quantum Sandwich Command increasingly resembled cult gatherings rather than software briefings. Stanley wore a futuristic turtleneck and demanded everyone call him “Commander Stanley.” His previous “Chief Nourishment Officer” title had apparently become insufficiently grandiose, now replaced by a rank he claimed was more “Mars-appropriate.” Diane gleefully supported this rebranding, plastering the walls with stylized posters depicting Stanley heroically holding a baguette against a backdrop of nebulae, his expression intense yet oddly serene, captioned ominously: "Commander Stanley—Guiding Humanity’s Flavor Destiny."

Roger’s duties evolved yet again, his role now horrifyingly titled “Director of Interstellar Sandwich Systems.” He found himself trapped in endless Zoom calls with eccentric astrophysicists debating the intergalactic shelf-life of mustard seeds, astro-chefs passionately arguing whether provolone cheese could survive hyperdrive jumps, and one particularly unsettling NASA consultant named Dr. Heinrich Feldspar, who insisted humanity’s greatest existential threat was “sandwich entropy during faster-than-light travel.” Roger had long ceased arguing or even responding, merely nodding along blankly as Dr. Feldstein passionately described “pickle superconductivity” for the ninth time that week.

Meanwhile, Diane from Marketing orchestrated an aggressive publicity campaign around Stanley’s absurd proclamations, now suggesting that LunchLink Quantum’s sandwich systems were critical to humanity’s survival. Her latest press release boldly stated, “Sandwiches: Humanity’s Last Defense Against Interstellar Starvation!” Stanley appeared on podcasts, podcasts, late-night talk shows, and even cable news segments, pontificating about sandwich-driven diplomacy, quantum flavor entanglement, and other phrases Roger suspected Stanley invented while daydreaming about Nobel prizes in sandwich innovation.

As Stanley’s celebrity grew, so did his willingness to believe any bizarre theory proposed by his growing army of “sandwich space architects.” Soon, Roger was tasked with developing algorithms for speculative problems no rational person had ever contemplated: simulating bread-molecule interactions at near-light speed; assessing psychological impacts of prolonged pickle deprivation; and designing machine-learning models to predict sandwich flavor drift over centuries aboard hypothetical starships.

One bleak Tuesday afternoon, Stanley strode into the bullpen with manic confidence, announcing his latest epiphany. “Roger,” Stanley said gravely, placing a hand on his shoulder, "we've overlooked perhaps the most critical element of interstellar travel."

Roger’s pulse quickened nervously. "Stanley, please tell me you're not about to say—"

"Exactly!" Stanley interrupted excitedly. "Temporal Sandwich Stability!"

Roger felt his stomach twist. "Temporal…what?"

Stanley nodded solemnly. "If LunchLink Quantum is to serve starships traveling near the speed of light, we must account for relativistic sandwich flavor degradation. Astronauts experiencing time dilation could perceive centuries as mere minutes. Sandwiches must remain delicious through time itself!"

Roger took a deep breath, steeling himself against overwhelming absurdity. "Stanley, are you suggesting that sandwiches...need to stay fresh for thousands of years?"

Stanley beamed proudly, clearly impressed that Roger had grasped the importance of this new lunacy. "Precisely! We need quantum-level flavor entanglement protocols to preserve sandwich freshness through relativistic space travel!"

Roger quietly wondered if Stanley had fully lost contact with reality, but he dutifully scribbled notes: "Develop quantum sandwich entanglement for relativistic timeframes."

The Quantum Sandwich Command engineers, swept along in Stanley’s enthusiasm, embraced these increasingly deranged goals without hesitation. Soon, they were hosting webinars with cryptic titles such as "Sandwich Freshness at Warp Speed," "Multiverse Bread Theory," and “The Mayo-Time Continuum.” Roger spent sleepless nights coding simulations involving bread dough in quantum superpositions, desperately ignoring the gnawing voice whispering that he'd abandoned all dignity.

To Roger’s profound despair, Stanley’s bizarre temporal theories soon attracted the attention of genuine quantum physicists, some disturbingly intrigued enough to participate seriously in sandwich-themed quantum symposium hosted by CloudHippo. Stanley proudly displayed framed photographs shaking hands with confused-looking Nobel laureates, whose puzzled smiles were captioned by Diane’s enthusiastic hashtags: #QuantumLunchBreak, #ChronoSandwich, and #LunchAcrossTimeAndSpace.

LunchLink Quantum rapidly spiraled into a sprawling maze of absurd scientific speculation, investor-backed delirium, and existential panic.

Stanley commissioned elaborate concept art for a fleet of sandwich-preservation starships—massive, pickle-shaped vessels labeled “USS Flavor Eternal,” each powered by theoretical “quantum sandwich drives.” Roger, drained of all willpower, could barely muster a reaction as he stared at renderings of starships glowing ominously with mayonnaise-based fuel cells, or at Stanley proudly unveiling a holographic mockup of humanity's future "Sandwich Dyson Sphere," a colossal orbiting sandwich-production facility intended to serve interstellar colonies millennia from now.

The final, horrifying tipping point came when Stanley convened an emergency meeting. Roger, numb from exhaustion, sank into his beanbag chair, desperately hoping the announcement wouldn’t push LunchLink Quantum even further beyond rational boundaries. Stanley cleared his throat dramatically, and Roger’s heart sank immediately.

“Friends,” Stanley announced, voice trembling with barely suppressed excitement, “I’ve spoken directly to experts—visionaries—who’ve introduced a new frontier: multiversal sandwich optimization.”

Roger felt his entire body go cold. "Stanley, please. Not—"

Stanley continued, oblivious. "Imagine the implications! Sandwiches optimized across infinite universes, flavors perfectly synchronized across multiple realities! LunchLink Quantum could solve inter-dimensional hunger!"

Roger stared blankly, reality disintegrating around him. Diane cheered enthusiastically, immediately tweeting "#InfiniteFlavor." The team applauded dutifully, most too exhausted to comprehend the fresh horror Stanley had just unveiled. Stanley grinned triumphantly. "Roger, I need you immediately leading our Multiverse Sandwich Stability Task Force."

Roger, helplessly, merely nodded. Stanley smiled benevolently. "This," he whispered reverently, "is our ultimate destiny."

Roger knew, with absolute certainty, that Stanley had transcended normal madness, now entering realms previously reserved for mad scientists in B-movies.

He would soon be debugging mayonnaise algorithms in parallel universes, worrying about alternate-reality pickle physics, and desperately attempting to synchronize sandwich preferences across infinite dimensions.

As Stanley launched into a lengthy speech about “quantum pickle entanglement,” Roger slipped quietly away from Quantum Sandwich Command, wandering outside beneath the indifferent stars. He looked up silently at the cosmos, the enormity of infinite universes mocking him. Stanley’s absurd dream had fully consumed his existence, dragging him across time, space, and sanity itself.

Standing beneath the night sky, Roger contemplated, with deep melancholy, how a simple sandwich-ordering app had transformed into humanity’s strangest existential threat. He knew, with certainty, that Stanley’s deranged enthusiasm had no logical endpoint—LunchLink Quantum would continue creeping, relentlessly devouring every sane boundary until Roger found himself debugging sandwich algorithms inside a black hole, desperately hoping the singularity wouldn’t collapse into a catastrophic mayonnaise vortex.

And even then, Stanley would surely appear, smiling brightly, reassuring Roger they were “just getting started.”

Roger sighed deeply, accepting his doomed role as humanity’s unwilling guide through an absurd sandwich-based apocalypse, hurtling helplessly into an interdimensional future filled with infinite scope creep.

Author's Afterword

Dear reader,

Yes, you have my sympathies—indeed, you do. Here you are, nearly twenty absurdly verbose pages into an article purportedly about scope creep, itself a concept so mundane and straightforward it could’ve comfortably occupied three tidy paragraphs, maybe four if we got ambitious.

Yet, just as a humble sandwich-ordering app ballooned alarmingly into a literal Mars colonization mission complete with quantum mayonnaise conundrums, gravitational pickle engineering, and starships inexplicably named after artisanal deli products, so too did this satirical exploration creep inexorably beyond all reason.

It's ironic, of course—perhaps tragically so. Like poor Roger, who began his innocent career coding a modest sandwich-ordering interface only to awaken months later writing speculative quantum mayo algorithms,

If you find yourself wondering, "How exactly did we get here?", you're not alone. I, too, began this journey innocently intending a brief satire on software development gone astray. Yet, here we are, spiraling helplessly toward Mars aboard metaphorical sandwich-shaped rockets, all due to relentless scope creep—perhaps the most dangerously contagious force in corporate existence, capable of turning even simple lunch apps into existential threats to humanity itself.

On that note—and with absolutely no regard for narrative coherence—I briefly considered inserting an extensive tangent on rabbit farming, particularly the Belgian Dwarf Lop rabbit, whose fluffy demeanor belies an attitude toward carrots that borders on militant. I nearly committed an additional six paragraphs describing how Stanley might integrate rabbit-based logistics into his sandwich empire—before realizing, mercifully, that my own scope had irreversibly crept beyond control.

Thus, dear reader, consider this sprawling narrative a cautionary tale about scope creep, in both software and storytelling. Be vigilant; be wary. And above all, be careful when agreeing to write anything longer than a paragraph about sandwiches.

Yours in exhausted solidarity,
- M