Love, War, and Customer Service

Ares slouched in his ergonomic office chair, staring at the dual monitors that displayed an endless queue of complaint tickets.

After the latest divine restructuring, Zeus had decided that all Olympian departments needed proper documentation and customer service protocols. Which is how the God of War found himself manning the "Conflict Resolution Desk" every Tuesday and Thursday.

Zeus also thought upgrading the whole system from Windows to Apple would be a great idea. Everything connected... Mac, iPad, iPhones, etc.

The transition meeting had been a disaster, with Dionysus repeatedly asking if wine could be stored in iCloud and Poseidon demanding to know if his iPhone would still work in the Mariana Trench. Athena had simply rolled her eyes and muttered something about "planned obsolescence being the true Trojan Horse."

Eros burst into Ares' cubilce in a shower of rose petals and glitter. His wings barely clearing the fabric-covered walls, iPhone in hand and a distressed look on his cherubic face.

"We have a situation," Eros announced, brushing glitter off his Gucci blazer.

"My arrows aren't working properly."

Ares shook his head disappointedly, "Have you tried submitting a ticket?"

"A ticket? I'm your nephew! Besides, this is technically a war-adjacent issue."

"How exactly is your love arrow malfunction war-adjacent?"

Eros perched on Ares' desk, scattering more glitter across the meticulously organized stack of forms.

"Because people are falling in love with the wrong things. Last week, I shot an arrow at this guy who was supposed to fall for his barista, but instead he fell in love with the coffee machine. He's now writing sonnets to its 'perfectly calibrated pressure system' and 'sensual steam wand.'"

"That sounds like a you problem," Ares muttered, trying to salvage his paperwork from the spreading glitter contamination.

"But wait, there's more!" Eros swiped through his phone.

"A woman in Seattle fell in love with a traffic light. She's planning a spring wedding. The traffic light's parents are devastated—they wanted it to marry a nice parking meter from a good neighborhood."

Ares leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest.

"Have you checked the arrow settings? Maybe you accidentally switched them to 'inanimate object' mode?"

"There's no such thing as—wait, is there?" Eros frantically began examining his bow.

"Did another update roll out without telling anyone? Last time that happened, all my arrows turned into LinkedIn connection requests."

"That was actually kind of funny," Ares smirked, remembering the week when people kept trying to network with their soulmates.

"It was not funny! Do you know how many people ended up in long-term professional relationships instead of romantic ones? HR departments across the globe were in chaos!"

Ares stood up, his frame towering over his diminutive nephew.

"Fine, let me see the bow."

Eros handed over his weapon, which had somehow acquired a USB-C port and what appeared to be a tiny touchscreen. Ares turned it over in his hands, noting the small Apple logo.

"Of course," he muttered, remembering the mandatory migration to Apple products. He still missed his Android phone, which at least had let him customize his war notification sounds.

"When did you get this upgrade?"

"Zeus insisted. Said it was part of the 'divine digital ecosystem' or whatever. Hephaestus tried to argue for Android's superior customization, but you know how Zeus gets when he thinks he's had a brilliant idea. Now Poseidon's trident has 5G capabilities, but all he does is stream Netflix under the ocean."

Ares pressed what he hoped was the power button. The tiny screen lit up with the message:

"Welcome to CupidOS 14.0.2. Please select your love vector."

"Huh," Ares scrolled through the options.

"You've got 'Romantic Love,' 'Platonic Love,' 'Self Love,' 'Love of Learning,' and... 'California Real Estate Market Love'?"

"That last one explains so much about housing prices," Eros muttered.

As Ares continued exploring the settings, he accidentally pressed a combination of buttons that made the bow emit a series of musical notes that sounded suspiciously like "Never Gonna Give You Up."

"Did your bow just Rick Roll me?"

"Oh gods, not again. Hermes added that as a joke, but I can't figure out how to disable it."

Ares discovered a submenu labeled "Target Preferences" with toggles for "Organic," "Inorganic," and "Digital." The inorganic setting was, indeed, switched on.

"Found your problem," he said, flipping the toggle.

"You had it set to include non-living targets. Should work normally now."

Eros brightened.

"Really? That's amazing! Let me test it!"

Before Ares could stop him, Eros nocked an arrow and shot it through the cubicle wall.

A moment later, they heard a crash followed by passionate declarations of love from the break room.

"Who was that?" Ares asked, dreading the answer.

"I think I just made the coffee machine fall in love with the water cooler."

"But I just fixed the settings!"

"Maybe it needed a restart?" Eros suggested helpfully.

They spent the next hour trying various troubleshooting methods, including turning it off and on again, performing a factory reset, and attempting to update to CupidOS 14.0.3.

Meanwhile, the break room situation had evolved into a complex love triangle involving the coffee machine, the water cooler, and a very confused vending machine.

Finally, Ares discovered a tiny note engraved on the bow's handle:

"For tech support, please contact Athena's Department of Divine Innovation and Disruption, ext. 3301."

"Why didn't you check the manual first?" Ares demanded.

"There was a manual?"

"There's always a manual! Nobody reads it, but it exists!"

Eros shrugged.

"I thought I could figure it out intuitively. The interface seemed user-friendly."

"User-friendly?" Ares gestured toward the break room, where the coffee machine was now playing "Careless Whisper" through its steam wand.

"You've created an office romance between appliances!"

"At least they're in the same department?" Eros offered weakly.

"Besides, workplace romance is totally in right now. Although I admit the vending machine might need some counseling."

"Speaking of AI," Eros interjected, "did I tell you about last week when I accidentally made a smartphone fall in love with a blockchain?"

Ares stared at his nephew, watching as the coffee machine in the break room now attempted to serenade the water cooler with an espresso-powered rendition of "My Heart Will Go On."

In his inbox, the vending machine had just filed its third complaint about the coffee machine's "aggressive caffeinated advances," while simultaneously sending passive-aggressive emails about the water cooler's "transparent flirtations."

"I don't understand."

Ares let his head drop to his desk with a thud that rattled his "Employee of the Millennia" nameplate.

"You'd think father would have learned after that fiasco with Adam and Eve."