Phil had been doing the last serged seam when a second needle went clean through the back of his head and out the one eyeball he had open, leaving him with the impression that a tower of iron had invaded his bench.
Frantically, he opened the eye he had been squeezing shut, and finished the seam moments before a follow-up strike from behind disabled his active puppet entirely. Luckily, he now had a puppet just-finished.
A moment's disorientation passed as he jumped to the fresh puppet, and he looked up from new eyes at the dismembered puppet he had been controlling, and at the three unfamiliar pups who had not yet caught onto his ploy and were wreaking havoc among what they thought was now an empty workshop. He counted his lucky stars he had decided to remote into work today, then went cold when he caught a single letter in a blue box on one of their backs.
"Facebook. Motherfucking Facebook," he muttered to himself, and popped the emergency shop EMP before things got any further, losing his feed. Nothing in the shop would be damaged worse than what he could replace them for by selling the Facebook puppets on, funny enough, Facebook marketplace. Acoustic monitors were silent moments after the pop, so hopefully he could trust the FB pups were downed.
But it left an ugly question: what about his small hackerspace had a big corp interested enough that it warranted sending a snip team?
Maybe he should find a different place to sell these puppets.