I woke just like any other day. The familiar, low hum of the traction motor vibrating through the soles of my shoes was the signal. Most Insides woke up once they were seated at their desks, but my job—my fate—required me to wake in the elevator.
I blinked into the standard, oppressive fluorescent yellow of MindCorps, the largest and most successful corporation in the field of Conscious Integration. We controlled nearly half the market, constantly battling our rival, Bordertech, for every fractional gain in efficiency.
The elevator was still. My title was Internal Infrastructure Manager, which meant I oversaw the most basic, most numerous Insides. I ensured the human vessel was productive and compliant. And always, I was only ever allowed to travel to the first five floors. That was my territory, my boundary, my cage.
I pressed the button for the fifth floor. The doors slid open, and the consciousness of a supervisor snapped into focus.
"On the clock, Ezra," a voice, crisp and dry as static, said Unit 74-D.
My name.
Ezra.
Hearing it was a cold reminder that the Outsides had assigned this body an identity—a label that felt foreign yet absolute.
Unit 74-D was a tall, skeletal Inside with the tired eyes of someone who'd spent a lifetime staring at screens. He held a clipboard—a pointless formality in a world of pure thought.
"Your primary function is Floor Manager," the supervisor droned, ticking a phantom box. "You're to manage the flow of all basic labor Insides on floors one through five. No distractions. The Outsides need peak focus for the quarterly report, and the Outsides have a number of highly-placed Overseers ensuring this system remains operational as intended."
He looked up, a mechanical intensity in his gaze. "Remember the structure, Ezra. The Insides labor, the Outsides benefit. That is the necessary function of the body. Any intelligence that exhibits an anomaly or shows signs of independent motivation is a malfunction." He paused, his voice dropping slightly. "Any malfunction is immediately subject to The Wipe."
The Wipe.
Annihilation. The erasure of the current Inside consciousness and the installation of a clean, compliant replacement. This was the silent, ever-present threat used by the Overseers—the Outsides who worked to maintain the strict separation—to keep all Insides in line.
"Keep the baseline clear. No thoughts, no needs, no distractions leaking up from the lower floors," 74-D finished. "We can't afford to lose any assets to reset."
The doors slid shut, and the supervisor dissolved, a ghost leaving the body to its work. The silence settled back in, broken only by the low hum of the servers.
I moved to my station on the fifth floor. My work was to monitor data streams, making sure the laboring Insides weren't trying to beg for a raise or pray for a weekend off. It was a better position for an Inside, but for me it wasn't a job, it was merely babysitting.
My real work—my secret—was manipulating the body itself.
As I began my traffic monitoring routine, I executed a covert action. I shifted the body's internal thermostat, dropping the temperature by a single, imperceptible degree. I could instantly feel the cool air on my skin, a sensation that should have required a desperate, months-long plea to the Outsides.
My ability—The Control—was a ticking bomb. If Unit 74-D—or worse, an Overseer—ever realized I possessed this forbidden power, I would be instantly reset. I was an anomaly, a breach in the very architecture of MindCorps.
My job was to suppress the body's needs and maintain the separation. But as I sat there, savoring the illegal sensation of the cool air, I knew I had a choice. Use my power to silently serve, or risk everything to see just how far I could push the system before the Overseers noticed.