“You’re being transferred to Floor 44, effective immediately.”
The words transformed the anxiety brewing in Ruairi’s head into outright dread. “You can’t be serious, boss! I’ve worked so hard–”
And yet,” he interrupted, “you fell short of your deadlines. I warned you before you took this assignment: it’s too much for the average employee to handle.” He fiddled with the pen in his hand, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t want to see you transferred either, but my hands are tied.”
It was bullshit. Ruairi knew it, and so did his boss– former boss, anyway. Every assignment put on his plate for the last month had been near-insurmountable. He was stumbling just behind deadlines, with each narrow failure being followed by a stern and almost somber disciplinary talk with his boss. Not only that, but every attempt to use his vacation days had been rejected, leaving him all the more frustrated, and all the more exhausted. He did his best to psych himself up for this week’s workload, convincing himself that no matter what they threw his way, he’d be able to handle it without capping his overtime this week. But when he saw all of his options laid out before him, his heart sank. They were setting him up for failure this whole time.
They were setting him up for Floor 44.
“There’s gotta be something we– something I can do–” his protests were stuttered and stammered. “I know a guy in HR; if we tell him what happened, try and figure out another option–”
“I already argued for your case earlier.” His boss pinched his brow. “Trust me, I tried everything, but they didn’t budge. In their words, your performance has been ‘replicable, expendable, and completely unremarkable,’ so since I couldn’t get your output to improve, they’re taking matters into their own hands.”
Ruairi squinted. For just a moment, he felt doubt in his boss’s words, thinking for just a moment it wasn’t just the higher-ups screwing him over. As his anger mounted, it clung to the back of his throat as the door behind him opened. Ruairi turned, and his anger turned to ash, smothered by despair. Two men entered, equal in height and build and all else; their attire, their hair, their glasses that must’ve been tinted, since Ruairi couldn’t see their eyes at all. They’re already here, he realized.
“We’ll have your things collected and delivered to your new desk before the end of the day,” his boss assured him, as each of the men clasped one of his shoulders. Their hands didn’t weigh heavy - not compared to the fear they mounted within him - but gingerly guided him back out through the door they came. As he was guided to the elevator, Ruairi could narrowly see his cubicle, and a lady he was familiar with sweeping the contents of his desk carelessly into a bin. He could only lament and wonder how long he had been lied to.
As the elevator droned up, Ruairi’s eyes glued to his feet. The ride felt like it was moving slower than ever before. The dread that had enveloped him weighed the whole car down. He brought his head up to look at his fellow riders. They stood at attention still, unchanged from when they had entered, and their gaze still pointed at the door. They both stood a good few centimeters taller than him; they must’ve been just a bit under 180 cm. He put on a smile and mused, “You know, I did always wish I could be a few inches taller!” A nervous laugh was swallowed by the silence, and his smile faded when no response came from either of his new coworkers. He was talking to himself, he realized. His gaze met his shoes once more as the ride continued.
Eternity had finally passed, as the doors opened to Floor 44. Ruairi could only spare glances around as his guides strode forward with him in tow. Even compared to his own floor, this one was eerily plain in its appearance. Every cubicle wall, the walls beyond them, and even the ceiling all seemed to bleed together in a subtle off-white. The carpet below was a cool grey– no, it might have been just a plain grey, and only looked cooler compared to the walls and ceiling. He could only see people within their cubicles, seated with precise posture and typing dutifully. Each cubicle confused his eyes, as he seemed to only see the same scene within them. All of the people at their desks were much the same, as well: the same parted hair, the same suit colours, and all of them seated reached the same height. The floor was a house of mirrors, he thought to himself.
At last, they reached a door at the end of the floor. Neither of his cohorts needed to reach for the door, as it opened to their approach. Behind it was yet another man, just shy of 180 cm, same black parted hair, same tinted eyeglasses obscuring his eyes completely. As he stepped away from the door to his desk within, the three of them made their way into the office, Ruairi guided in front. In his mind, a calm washed over him as he approached the desk. This was it. Whatever happens next spells the end.
Even so, consciously, he knew he had to try and fight back. He dropped to his knees, but his coworkers still had hold of him at the elbows. “Look, whatever you guys do here, I swear I won’t say a word. Just let me do whatever it is you want of me, whatever you need of me, just…” His throat was dry, and he gasped out his final protestations. “Just don’t make me one of them…”
His last words fell on deaf ears, as the man moved from behind the desk, a pair of spectacles in his hands. Ruairi froze. The man’s pace never changed as he brought himself in front of the recruit and the glasses to his face. As the temples slid behind his ears and the glasses were brought to his face, all Ruairi could see through them is a series of collapsing and expanding circles, black and white endlessly droning between one another, eclipsing his sight, smothering his thoughts, suffocating his identity.
The circles would not fade. The mind would remain quiet. The glasses would guide the body; the lenses were those of cameras that would project everything directly to the brain, which would operate on its rewritten instincts and remote commands. Those lenses would remain offline until the orientation processes had completed, and the drone was fully prepared to begin its work. When they came online, the first of the footage transmitted to the brain was that of a mirror: a drone of 178.4 cm; black parted hair; a dark grey suit, tailored to fit the dimensions of a man who hadn’t visited the shop in years; a pale complexion, with a clean shaven face and not a single freckle in sight; and a pair of eyeglasses that obscured the eyes completely.
Ruairi’s files were wiped from the company’s database. Everyone on his old floor knew where he had gone, but none of them dared to speak up. It was only a month or two prior, during a work party where he drank one more glass of champagne than he should’ve, when he had complained about a friend from accounting having disappeared. He realized his mistake when he was sober, but thought he would be safe if they didn’t come for him right away. He knew then that - in the eyes of the higher-ups - there wasn’t enough separating him or anyone else on his floor from the denizens of Floor 44.
To them, he knew he was replicable, expendable, and completely unremarkable.