You thought your chair finally broke behind you, when you started to fall backward.
Adrenaline shot through your body as you plummeted, and you could feel your chest stutter. Your arms waved out and back, desperate to cling to something that would – at the very least – slow your descent.
But as your head tilted back, a new scenery tore through your vision. The white painted ceiling gave way to more vibrant and sleek colours of copper and cobalt and brass and silver. Somewhere on this other side of reality were sets of hands gripping at your outstretched arms, hoisting you from your seat and into this world of woven piping and metalwork. You looked to your feet. A rip in space, where your room sat on the other side, computer screens still glowing with a social media tab rife with gay porn. Yet as soon as your feet found the ground on the other side, the rip was sewn back together. All that remained was a blue wall, wires and pipes of the same oranges and yellows and cold steels of the ceiling above climbing like ivy across it.
Your first thought on the situation used vernacular you were almost embarrassed to realize you were using unironically. As a result, your second thought was more of a correction to the first: did you just get kidnapped into another world!?
You turn back to view your captors. “Hey, what’s the big idea--” The words catch in your throat. Two of them, each having held one of your arms, but their visages bewildered you. Each feature was familiar – too familiar. It was bizarre to see them outside a mirror, and more bizarre to see two faces that matched your own so closely. As far as you could tell, they were at least twins to one another, but could they also be identical to you?
Even as you pondered the idea, though, there were still differences they held. Both of them had dyed their short hair pitch black, a far cry from the saturated orange of your own crown. They also both seemed to wear a uniform: dull grey jeans; collared shirts of a muted violet; bulky jackets of dark grey and black trim, with a bright tag on the left breast. You had barely read their job title before one spoke, speech patterns just a touch slower and more absent, yet still so familiar: “Uh, sorry, we’re the Retrieval Drones.” In their eyes, behind the lenses of their glasses, there was something missing...
“Retrieval Drones...?” Questions aplenty swim through your head. Just given their introduction, you suspect they won’t be able to answer too much. Instead, you cock your head around, hoping a lay of the land will tell more. Walls on all sides, much of it mirroring the steampunk designs of colourful metals running in tandem that you saw on your way into this place. Behind the drones – you do your best not to distract yourself with their apparent titles – you spy a doorway, marked in pristine copper, though no door to hide the space behind it. The details are hard to make out, but you swear you can see the night sky out of a large glass pane.
Even as you take in the scenery, the other drone gives his best explanation: “Yeah... Your uhh, your verse and point in time was selected as a retrieval point to help populate the colony. We’re tasked to open a doorway and pull you in, as well as escort you to Assignment.”
Assignment... You turn your head back to the two of them. They take hold of your arms and guide you to your feet. You can only be left peering at their faces, staring into the space behind their eyes. You don’t have all the pieces, but that was more than enough to puzzle out what’s meant to happen next.
“Am I... gonna become a drone like you guys...?”
They blink at you. Then turn to look at one another. Each has the same question writ on their face. Tragically, neither of them seem capable of reading it. “Um... Maybe?” One does everything but shrug his shoulders. “I don’t know, but we don’t get new Retrieval Drones anymore.”
The closest thing to a lucid thought crosses the other’s mind. “There are other drones here too, right? If you’re lucky, you might get to be one of those.”
Neither of them seem to think-- well, they don’t seem to think much at all, really... But especially, they don’t seem to treat the prospect of you becoming a drone as something that might frighten you. Of course they wouldn’t, you realize. Whatever training turned them into these absent-minded workers, it wouldn’t want to define their new way of life as something fearful or even uncomfortable.
Speaking of uncomfortable, you can feel yourself throb in your lap. Perhaps these two dealt with this exact issue before their own... Assignment... but no protestation you make can hide the truth: the idea of being turned into an empty-headed drone like them is a pretty massive turn-on. It’s a fantasy you’ve entertained yourself with before. Maybe they did too. But it was always fiction, never threatening to become reality. Your intellect, your memories, your free will; all of them are critical elements of your identity you can’t fathom relinquishing willingly. What remains of you when they’re taken away?
The drones’ tug on your arms is gentle, but insistent. Your feet plod on the floor behind them. As you step through the copper frame, more of this strange space becomes known to you. The walkway has a stable and heavy railing, walling you from the drop to a verdant floor beneath. Much of that lower landing is rife with crops and forestry, as well as the assumed attendants to such flora. From a glance, you could spy they shared much in common with the retrieval drones escorting you, but their hair wasn’t dyed at all; if they had orange hair before, they’ve let it grow out and become its natural brown across their whole head. Blue jeans, brown boots, green jackets that looked much lighter in weight... None were close enough to see their eyes clearly, but you wonder if you would end up seeing anything more behind them...
Not all of them were at work, though, at least not on the fields. No, you could clearly see some of the alleged drones below working on one another. One couple was kissing and undressing as you spied them, another couple fully nude and lying on a wide oak bench with each one’s dick in the other’s mouth... You could spy one drone bottomless, lifting his equally-clothed partner’s ass in the air in a crude imitation of a wheelbarrow, still working to fill him with the burden he’d bear. You almost hoped they chose such a pose with intent.
You looked back up. The night sky you saw before sat behind a tremendous globe, likely surrounding the whole colony. You squinted. You scan the glass. You blink. Was it really the night sky? It was rare to see the blanket of stars clearly, especially when there was so much light surrounding you, but why couldn’t you see any light past the glass? No stars, not the moon, nor the glimmer of a close planet like Mars... Nothing.
“Just where is this...?”
“We’re in a pocket of space that exists outside of time’s reach,” sang a voice familiar to you – this time just as quick as you remembered it. You don’t get to turn to see the source, before a tap on your chest turns you back around. The drones screeched to a halt. Facing you, standing in your path, was yet another mirror – though, he certainly possessed more personality. His hair was dyed a deep purple, adorned with a gold crown dotted in amethyst. A sleeveless white collared shirt sat beneath a sleeveless black vest, tucking in a violet necktie. His legs were less covered and more accentuated with a thigh-high stocking on one leg and a full-length hose on the other, exposing one of his hips and cupping a well-rounded package between them. Oxford shoes, black wristbands, a black choker, large hexagonal spectacles, and his most pointed accessory: a smirk. “You like it? Took a lot of engineering to get this place running just the way I like!”
You looked him up and down again. Without a shadow of a doubt, he’s the ringleader... “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the guy running this place would dress like this.”
“Mhm,” he replied, “I’ve played out this conversation plenty, so you don’t mind if I just take the compliment and move on?”
You glance back down at the drones below. Not that you expect him to lie to himself, but you have plenty of evidence to show he’s telling the truth of that. There’s likely dozens of these guys – maybe hundreds – all clones or duplicates or copies of you, of him, of each other... Maybe he wasn’t here to greet every single one of them, but if you had to guess, he made a habit of greeting new acts to his circus of debauchery and apparent dehumanization whenever he could. He likely took a moment to enjoy them as well, maybe before their assignment, maybe during, maybe after... There was a benefit to being kidnapped by what appeared to be an alternate version of yourself: it was exceedingly easy to get in his head. Because the moment you laid eyes upon him, you were almost certain how he considered you. Your trepidation began to fade.
You met his gaze again, and smiled, just a bit. “So when you say it’s out of time’s reach, what are the mechanics of that – the basics, anyway?”
He chuckled, and continued forward. “Walk and talk, boys.” The retrieval drones were quick to resume their pace, tugging you along. “Fundamentally, this verse itself is the trick: we’re sat smack dab in the middle of a verse with no established rules of time. Thus, nothing within this space moves through time the way it normally would – unless, of course, we introduce time to the verse artificially!” He looks back to you. “But just making time flow in a space without it isn’t nearly as simple as terraforming Mars or anything like that, so the easier option...”
“... Is just making a domed colony that has its own rules of timespace.” You raise an eyebrow. “At least, theoretically. The benefit of that is being able to manipulate those rules to your own needs – provided those rules can be manipulated at all.”
“Yeah, I know,” he yammered, “it all sounds like sci-fi, of course it does. You only asked for the basics, though, and I know that’s the height of technical discussion of the matter you’ll understand.”
You pondered that for a moment. There was a term you’ve heard a couple of times already that you hadn’t much heard... Not without a prefix attached to it, at least. “Speaking of what I understand: can I just make sure I know precisely what a ‘verse’ is?”
“Well, you see, if you take ‘universe’ and pull out the ‘uni-’...”
“Alright, asshole,” you interrupted. “I guess what I’m trying to confirm is why you drop the ‘uni-’ at all.”
He shrugs. “It’s just the easiest term to describe the separations of worlds that encapsulate an entire observable cosmos--” he raises a finger to your mouth, already half-open “– it was when I came up with it!”
“Did you actually coin the term, then?”
“Only in our time’s English, anyway.” Your gaze dropped as you walked. The movement of his hips was hard to ignore, as if he exaggerated each swing. Leaving an entire hairy cheek exposed to the world didn’t make it any easier. “Multiversal travel covers such a wide scope, it’s nearly impossible to run into anyone else with the tech, and The Bureau just uses their own language – not one that follows any Earth syntax, so it’s hell to translate when you need to...”
“The Bureau...?”
“Oh, they’re not all that important,” he hushes. “Certainly not for you; I handle those prudes personally.”
Not for you... “So, this Assignment business... How about the process for that; what can I expect from all this?”
“What are you hoping to get out of it~?” He tilts his head back to you with a wily grin.
You feel the soft grip the two drones have on you. “I wouldn’t mind keeping a few brain cells intact.”
He pouts. “Oh, don’t be mean; if these guys were able to form thoughts of their own, they might be upset to hear that!” They turn to look at each other, the same question on both of their faces as earlier. “Well, we can take a look at what roles are open, and maybe we can figure something out~?”
He turns through another copper frame, a cold steel door swiftly parting before him. You’re escorted in behind him. The room itself is a stark contrast to the rest of the colony you’ve seen: the floor, the walls, the ceiling all a sterile white – at least, you believe it’s meant to be white, but the low clinical lighting makes it appear a cold grey. A thick chair sits camouflaged in the center of the room. You nearly trip over its base as the drones guide you down onto it. Just as they seat you, they shamble back out the doorway. You swear you spy one of them reaching down the other’s pants before the door shuts. At the front of the room, though, beside the colony leader is yet another copy of yourself, this one with a pastel blue dye job and thick, circular glasses. You see his white lab coat. Behind him, you think you spy a set of sterilized surgery tools. He needs no introduction.
“Hey, I’m the Assignment Surgeon,” he introduces himself all the same. The job title makes you perk up. This one’s not a ‘drone’ like the rest? Not to mention, he doesn’t seem quite as vacant as the others.
Still, it was clear how he would perform his part of the job. Your hand shifts – or at least, it tries to. Your eyes dart to your wrists, to find them strapped down to the armrests. The cuffs look like they emerged from the chair, but you hadn’t heard the slightest sound. You look at the boss. “’Surgeon’, huh? No tech that gets my impending lobotomy done with a bit less force?”
He scoffs, elbowing the surgeon. “Every time, right?” He looks back at you. “Relax, we haven’t had to use manual tools for ages. Most of the process is done with this baby.” He flips a switch on a control board behind him. The whirring and groaning of machinery was hushed, as a helmet sank from a hole in the ceiling, hovering just above your head.
“Right, the classic. Of course.”
You can see him peer over the control board, violet locks of hair bowed down. “Let’s see... Ooh, we still haven’t filled out all the Agricultural slots, huh? Still weighed super heavily... Culinary has a slot or two...”
The surgeon leans in with him, gazing over the same information. There must be a screen reading out your options to them. “Hey, did the system not update earlier? I’m pretty sure Hygienic Maintenance got requested earlier, but it’s not on the list at all right now...”
The two continue muttering back and forth. All you can do is tap your fingers on the chair as they deliberate. But patience has its place, and sitting idly for your fate to be sealed leaves you with too much dread. “So, is there any chance you guys can let me have a look at all these roles?”
The purple-haired one flips another switch, and a screen lights up above him. “Here’s what we’ve got right now.” You peer over the options, though there aren’t many of them. Fewer still come without ‘drone’ tagged on the end.
What concerns you the most of your options, though: they all come with a percentage on the right-hand side. “Are those... Are those the odds of me getting each of those jobs? Do I not get to choose what I do for... presumably the rest of my life?”
“Nope.” The purple bastard even says it with a smile. “See, I pull most of you guys from pretty much the exact same point in time from the same verse, which means almost every one of you make the exact same decisions out of the exact same situation. So if I supply a choice here, it just becomes unfair for every last one of you.”
“Plus, he finds something hot in leaving your fate up to chance.” The surgeon nudged back at his boss. “The good news: you are very statistically likely to embrace your role in between its selection and the helmet Assigning you.”
The boss rolled his eyes. “Of course, if you’re really that perturbed about becoming a drone, I can tip the scale a little bit for you, long as I get a little something in return?”
You look over the numbers again. There’s no sugarcoating it: there is a very heavy bias on drone roles. From what the two were saying, the roles themselves seem to rotate as they collect more copies like you, reflecting demand as it shifts within the colony. You certainly haven’t seen the whole colony, but it doesn’t escape your notice that these are the only two duplicates you’ve met who seem capable of individual thought. That much is probably by design... No, you look at the purple-haired one again. It’s definitely by design.
You furrow your brow at him. “And what ‘little something’ are you looking for,” you ask, before considering the situation more closely. You shift your arms much as you can in their restraints. “... That you can’t just get for yourself right now...?”
He points a pair of finger guns at you. “Caught me red-handed! And really, I could also just wait until we’re finished Assigning you, and...” He looks back, pondering the numbers behind him for just a moment. “There’s about a 92% chance you’d just witlessly let me have it anyway. I’m happy to bring that down to maybe... an 87% chance?” Reaching down, he cups the bulge he’s had on display in those lavender leggings the whole time. “All you gotta do is say you’re okay with me shoving my nuts in your face as you get Assigned~!”
Of course that’s how he’d do it, you think to yourself. He doesn’t even budge the numbers enough to give you a real luxury of choice. You look over the roles again, and relax your shoulders. “Yeah, sure, why not?”
His smirk stretches up his cheek, and he flips a switch. The screen above him turns to a roulette wheel, spinning through the options previously given. He didn’t actually shift the numbers around, you noticed. Not that it matters. All the while, the surgeon beside him scans through a separate screen, fishing a desktop for files he’ll likely need soon. He mutters under his breath to his boss, “Do we know which specializations we need most-- well, ‘need’ is a strong word, but what do we want growing now?”
“Another field of potatoes, probably,” he muses, “or maybe we can get an apricot orchard started; we don’t have one of those operating yet, and Head Culinary’s been nagging my ear off for more of those.” They’ve already made up their minds on what you’ll be, it seems, even as the wheel spins. He put a finger on the scale, alright...
The wheel stops exactly where everyone expected it to: Agricultural Drone. There’s no real surprise or disappointment or fear, though you can’t help your heart sinking for just a moment as your fate is sealed. They don’t even stop talking to one another when the wheel stops, the helmet simply descends on its own to meet your crown. The surgeon’s forecast earlier wasn’t perfect: you did accept the outcome just fine, but it happened before the wheel even began to spin. It happened before you even entered the room. It happened pretty much the moment you laid eyes on his boss – your boss.
As the helmet rested upon your head, it groaned to life, and a screen flashed to life in front of your eyes. A warbling low drone ran between your ears; binaural beats, you recognize. The screen then, predictably enough, drilled a spiral into your vision, digging quick and deep into your mind. Even as those ran, you swear you could feel a gentle warmth emanating just above your brow. A cacophony of sensations all from one helmet, some likely doing more than just overwhelming your senses.
The only senses left untouched by the helmet were eventually filled up by a salty, ripe pair of orbs hanging from a sack, gracelessly dragged along your opened mouth and nostrils. By the time they were there, you hadn’t even remembered the bargain you struck.
Normal apricot trees don’t tend to mature in a matter of weeks, but of what little it knew, it recognized time didn’t have to work the same here as it would in the fruit’s natural habitat.
The trees were meticulously spaced apart, just enough to give each of them the space for their roots to grow. It saw to that personally – it was assigned to do that, after all. Just as it was assigned to manage the soil and keep it slightly acidic and loose, and full of nutrients that would nurture the fruit trees appropriately. Just as it was assigned to keep each tree perfectly watered – though, it didn’t have to be as meticulous as the drones working vegetable crops.
The orchard hadn’t bore fruit yet, but it would soon. It didn’t know the math necessary to calculate that, simply that it would be soon. After all, the trees were flowering already. It walked to its terminal and put in a request for baskets to be delivered to its post. Apparently, there was an urgent demand for apricots. It didn’t understand why, nor did it care. Its job was just to care for the trees and facilitate their growth and health, and collect the fruit when ready. Nothing else mattered.
But today, it would not bear fruit. The soil was nurtured, and the water was administered, and so the drone was finished its tasks for the day. For a moment, it stared listlessly at the branches, or the buds and leaves, or at the trunk, or maybe it didn’t stare at any of those things in particular. It didn’t really think of what it would do next; it couldn’t. If it had the mind to realize it, it didn’t necessarily lack for free will outside of its task, just as it didn’t lack for knowledge within it. Each of those virtues was missing from the other side, though. Outside of the task it was Assigned to perform, all it knew was eating, sleeping, and fucking.
Its stomach wasn’t empty, and it certainly didn’t feel drowsy, so clearly it must be time to fuck. It looked around, and saw another drone nearby, gazing into the middle distance. It was another Agricultural Drone like it was: same green jacket, same blue jeans, same brown boots, same brown hair, same empty expression. It walked over to it. “Hey, you’re done with your task today, right?”
The other drone took a moment to realize it was being talked to. “Oh, uhh... Yeah, I’m done. I don’t have to harvest today.”
“Me neither. Do you wanna fuck?”
“Uh... Okay...”
Not another word escaped their lips as they crashed into one another. Grinding against one another’s groins, slipping their hands under each other’s clothing and through their hair, tongue-wrestling with no care for who dominated the other. They didn’t think of how to please the other, or who would top or bottom or if they’d simply suck each other off; whatever they performed, they let their passion decide what they couldn’t.
The ‘passion’ that guided them underneath might have been more than that, though. Perhaps underneath the programming, remnants of their old minds remained, giving what little guidance they could in their debauchery, in the one act where they could grasp the reins. Perhaps the rest of the time, they were passengers in their own bodies, subconscious thoughts that sank beneath the quagmire that muddied the conscious mind. Perhaps their intellect and free will wasn’t erased, but instead suppressed.
That part knew they weren’t just drones, but toys for their ‘boss’ to play with. That was their real purpose.