Story code: ST-000371
Part 1: Time Off Task
Dante tore a strip of industrial duct tape with his teeth, his blood-slicked fingers fumbling to press the adhesive against the jagged, burning gash under his ribs. Beneath the makeshift bandage, his company-issued biometric wristband vibrated with a violent, rhythmic buzz, flashing a blinding crimson warning that illuminated the cramped bathroom stall. The tiny screen read TIME OFF TASK: 4m 12s. He clamped a trembling hand over the device to smother the red glow, holding his breath as the heavy hinges of the main restroom door whined open.
Heavy boots squeaked against the wet linoleum. Dante squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the metallic click of a switchblade or the low, rough voices of the men who had chased him from the train yard to the loading bays. The wound in his side pulsed in time with his racing heart. The wristband detected the sudden spike in his pulse and delivered a sharp, localized electrical shock to his forearm, a standard compliance reminder to regulate his breathing and return to the warehouse floor. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The taste of copper flooded his mouth, matching the heavy scent of blood pooling in the waistline of his cargo pants.
He needed to finish patching the leak. Every second he spent hiding in the Sector 4 employee restroom dragged him closer to automatic termination, but stepping out onto the fulfillment floor with a bleeding stab wound guaranteed a completely different kind of death. He peeled his sweat-drenched uniform vest back a few more inches, wincing as the rigid fabric tore away from his clotting skin. The duct tape was holding for now, but the silver edges were already curling, slick with dark, wet crimson. He pressed his right forearm against the tape, applying brutal, unrelenting pressure.
The footsteps outside his stall stopped directly at the metal sinks. The sound of running water echoed harshly against the ceramic tile. Dante remained perfectly still, his spine pressed against the cold metal partition. He listened for the telltale signs of the crew that had cornered him behind the shipping pallets out back. He listened for the heavy breathing, the rattle of spray cans, the scrape of steel against concrete. He kept his right hand hovering near the standard-issue box cutter clipped to his reinforced nylon belt.
His wristband vibrated again, the tiny internal motor whining like an angry wasp against his wrist bone. The red text updated to TIME OFF TASK: 6m 00s – CRITICAL INFRACTION. A secondary notification scrolled steadily beneath it, warning him that a productivity auditor had been dispatched to his last known location on the grid.
Dante realized the boots at the sink were entirely too clean, the steps too measured and deliberate to belong to the street thugs he had barely escaped. A sharp rap on the metal door of the adjacent stall shattered the quiet.
“Badge number eight four zero two, you are in violation of your active shift matrix.” The voice was sterile, flat, and echoed with the unmistakable authority of a Sector 4 Shift Auditor.
Dante stared down at his own blinking wristband. His badge number was eight four zero two.
“Biometric telemetry indicates an elevated stress response and a stationary position for over six minutes,” the auditor continued, his polished black shoes now visible in the narrow gap beneath the stall partition. The shoes shifted, pivoting slowly toward Dante’s door. “Open the stall immediately. Company property is subject to routine visual inspection during clocked hours.”
Panic spiked through Dante’s chest. He looked down at the terrible mess he had made. Blood smeared heavily across the white porcelain of the toilet tank. A crumpled, crimson-soaked paper towel rested near the drain on the floor. His bright yellow uniform vest was completely unzipped, revealing the crude, improvised grid of silver duct tape holding his left side together. If the auditor saw the wound, the automated management system would instantly flag him as a liability, revoke his employee medical coverage on the spot, and call facility security to escort him out to the front curb. The front curb was exactly where the gang was waiting for him.
He scrambled to zip up his vest, his slick fingers struggling with the small metal teeth. The zipper caught firmly on a frayed thread halfway up the track. He yanked it hard, the sudden, violent motion tearing the duct tape loose beneath the thick fabric. A fresh wave of heat spilled down his ribs. He pressed his elbow tight against his side to stem the flow, grabbing a handful of rough toilet paper to aggressively wipe the blood off his trembling hands.
“Badge number eight four zero two, failure to comply will result in the immediate deduction of your weekly hazard pay.” The auditor stepped closer. The rigid toes of the polished black shoes stopped exactly three inches from the bottom edge of Dante’s stall door. “I am overriding the manual lock in three seconds.”
Dante dropped the bloody toilet paper into the bowl and hit the flush lever, the roar of the rushing water masking the sound of his ragged breathing. He shoved his box cutter deep into his right pocket and turned toward the door, trying desperately to arrange his face into an expression of mild exhaustion. The wristband shifted from a steady vibration to a frantic, continuous pulse, the screen glowing a furious, unrelenting red.
A small metal master key slid into the exterior slot of the stall door lock. The internal latch clicked loudly, rotating upward with a sharp metallic snap. The door swung inward, pushing Dante back against the toilet as the auditor stepped directly into the narrow space, a digital management tablet raised in one hand while his eyes scanned the wet floor.
Dante tore a strip of industrial duct tape with his teeth, his blood-slicked fingers fumbling to press the adhesive against the jagged, burning gash under his ribs. Beneath the makeshift bandage, his company-issued biometric wristband vibrated with a violent, rhythmic buzz, flashing a blinding crimson warning that illuminated the cramped bathroom stall. The tiny screen read TIME OFF TASK: 4m 12s. He clamped a trembling hand over the device to smother the red glow, holding his breath as the heavy hinges of the main restroom door whined open.
Heavy boots squeaked against the wet linoleum. Dante squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the metallic click of a switchblade or the low, rough voices of the men who had chased him from the train yard to the loading bays. The wound in his side pulsed in time with his racing heart. The wristband detected the sudden spike in his pulse and delivered a sharp, localized electrical shock to his forearm, a standard compliance reminder to regulate his breathing and return to the warehouse floor. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The taste of copper flooded his mouth, matching the heavy scent of blood pooling in the waistline of his cargo pants.
He needed to finish patching the leak. Every second he spent hiding in the Sector 4 employee restroom dragged him closer to automatic termination, but stepping out onto the fulfillment floor with a bleeding stab wound guaranteed a completely different kind of death. He peeled his sweat-drenched uniform vest back a few more inches, wincing as the rigid fabric tore away from his clotting skin. The duct tape was holding for now, but the silver edges were already curling, slick with dark, wet crimson. He pressed his right forearm against the tape, applying brutal, unrelenting pressure.
The footsteps outside his stall stopped directly at the metal sinks. The sound of running water echoed harshly against the ceramic tile. Dante remained perfectly still, his spine pressed against the cold metal partition. He listened for the telltale signs of the crew that had cornered him behind the shipping pallets out back. He listened for the heavy breathing, the rattle of spray cans, the scrape of steel against concrete. He kept his right hand hovering near the standard-issue box cutter clipped to his reinforced nylon belt.
His wristband vibrated again, the tiny internal motor whining like an angry wasp against his wrist bone. The red text updated to TIME OFF TASK: 6m 00s – CRITICAL INFRACTION. A secondary notification scrolled steadily beneath it, warning him that a productivity auditor had been dispatched to his last known location on the grid.
Dante realized the boots at the sink were entirely too clean, the steps too measured and deliberate to belong to the street thugs he had barely escaped. A sharp rap on the metal door of the adjacent stall shattered the quiet.
“Badge number eight four zero two, you are in violation of your active shift matrix.” The voice was sterile, flat, and echoed with the unmistakable authority of a Sector 4 Shift Auditor.
Dante stared down at his own blinking wristband. His badge number was eight four zero two.
“Biometric telemetry indicates an elevated stress response and a stationary position for over six minutes,” the auditor continued, his polished black shoes now visible in the narrow gap beneath the stall partition. The shoes shifted, pivoting slowly toward Dante’s door. “Open the stall immediately. Company property is subject to routine visual inspection during clocked hours.”
Panic spiked through Dante’s chest. He looked down at the terrible mess he had made. Blood smeared heavily across the white porcelain of the toilet tank. A crumpled, crimson-soaked paper towel rested near the drain on the floor. His bright yellow uniform vest was completely unzipped, revealing the crude, improvised grid of silver duct tape holding his left side together. If the auditor saw the wound, the automated management system would instantly flag him as a liability, revoke his employee medical coverage on the spot, and call facility security to escort him out to the front curb. The front curb was exactly where the gang was waiting for him.
He scrambled to zip up his vest, his slick fingers struggling with the small metal teeth. The zipper caught firmly on a frayed thread halfway up the track. He yanked it hard, the sudden, violent motion tearing the duct tape loose beneath the thick fabric. A fresh wave of heat spilled down his ribs. He pressed his elbow tight against his side to stem the flow, grabbing a handful of rough toilet paper to aggressively wipe the blood off his trembling hands.
“Badge number eight four zero two, failure to comply will result in the immediate deduction of your weekly hazard pay.” The auditor stepped closer. The rigid toes of the polished black shoes stopped exactly three inches from the bottom edge of Dante’s stall door. “I am overriding the manual lock in three seconds.”
Dante dropped the bloody toilet paper into the bowl and hit the flush lever, the roar of the rushing water masking the sound of his ragged breathing. He shoved his box cutter deep into his right pocket and turned toward the door, trying desperately to arrange his face into an expression of mild exhaustion. The wristband shifted from a steady vibration to a frantic, continuous pulse, the screen glowing a furious, unrelenting red.
A small metal master key slid into the exterior slot of the stall door lock. The internal latch clicked loudly, rotating upward with a sharp metallic snap. The door swung inward, pushing Dante back against the toilet as the auditor stepped directly into the narrow space, a digital management tablet raised in one hand while his eyes scanned the wet floor.