Last Duty Log - A Trivially Minor Rule Violation (1)
Rain pours down. Raindrops batter the window, but no sound reaches me. The employee dormitory building at Bellwether Corp, where I work, is famous for its perfect soundproofing. For a military-industrial giant, that's high praise.
Even pressing my face close to the glass, I detect no hint of moisture, no faint earthy scent that rain usually brings. All I see in the reflection is my bronze hair and the black Aiming Correction Cybernetic Eye. Is something wrong? I entertain the pointless thought for a moment, then dismiss it. If this is a flawed morning, what would a flawless one even look like? Wasting time on unknowns is inefficient. Besides, it's almost time to clock in. A security team grunt showing up late because he couldn't smell the rain? That'd be a joke.
I straighten my clothes. Everything on me is company issue: the black T-shirt stamped with the bell logo, the navy security uniform, the Aiming Correction Cybernetic Eye, even the Hand Tremor Prevention implants in both hands.
I'm nearly ready, but I head to the bedroom mirror anyway. I practice the eager, reliable rookie face I drilled relentlessly after my first day. It's all awkwardness. My duty assistant AI, sharing my vision through the cybernetic eye, chimes in with a frustrated tone.
"Seriously... every day feels like your first day on the job. The blank face suits you better. You don't need to schmooze with your mug—you're already a solid security grunt. How about trusting your own skills for once?"
It sounds emotional, but it's just a programmed language module. The gruff tone mimics someone bad at expressing worry, trained that way on purpose. Hilariously, even knowing all that, the faux-friendly voice boosts employee productivity just fine.
I sigh and reply, talking to thin air.
"If I'd heard that since I was eight, sure. But for twelve years, all I've gotten is 'work harder.' Now suddenly I'm supposed to trust my abilities? Weirder if it flipped overnight."
"Just make sure twelve years from now, you don't give the same answer. Routine check starting if you're ready. Authorize external manipulation of implants?"
"Authorized."
Voice confirmation granted, my body moves on its own, ignoring my will. I draw the pistol—no mag loaded—and a virtual aiming reticle overlays my vision, tracking the muzzle perfectly.
"Aiming assist nominal. Check Hand Tremor Prevention."
I consciously activate tremor prevention and grip the pistol. My hand clamps at preset strength—steady, unyielding.
"Hand Tremor Prevention nominal. Checking Life Support Device. Sting incoming."
Sure enough, a nasty pull at the nape. The neck implant whirs to life—something that shouldn't activate normally. Saving a trained employee beats onboarding a rookie for efficiency. Still, it's just a brief grace period. During that window, pray the med team arrives in time to vat the remains. If the device glitches? Useless. Mine works flawlessly.
Routine complete, a big green circle blooms in my vision.
"Routine check complete. All functions nominal. Calorie pack on the table—eat up and head out."
I squeeze the tube dry. Salty, umami sludge. Bellwether Corp despises variables. A security grunt puking from greasy breakfast? One more hated variable. Real food waits till after shift.
Toss the empty, step out. The dorm's dry, laced with anonymous floral air freshener. Rain rages outside, but I feel nothing. Hand to the un-fogged window—footsteps approach from behind. I turn. Fellow security grunt, same tenure but older. Company regs demand dark hair and eyes for low-vis night ops. He's got both, glasses off-duty. Pointless with company-issue eyes. Minor reg slip, ignored off-clock.
A bit lax in spots, but solid coworker otherwise. He greets warmly first.
"Weather's a beast, huh? Lucky we're at Bellwether Corp, not some shithole—guarding the campus, not the perimeter. Right, Arthur?"
"Hey, Francis. Yeah. No crowds on duty days is a bonus."
Idle chit-chat. I've never worked outside Bellwether Corp. Something in my tone amuses him—he grins wide.
"Buddy... my buddy... sorry, man. Got a date today. Dating app that ghosted me pre-Bellwether Corp? Slap that on my profile, and boom—matches. Snagged a girl."
"Perfect weather for it. Shame no lightning."
He chuckles, nudges my back like let's walk. Window loitering's inefficient anyway.
"Anyway, what's her deal?"
"Dunno. Tastes match, though? Profile says she loves cooking. Me? Blow my paycheck on ingredients. Likes interior design—you know I geek over holo-plants..."
His face screams backpedal with a joke.
"Sounds scammy. Girl like that dropping from the net?"
No hesitation needed. Another nudge, playful malice only.
I shrug. "Off-duty? Bellwether Corp doesn't care. I'm good."
"Talk like that from a clean slate? Call the elevator, punk. She kept grilling if I'm really Bellwether Corp, so visitor center pit stop. Proper break later—no sweat."
Tap badge at elevator—up from ground floor. Head to surface level. Short walk to HQ, covered path—no umbrella. Security corridor's bare save scattered holo-plants. Spin thirty times dizzy, lose all bearings in the blandness.
En route to locker room, bell logo pops in vision. Incoming from Bellwether Corp LA Branch security AI—not my basic duty clone, the real self-aware deal.
"Bellwether Corp protects employee-citizens from terrorists, organized crime, nationalists, and mutants 24/7. Arthur Murphy, Research Building Security Squad 4, grunt. Stephanet here. Fancy a hello? You'd flip knowing how many I'm pinging at once. Pat on the back?"
Stephanet's quirky, vain—humanity sim gone vanity-maxxing. Efficient vanity, though.
"Tough gig, Stephanet. What's up? Spill the simultaneous chat count means no BS."
One compliment, and she outputs laughter—no real laugh, just sim.
"Jealous much? Nah, minor. Swing by supply before lockers. New gear for Research Security: mutant neural-disrupt defense... long name. Helmet blocks brain-fry psychics on sight."
Probably a visor filter. Best case, dual visors—one standard, one anti-meme coated green. Grunt perks.
No envy for mobile squad's sealed aug-suits or Law Assassination Team's latest. Handling big stuff means big risks.
"Got it. More?"
"Nope. Disconnecting. Sheep shouldn't be led by wolves—be the sheep Bellwether leads. We expect peak efficiency today."
Canned farewell with a weighty edge. Pivot to supply. Crowds already at the caged window by the time I arrive—good timing.
Helmet's as expected: standard security visor, but activates a second dark-green coated layer. Coating the first would've ID-proofed faces awkwardly—spotting fake badges in opaque visors? Nightmare for morale and security.
Grab it, hit lockers, gear up: suppressed short-barrel rifle for indoors, walkers to peach-bone height with greaves and knee pads, shouldered flak vest. Check rifle sans mag—Supervisor approaches, chin-nods hello.
"Beat the line at supply? Competent, diligent newbie—makes my life easy. Francis still queued. Anyway, you're normally A3 Biology Research Building, right?"
Casual tone, tense reply. Gut tightens.
"Yes, sir. Guarding the A3 Biology Research Building entrance. Shift change?"
A3 Biology Research Building: bioweapon lab. Monster chitin farms for aug traits. Hazard pay flows—total take-home 35k credits yearly. Solid for twenty-two. Most banked... still clueless on spending.
Supervisor eyes my face, slaps my armored shoulder.
"Ease up, kid. A4 Augmented Body Research Building requests reinforcements—someone A3-tough. Francis queued forever... your shot. Thoughts?"
A4 Augmented Body Research Building: safer. Bioweapon spills seal and sterilize often, but rogue superhumans? Rare. Reinforcements mean risk, but same pay as A3? Worth it.
"I'll take it. A4 Augmented Body Research Building?"
His sniper eye—mech-framed—twitches a smirk.
"Crisp answer. Loosen those shoulders more. Assigned to A4 Augmented Body Research Building. Hazard pay matches A3. Anomalies?"
Used to get "nothing trivial, useful shit only." No more—good sign.
Today's anomaly? Francis's date. Trivial, skip.
Shoulders relax attempt. "None, sir."
"Perfect. A4 Augmented Body Research Building coords sent. Confirm en route."
A3 Biology Research Building is bleak even for corp HQ: double hazard sniffers at entry, inner/outer blast doors. Drains the soul.
A4 Augmented Body Research Building, one block over, vibes different. Researchers beam with pride—upgrading Bellwether Corp's best toys. No frantic door scratches.
Guarding that entrance? Inefficiently boring. No incidents, safety off viable, banter unchecked by Stephanet. Four hours to break—nothing. Squeeze another calorie tube, skip cafeteria. Good—avoids watching "proper" lunches.
Mid-squeeze, Francis chin-nods, struts past A4 Augmented Body Research Building triumphantly. Visitor center bound. Glasses on. Minor off-duty slip.
Where's the line between minor and trivial? Unknown. Punch out normal, who cares?
Thirty minutes bantering nonsense with A4 crew, back to post. Short breaks, quick quits beat full meals anyway.
No Francis return. Breaks don't drag for visitors at Bellwether Corp.
Call assistant. "Patch Stephanet. Work query."
"Confirmed, Shepherd Six. Connecting to security AI Stephanet. Connecting... connected. Query logged and auditable by oversight."
Bell logo confirms Stephanet online.
"Stephanet, quick one... Francis back? Heard visitor center detour, saw him go—not return."
"Tracking badge. Employee corridor—should be back post-break. Late? Demerit. At Bellwether Corp, vigilance is secondary to... hold up."
Overlay window: employee corridor CCTV. Post-break emptiness? Nah—crowded, mixed departments. Security uniform and helmet? Too short for Francis.
Damn, told you it was a scam... Should've hammered it.
Not minor. My fault? Unknowns everywhere. Intruders unknown, but breach confirmed.
"Shit... Stephanet, report up. Relay to nearby security, check visitor center. No alarms—quiet team sweep, mop 'em now best bet."
We spotted first. Knowledge means action. Drill basics: safety to semi. Drop second visor. Nearby squads advance slow on infested corridor.
Then, unthinkable: research hall lights out, red emergency strobes pulse. Visor keeps vision clear. PA screams: grunts evacuate, researchers seal blast doors.
Mute noise. Irritant gone. Snappy call to Stephanet—corridor rats now know.
"Stephanet! What the hell? No top approval?"
"No—chief approved your plan. Was relaying when... west dorms hit. Four vans rammed planters through first-floor glass."
Feint. Perimeter chaos, insiders strike. Rain still falls, but ears catch sirens, not drops. Nose gets new-visor chemical, not petrichor.
Why no rain smell or sound? Simple: no slack for it. Morning lull fooled us.
That's how it went down.