Opus Veda

Monument and Bank had twice the as Brixton, despite the execution's distance. The commuter herd hustled Kasia from the underground plazas and straight into a police convoy, where another angry van bleated past her. Above, a deep whine - defence drones, dangling like sea mines, static but threatening. Entrails of cameras writhed from their warship-grey armour, mining the people below for data. Kasia's feed told her the Chinese had been flying past too, but she recognised the video as an AI-generated deepfake.

The district otherwise carried on as usual. Screens cladding the walls ignored the news, showing instead the latest products needed in life, comments and emojis spouting under each advert. Kasia pointed her phone at each one she wanted and diligently liked them; her 'v for victory' emoji bubbling up and dissipating amongst thousands more. Behind every ad, cameras noted where pedestrian eyes landed, traced their social profiles, and established when they'd be active online. Programmes of personal phone ads took shape and schedule.

She arrived at Riese Elektronik's England headquarters, the 50 floor tower where her call centre job had started and stayed. The tower, named 'Sylvan Point' after a surrounding arboretum, was once an architectural masterpiece; an oblique cylinder of refracted light shimmering with halo-shaped rainbows. Now the arboretum was paved over for an unloading bay, and many of Sylvan Point's windows were replaced with cheaper glass, giving it a gappy, scribbled-in look. The site managers had sold the rainbow to increase profit margins. The grey, misshapen spectrum left behind developed the nickname '50 Shades of Decay' - a reference Kasia was too young to recognise.

She held her phone against the worker's entrance to buzz in.

Riese Elektronik had conservative work ethics for the 80's. Other companies operated with fewer staff, working remotely. Kasia's class didn't have the means to work from home, and Riese didn't want them to. Not only did she have to commute in, her role was too junior to permit phone access. As she entered the building everything on her device locked except her bank card.

She enjoyed a moment of peace on the lift, then changed in the staffroom, switching to a company-brand polo shirt with a 'Ja mówie po polsku' badge pinned to it. Though customers only phoned, Riese wanted uniforms. They believed it encouraged professional behaviour, and it also assisted with photo shoots, where staff faces were digitally overlaid with better looking models.

Kasia lingered before a mirror and searched for imperfections. Even now at 29 she was considered pretty - still swiped quickly in nightclubs - but some missing x-factor denied her the privilege and power of beauty. She had spent a lifetime searching for it. Like her family her hair was jet black, but too wavy for raven beauty, so she tied it back. Her skin was clear, but too pale and never flawless. She ate and cleansed and meditated and medicated however her favourite influencers advised, and each month their opinion changed, and each month she chased after them. She wore makeup whenever she could, as the permissible occasions to do so shrank.

As for her social class, there was no fix for that.

The woman in the mirror looked back at her with a passive scowl. Nearly 30 and still a customer service agent. If there was any spark inside her, it had to shine through soon, or never.

The canteen was a colourful hub of vending machines selling a range of products, from from breakfast to lunch, to gashapon toys and underwear. One of Kasia's rituals each payday was to buy a gashapon for Eva. She proudly denied wanting one for herself, though the monthly ceremony of opening the little plastic capsules excited her as much as her daughter.

"Kashi! I saw your comment about the news! I liked and shared! Did you like what I shared too? 'Red and Blue mixing? Purple Shaaame'," Leah, Kasia's surviving induction contact and a rare offline friend, was eating breakfast on a canteen bench. A small, portly girl with a squeaky voice and unfashionable brown bangs, Leah was the daughter of Israeli refugees. Middle class, but not without limits. Her parents, given the choice of fleeing to the US or UK, had wisely chosen the latter, recognising as so few wanted to that the Christofascist regime would soon turn on their people as the Caliphate had.

"I couldn't believe it," Kasia slid onto the bench, "I was literally a street away from the club right before it happened! The siren had to go off when I was on the tube. That went well…"

"Yea? Imagine if you'd been stuck in that club with a match, so awkward," Leah grimaced, "it's so bad what they did, that woman by the decks was apparently an office secretary as well. Basically the same as us."

They both nodded vacantly. Kasia was hit with a recollection, "I almost forgot, I had a dream about you the other night!"

"Oh!" Leah covered her mouth, "is it NSFW?"

"This one wasn't; We were chatting auf Deutsch, you know how we do."

"Natürlich."

"And we were celebrating because you finally got that promotion! Sparkling wine, vapes, pissed off HR executives, everything was perfect."

"Upstairs at last…" Leah looked up at the ceiling with praying hands, "may your dreams come true. What happened to you though?"

"I woke up before I could find out. We'll have to wait till tonight for the sequel. Word on the straße is it's fire," Kasia reached over to a vending machine - a fridge shaped like a Chinese teahouse - and tapped her phone on it. £50 subtracted from her screen with an encouraging chime. She read the three breakfast options, picking the congee with youtiao, and a can of coconut milk popular with Chinese girls for, allegedly, growing bigger breasts. From the look of the influencer on the can, it didn't work very well. Leah had the continental selection which, given they had to be vegan substitutes, tasted to Kasia like sewage. She sighed at her colleague's tub of filmy ham and grey cheese as she started her own breakfast.

"I'm always dreaming about chasing something… a holiday, a promotion, a lover… you get me," she ignored Leah's sarcastic nod and continued, "but whenever I get close to what I want, I wake up and get angry. I even see it coming in the dreams! Does that happen to you?"

"Kind of. I had one recently like a superhero dream," Leah paused and fluttered, "I know superheroes are a bit embarrassing but I like them ironically… I used ice against a woman with fire powers to win this guy. I won but, when I saw the guy's hand go out it was for her! He preferred the loser and I was well embarrassed. 'I thought I was meant to be strong? To not be victim?' I walked away and tried to melt through a wall, but my powers failed and I got stuck in it. They laughed, and I woke up. What do you think that means?"

"Is the other woman Gaza and the guy Europe?"

"You're actually a shit friend."

"Manners Leah! You swear too much for a Palestinian."

"Yea and you don't swear enough for a Russian!"

They whiled away the minutes before shift chatting about recent content, flitting into German when they could, returning to English for worthier topics. Both were learning Riese's mother tongue in a bid for promotion; the German department being better paid. From there they could try transferring to the mainland. Leah spoke Hebrew and French, the former a fading language, the latter getting a badge at Riese and carrying her this far. Kasia thought her French sounded sweet, like a cartoon character. She meanwhile was fluent in Polish and behind with German, but German felt jarring. It was a language of the well-to-do. She in speaking it was a pleb dressed in satin, and the Bundestag had as keen an eye on fakers as she did.

It made her insecure that Leah was ahead, but she repressed the envy down. In case Leah caught on, she did things like make up dreams to sound supportive. Yet her own needs were greater. A promotion for her would stave off poverty, all Leah wanted was to move away from her parents. She could have already rented a place like Kasia's - didn't even have a child to raise - but she made excuses not to. The unspoken truth hurt. She was above living like Kasia did.

They continued chattering until a bell rang. Shift was on.

* * *

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The floor was a vast, doughnut shaped hive of portals zigzagging into each other to optimise space and separate workers. On the outer wall giant panes let daylight in. In the floor's centre, a spinal support column housed each floor's amenities. These increased in quality on higher floors, introducing restaurants and gyms. Rumour had it, floor 50 had a private nightclub.

Stood up, Kasia could gaze over a field of cubicles. Her own portal was close to the toilets, from which came the fruity smell of vape addicts. It beat the alternative. If she needed these facilities she had to enter the code on her screen and wait for HR to authorise it.

Gypsum walls partitioned every portal. Each had a centralised touch screen. Desks were not needed but the chairs were impressive, shaping themselves to whoever sat on them. A digital name plaque scrolled across the left wall; a customisable picture frame hung on the right. Kasia once had a picture of Eva, her face pixelated to stop anyone deepfaking it onto porn. Recently though management took this privilege away; staff now had to choose between ten stock photos. Kasia changed hers monthly to pace herself. Last month she picked the volcanic flow, this month the palm tree.

She adjusted her headset and signed in. Service tickets queued up onscreen. Today's common problem was a continuation of yesterday's: irate buyers falling for, and trying to escape from, a misleading discount. Her favourite call was the complaint of an overstocked fridge falling on someone's grandparent. She stifled a laugh and searched for a reason to deny compensation, connecting to the fridge and finding proof it told the customer it weighed too much. She forwarded the chat record and attached a policy stacked against them, signed by them. The customer exercised their final face-saving power and hung up.

3 hours passed. The counter said 37 tickets closed and 12 likes - on target. Closed tickets triggered celebratory animations on the screen, especially ones with positive reviews. Successes watered a cartoon jungle behind the interface and filled it with wildlife. A digger ploughed the jungle away at each shift's end, but if workers hit their targets they received a monthly bonus of vouchers to use in the canteen. One false move - a serious complaint, a toilet break too long - and away the bonus went.

Kasia waited between tickets and stared at the palm tree. She called it Peter Palm, often imagining adventures for it during lulls. He and Vikki Volcano were currently feuding about him taking her photo frame. Little did he know Tommy Tulip would rise next month.

Another ticket came. A customer hung up promising legal action, specifically against Kasia. They had put their surname in the forename field of an insurance policy, voiding it, and they felt it was her fault. A one-star review was possible, but not the kind likely to be used against her by management.

The alert for lunchtime pinged on her screen.

Lunch was allocated randomly so there were always agents on the phones. This was the first round, 11:30. She looked about, realised Leah had a different slot, and sloped to the canteen alone. From the 'gym-bro' vending machine she ordered a tropical liquid meal and a protein bar. Another £50. She stared into space, slurping her last meal for 8 hours, impulsively checking her phone despite the blocked signal. The scent of e-cigarettes wafted from the toilet - an issue even Riese failed to control no matter how many addicts it fired. As vaping reminded Kasia of her mother, she kept away from it.

30 minutes later she returned to her portal and dug in for 20:00. An alert scrolled along her screen. Sir Philip Tindall, Riese Elektronik's regional director, would deliver a speech on the terrorist attack. Crucially, it offered Kasia another break. She quietly thanked Opus Veda for their considerate timing, thought this would make a funny comment, and decided to post it after work. Then she imagined backlash and changed her mind.

Sir Philip panned over every screen, making Kasia jump. His wealthy, inbred vibe had always repelled her, his face leathery and reptilian - what Kasia imagined a dinosaur's scrotum would look like, if someone drew a face on it in crayon. Since making this connection, she had needed to cover her smirk whenever seeing him.

In a dated British accent, Sir Philip, a still-living knight of the realm, rattled off stagnant rhetoric. Opus Veda were monsters; Revolution Britannia were upstarts; the Republic, who gave Riese lucrative contracts, deserved nothing but support and admiration. Kasia watched intently, knowing she could be seen through her portal's camera.

But her mind was elsewhere, wondering what civil war meant. Which side would she pick? The government could blame everything on the Reds and Blacks all they liked, but nothing improved through the government anyway. What would the other sides demand of her? She assumed she would back whoever kept her and Eva safe - preferably by fucking off.

Parts of Sir Philip's face stretched into a smile as he deferred to managers. The workers were told to stand up.

Oliver Welch - or Ollie, as he insisted everyone could call him - was around Kasia's age, and could thank his parents for his position. He only spoke English, and ruled by finding reasons to dock staff bonuses. The art was his delivery. Nobody got caught at the month's start, else they'd be demotivated for the rest of it. Every fourth week, staff tiptoed on the brink. His last victim took too many toilet breaks. When pleading through tears they had Crohn's disease, he sacked them for 'creating a shit-storm in front of everyone', and as they ran away, he offered to buy them new underwear from the vending machine. The surviving staff members laughed along.

He also gave attractive workers favours, manipulating them into his office. At least once a week, a different worker would shuffle back to their portal, filled with the manager's favour. Kasia had avoided his wandering lust, her feelings torn between relief and the insecurity of being undesired.

Ollie cast these games aside when given the chance to prove his loyalty to Riese. After Sir Philip's speech he took to the speaker's platform beside his office. The workers gathered round it and clapped as required.

"Thank you all. I hope you can see how serious this disease is. We don't know who could be Opus Veda's next target and frankly, if the mayor wasn't safe, none of us are. They could even among us right now," he paused, waiting for a few servile gasps before continuing, "as you should all be aware we have a zero-tolerance policy of Revolution sympathy too. It is our duty to step forward and assert to our government how much we value our wellbeing, and how much we care for this divisiveness to end. Last night's collusion happened behind Westminster's back - true - but it is serious and they do need to investigate it. Sir Philip has asked us to organise a response, and we have one. We are all going to submit letters to our local MP's demanding an inquiry - and yes, even I have to do one! Each of you will get 20 minutes of protected time to write this but don't worry, I will attach guidelines outlining what you need to include."

Fury struck Kasia. She hated it when work muscled in on her politics, even if she had none. She considered plausible ways of refusing, but Ollie wasn't finished.

"I also want to see everyone working hard on their socials outside of work. We each have the power of opinion. With enough posts and likes we make our truth, the truth. It is the only way to ensure the enemy doesn't make their truth, the fact."

The office applauded. Some cheered. Ollie strode into his office with overacted confidence.

The HR executive Natasha trotted behind him with a sugary smile. Natasha, spelt backwards, was 'ah, Satan', and Kasia had to agree. This vindictive Lilith seemed to take turns with Ollie bothering everyone. Kasia worried that, if she did get upstairs, there would be another, Germanic Natasha waiting for her.

She continued shift but struggled with her queue. There were more English callers, and though the Polish were ruder, their bluntness was easier manage than the depressive fog of English passive-aggression. At least she had no American callers today, who took longer to understand things and acted too friendly in that creepy way of theirs, forcing her to put more effort in.

Near shift end even Peter Palm seemed to droop. The digital jungle was growing well and had welcomed a single parrot, but after a negative review it flew away again, frowning at Kasia all the way. She huffed and lolled her head back, seeing the name plaque above her. 'Katarzyna Szymanska'. To what heights would she take that name?

She was meant to consider herself fortunate. Many countries had redundant lower classes left competing for scraps of zero-hour money. They had nothing to offer corporate giants, and the nations had given away too much power to make the giants care. With nowhere to turn except on each other, these people tore themselves apart.

The Republic of England & Wales, believing their sacrosanct low unemployment rates excused all other issues, lured business to their soil. Virtual assistants were smarter humans, but offering customers a real human agent was a prestige to flaunt. England sold prestige at a reasonable price. In return, workers like Kasia received a coveted salary, escaping the eternal hop between unsafe jobs. They only had to ensure they never lost it.

The bell rang. Home time. Kasia rushed to finish a lingering call, abandoning the chance for a positive review. The bulldozer took her jungle away and wished her a safe journey home but she already had her back to it. Leah had left, so when Kasia made it outside, receiving phone access, she messaged her 'au revoir'. She poured over a hours of notifications on her way to Monument.

The sun set over her journey home. London breathed before its night culture reared. The terrorist attack fell from the trending list, forced down by targeted adverts, reactions to new spectacles, and fresh content to consume. Kasia wandered through the underground district between Monument and Bank, a neon maze of plazas, alleys, and automated stalls. She tapped her phone on the vintage baklava maker, picking Eva's favourite style and waiting for the humming machine to plop a heated pastry in her hand. The machine winked at her and said something she assumed was Turkish.

A billboard played at the train platform, occupying her entire view from the opposing wall. Two figures were locking into an embrace. Just as one climbed down to their knees, an advert for a sexual performance app panned across. Live comments stacked on its right. One witty poster passed a milestone of likes and was pinned above the stack. They edited their message to express enormous gratitude.

On the train Kasia chatted with friends and listened to a hazy playlist of undemanding, slowed down samples. Her phone locked. The ad from the platform played on it. The models were now more attractive, seizing her chest. Other passengers saw the same ad, each seeing models they found desirable, each seeing different faces. All shared a loneliness they couldn't admit to, though some hinted on their socials behind a mask of self-aware humour.

Kasia could tell the app was out of her price range. She waited for its ad to end and returned to her socials. Leah had read her message but not replied. She recalled coming up with a joke to post, but couldn't remember what it was. Her morning update had gone nowhere despite connecting to the news.

Unable to find a place for her attention, she switched to a breakup playlist and waited for friends to ask after her.