No one asked for Rodney’s ident card when he entered the building: the return signal from his subcutaneous chip told security all they needed to know. They knew his name, age, address, who his corporate masters were, who his creditors were. Everything important.
He always got motion sickness in the lifts. If it weren’t so many floors down to his office, he would take the stairs. He supposed that from the managers’ perspective, there were simply too many people to move for a gentle ride to be a consideration. It always felt like he was dropping uncontrollably into hell itself.
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