Drones


 * PLEASE DON'T EDIT THIS*

I tumbled out of the suitcase in a most ungainly way. Of course, Hammerhead (my unspoken nickname for Mr Carpenter) was staring down at me from above his humongous nostrils. We Drones are supposed to maintain an impeccable air at all times. //Pooh to the rules,// I thought. //I hate air travel.// Since the big businesses bought out the power of the world, they treated the world like a huge factory, and its population their workers. Their favoured assistants, namely Drones, were with them at all times. But then, the fat cats realised, they would have to give up twice their money to play for the assistants to go with them! Heaven forbid! And so, we were demoted to hand luggage. The suitcase I travel in is a very nice Monsac, with custom plush lining and a shape for my body to fit into so I won’t fall about and injure myself. When I was presented the suitcase, I was speechless, but not in a “oh, thank you, Mr Carpenter! *falls to knees in gratitude*” kind of way. More like in a “what the heck is this?” kind of way. The luggage-Drones was an official thing, but not exactly legal. The fat cats had put their best scientists to work (no extra pay of course), and they had created a hologram impermeable by x-rays, gamma rays, whatever rays they used now in the airports. Drones also wore a simple designer uniform that changed every week to what was “in style”, but always in the same colour scheme. Black and purple. Purple and black. Sometimes, if they really wanted to splash out, grey. The Manual stated that “all Drones must maintain a bight and cheerful aura” as well. I’m not sure falling out of a suitcase is the best way to go. “Claire, find my thirtieth dossier, and the file on G.M Greyson-Marchetta, and hail a taxi, and charge my tablets, will you? Also, is my tie horribly ugly?” “Okay, sir, I will do those things. And your tie is impeccably horrid,” I reply, even though my name isn’t, and never was, Claire. “Good, yes, I don’t care how long it takes, dammit, I want them gone!” I thought the words were directed to me, until I realised there was a miniature cell phone seemingly glued to his ear. Probably one of his obsequious underlings was cowering under his torrent of words, the sound from the receiver shaking the room. This was Hammerhead’s way. Yell and shout until the job gets done, and done right, then yell and shout some more until the next job comes. At least the pay was decent...