Kill Switch: Chapter 4

Forms of Submission

I’m led into a cubicle where some button pusher is sitting behind a desk, peering at me over a pair of pince-nez. The nameplate on his desk says Switch 1. It’s rare to meet the first model of a product, even more rare to meet a product that you’ve never heard of. Studying the banners on the button pusher’s skin, I try to figure out what the hell Switch is. Based on the generic target-shaped logo and bland slogan (Safety Is Our #1 Priority) my guess is that Switch is some kind of cybersecurity company, and not a very successful one at that, given that I’ve literally never met another Switch in my life. It’s sad, really. The story is more common than you’d think. Some startup gets a bit of seed funding and invests in an advertisement, but then, after a couple years, the business folds, and the advertisement is forced to go through life without any quarterly dividends or kickback from banner clickthrough. And since the parent company, having folded, can’t afford to send the ad to a decent incubator, the ad is forced to get a job as a security guard or button pusher or, Efficiency forbid, an IT specialist.

Really sad.

As Switch 1 looks over my report, I click on his banner, just for something to do. As expected, I’m brought to a 404. Nothing to buy. Not even a form to fill out. No email list to subscribe to. No socials to follow. It’s a graveyard of a page. No sales funnel. No lead magnets. Poor Switch 1, I think. When he was just a young ad, I imagine this page was bustling with stock images of happy colleagues laughing around a table, catchy value propositions flashing in a list (Cybersecurity For The Future, Your Personal Security Architect, Increased Performance At A Reduced Cost, etc.) and a link to schedule a free consultation. I wonder if Switch specialized in personal or business cybersecurity. I’m often jealous of advertisements with B2B parentCompanies. B2Bs definitely don’t get the amount of clickthrough as, say, a pharma or goo company, but the revenue is hellaHuge when a B2B closes a deal from your banner. I’m talking, like, enough percentage to last you an entire year, just off one click. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s nothing like the kickback I get from my Vonn Industries banners. Still. Can’t help but feel jealous sometimes when a B2B closes a big deal. It’s almost, like, no matter how much coin I get, it’s never enough.

Switch 1 peers at me over his pince-nez.

“I just sent you some forms to fill out.” His voice is as bland as his parentCompany’s slogan. I’d be bland too if I worked in this cubicle every day.

“I don’t think I got the forms,” I say.

Switch 1 scowls as he swipes on something. “My apologies. Your sharing was disabled. Let’s try this again.”

Ding.

“Got it,” I say, opening up the forms. “How many are there? I’m kind of tired.”

“I don’t know,” Switch says. “But you’re a Vonn, so you should be able to handle it.”

There it is. The animosity. Like it’s somehow my fault that Switch’s parentCompany is bankrupt while mine was smart enough to not only build the entire Within but constantly diversify into adjacent verticals, becoming the leader in plastic production, dNet infrastructure, and pharma and goo delivery systems. Not to mention its media arm and early investment into adTech. So am I, like, supposed to apologize or something for being born to a successful parentCompany with a track record of innovation and an aggressive acquisition strategy? I don’t think so.

The first form is a survey which asks me a series of questions about what games I prefer to play. I have to fill out my name, email, etc., at both the top and bottom of the survey. I then take a quiz which spits out my personality archetype. I have to fill out my info for that form too, and I’m told my full results will be sent to my email. Great. Another email drip I have to unsubscribe from.

“Hey Switch,” I say. “Do I have to keep inputting my info into these forms?"

Switch doesn’t look up from his swipe. “Yes. It’s mandatory.”

“Can’t I just fill out my info once? Seems like your user experience could be improved by just capturing the info on the first form and, like, setting up an automated process to push that info to the other forms. Don’t you think that would be more efficient?”

“Man should never do what he can automate,” Switch says, reciting a slogan from the Declaration of Efficiency, the founding document of the Within, written by none other than my CEO, Mr. Vonn Senior, and signed by a dozen innovative entrepreneurs who banded together to fight inefficiency and boredom.

“Exactly,” I say. “Man should never do what he can automate. So I’m not going to fill out my name anymore, ok?”

Switch sits up, suddenly at full attention. “I’m afraid, Vonn 19, that you will have to fill out every field in the forms. They are all required fields.”

“But I thought we agreed filling out my name on every form is redundant?”

“That’s beside the point,” Switch says. “The point is that each field is required, so you have to fill them out.”

“Or else what?” I ask, my vibe edgy because I haven’t had any goo in, like, several hours.

“Or else…” Switch is computing. “Or else you’ll never make it to the next stage of the review process.”

“Which is what?”

“An interrogation.”

Switch swipes on something, and I can see that, ironically, it will be more efficient to just deal with the inefficiency of this process, finding solace in the fact that I will be able to offer my feedback at my exit interview and potentially leave a scathing review on the HR’s Department’s profile.

So, mustering up a tremendous amount of resolve and discipline, I plow through the rest of the forms, answering questions about my pharma history, my job as a contentMachinist at beeHive, and a dozen other topics that will doubtless aid in the research and development of new existing products at the companies most heavily invested in the compliance division of The Within.

After the forms are submitted, a guard leads me to a holding cell where the walls are charred from laser beams. I’m hungry and tired. I look at my reflection in one of the wall sensors. I am so alone. I glass, but instead of joining the feed, I find myself in an arcade, and for a moment I think about playing derrick9 – or maybe even withouterHunter3 – but I’m not really in the mood, so I look around for something else to do, but all of my coin has been frozen so I can’t chat or check the feed, and then I see something, a door with neon trim, so I walk through the door and find, seated at a desk, a woman with glasses. She peers at me over the glasses.

“Have a seat,” she says, which is kind of weird, because there aren’t any seats in the room, and even if there were, it wouldn’t matter because we’re ITG, and anyway, I’m already seated in the holding cell IRL. So I’m pretty sure, in other words, that the woman is a glitchy simul, which makes sense, because bureauSimuls are the worst.

“What am I doing here?”

“Somebody will be with you in a minute, Vonn19. In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy yourself in the game room.”

I unGlass. It’s hopeless, trying to get answers from bureauSimuls.

I sit in the holding cell, thinking.

I think about the device that I swallowed. What was it? Will it kill me? Did any of the security guards see me swallow it? Will they put me under a scanner and find it lodged inside my intestine? Is the deathBeam really as quick and painless as the Board says it is? How many unread emails do I have in my inbox? How many flash sales have I missed? Is my stream of the shooting still getting hellaCoin? Is “Goo Me, Goo Me” really the best song of the year, as pitchFork suggested in their latest article entitled “Literally The Best Song of the Year”? Is one post an hour really enough to stay relevant? Or should I be posting to the feed every half-hour? Is Yide currently talking to someone else? Did any of my colleagues die in the laser attack in theUnderWorld?

I remember the gray glitch where Taco’s sensor got hit, and I shudder.

I glass again, out of habit, and I’m about to start playing derrick9 when I feel a tap IRL, and after unGlassing, I realize that my holding cell is full of security guards.

A tall man in a puffer vest enters and he's all, like, “My name is Middle Manager Bunnfield. I’ll be heading up this investigation. Come with me, Vonn19, we have some questions to ask you.”

I’m led out of the holding cell and into this kind of shower area, where I’m told to take off my jumpsuit, and everyone is actually being really nice and sensitive and all, like, “it’s just standard procedure, it’s for your own safety, we simply need to make sure the Withouter didn’t do you any mal.”

Bunnfield asks, “Any paraphernalia, Vonn 19?”

I can’t tell if this is a trick question, but even if I admit to swallowing the device, I’ll probably still get sent to the deathBeam, so I decide to play it cool. “All I have is my blaster.”

He nods, a scowl growing beneath his stubble. “Very well. We’ll have to take that for now.”

I hand him the blaster.

“We’re very sorry for this,” he says, handing the gun to one of the guards. “We know you’ve had a long night, but if you can bear with us for the next hour or so, you should be out of here, no problem.”

The mention of getting out of here sends a wave of, like, total relief washing through me, and for the first time since falling into the dark, I get the sense that I might live to see my twenty-first birthday. “Any chance I could get some ups? I’m starting to drop hard.”

“Absolutely.” Bunnfield is all smiles. “After the search, we’ll get you glassed and back to baseline.”

Which reminds me that I was in the middle of stripping down. I continue to undress, but before getting down to my absolutely shredded six-pack, I look around the room at all the guards, and I'm, like, “is this necessary?”

Bunnfield winces. “I’m afraid so. It’s not every day that we get the opportunity to train our honorable employees on the art of detecting Withouter paraphernalia. I’m sure you’ll understand, Vonn 19, that it’s for the good of The Within.”

“Naturally,” I say.

And I think, I should just tell them that Claudette forced me to swallow the device. But no, I can’t bring myself to do it, because another thought enters my mainframe: the device will lead you to the truth. So I strip down, flexing, and all the guards watch pensively as Bunnfield checks every ridged muscle.

Closing my eyes, I act like none of this is happening.