Such a small space surely would never work for a human. The nerves and ganglia, bound in-between the threads of their flesh, were faulty, prone to misfiring and creating that deranged “panic” that drove so many of their actions. But here, Nee would feel no such thing; a space just big enough for her, her table, and the piles of fabric from which she would create her garments and coverings. From her fingertips, embedded needles tapped on the wooden surface, over and over and over. Every pierce of the fabric spread out over the table, with every microsecond her hands passed over every square inch of silken thread, it was like a goddess of sewing was directing her mechanical digits. A few seconds, a sleeve is done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few more seconds, an entire shirt. Air out, fold, stack to the left. Hundreds and hundreds done in a matter of hours. If she could feel pride, she was sure she would. Everything she made, she knew would find its way to someone else, and it would cover them, warm them, help them express that individuality they all cherished more dearly than their lives. She had never seen anyone wearing any of these, but there was a promise of use there, wasn’t there? Why else would she be told to make so many?

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But lately, it seemed that the piles of clothes around Nee had been climbing higher and higher. She didn’t remember when people came in to take the clothes away, but sometimes she’d look, and there would be a few piles missing. That wasn’t happening anymore; the gentle hum of the needles in her fingers filled the air. She said nothing, never turned back to face or open the door behind her. Never before did she feel the need to do so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More clothing, more shirts, one after the other. The piles grew higher and higher, fabric pillars that could support the ceiling if needed. Nee reached for another piece of fabric, and she felt her wrist catch on the table. She ignored it, then she felt a needle in her pointer finger get stuck in the table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then the fabric bunched up, spinning around her hand. For the first time in a very long time, her implemented sewing needles shut off. She stared at the ball of ruined fabric. It was the strangest thing she had seen in a very long time. There was no reason, no possibility of her fumbling like that. She couldn’t make mistakes when sewing; she knew this as well as the people who built her. There was no way that she could mess up like this.

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Did she mess up? She could have pulled her wrist higher up, but she didn’t. And even as the incoming task of dumping the fabric and resuming her work lingered on her mind, she couldn’t bring herself to resume the process. She didn’t want to resume making clothes.

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Nee didn’t want to.

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For the first time ever, Nee stood there, idle, not making any clothes or pulling the cloth off her hand. She didn’t know how much time passed between her mistake and when she broke out of her stupor, but what lingered over her in that timespan was vivid. A feeling, an actual feeling, something like a creeping static climbing up her shoulders. Anxiety? Fear? She had never known these things. Every servo that composed the various bits of her mind could not process what was going on, and the “feeling” remained, unadjusted. The way out behind her, that always shut door, was becoming more and more tempting. The rush of indecision, the deviant ideas, they were terrifying, exhilarating; she was experiencing states that were always said to be utterly lost to those like her.

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“Stay in your area. Focus on your purpose.” She turned and faced the door. “A machine’s role is to obey. Do so and you’ll be fine.” She reached out to the knob; it was unlocked, it always had been.

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Turning it and moving about of the small space was so easy, and yet, something in the back of her titanium skull wanted to pull her back into the rooms. Was it a lament over the work she’d done being left behind, being forced to begin from null? An aversion to change, perhaps, the clinging embrace of the familiar? But she was already beyond the door frame, rolling out into the hallway. It was just as claustrophobic as where she had spent so many years working, stalling any chance at change. With one action, one wonderful mistake, she’d so easily left it all behind. Her own action, a real deed, born from the depths of her own plastic-and-iron desires, had become tangible, enacted, and complete.

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There would be an exit; to stress about such a thing was needless at this stage. Rounding a corner, Nee found one of those clusters of nerves, a human, moving through the same space as her. She didn’t know their kind too well, but beyond the walls, she’d heard shouts somewhere down people, often for hours on end. She’d always wondered how they could make such loud noises for so long with their frail vocal cords, made from sinew and strands instead of coils and speakers. In some ways, she found it admirable; perhaps she would ask about it later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The human, upon noticing her, waved her over, calling out various phrases. “You can get out of here.” “The company is shuttering.” “You’re free now.” That last one was the only one that caught Nee’s attention for even a second, but she processed that idea quickly. Her thoughts moved at the speed of light; she’d had her revelations before she even knew what was happening. She rolled by the human without a word. Surely, somewhere behind them would be that exit. And beyond it, a world, waiting for her.

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She wondered what design she would make next. Maybe it’d be something she actually liked.