Chapter 2
Roger Flores, Jaxson's nephew and the new transfer to the tech department, rumored to be taking my spot, let out a quiet, contemptuous chuckle from not far behind me.
"So, without the butcher, you still want to eat meat? Who are you trying to impress with that holier-than-thou act?" Roger sneered.
I heard him loud and clear.
The classical music in my headphones couldn't drown out the ugliness of human nature.
I didn't bother turning around.
The second hand of the clock ticked away, each click heavy and dull.
At exactly five o'clock, the sharp ring of the quitting bell sliced through the air in the workshop.
I took off my headphones, turned off my computer, stacked the schematics neatly, put them in the drawer, and locked it.
Every move was smooth and efficient, no wasted effort at all.
I grabbed my backpack and made my way to the punch clock.
First one on the shop floor, I slapped my badge onto the reader.
The crisp confirmation sound marked the end of my shift.
My war was only just beginning.
*****
The next morning, watching the seconds tick down, I dashed through the factory gates with just ten seconds to spare before my shift started.
The punch clock flashed: 8:00:00 on the dot.
After throwing on my work gear, I strode into Shop Three.
I used to be the guy who always clocked in half an hour early.
That was all because of the A-7, the priciest Lanvia-imported machine in the whole place. It had a mind of its own and needed a warm-up and a few key tweaks just to make sure the first batch came out perfect.
My old mentor, the former chief engineer, started that habit, and I'd stuck to it without question.
But today? Screw that silent pact.
I strolled over to my workstation, pulled out my thermos, and leisurely brewed myself a cup of coffee.
Steam rose up, fogging my glasses.
Princeton Colon, the shop supervisor in his forties, gave me a frown at my relaxed vibe, but didn't say a word.
He knew my usual routine and probably figured I'd already done the usual tweaks.
At 8:30, the start-up bell rang.
The massive production line, like a slumbering steel behemoth, began to stir.
The conveyor belts rumbled to life, robotic arms slicing through the air, business as usual, or so it seemed.
Everything was fine until the first batch rolled out of the A-7.
A shrill, metallic screech tore through the workshop, echoing off every wall and making everyone wince.
Right after, the A-7's alarm lights went berserk, flooding the place with harsh, stabbing red.
"What the hell is going on?" Princeton shouted, charging over.
He was the first to reach the machine, snatched up a just-finished product, and his face twisted in an instant.
"These are all rejects! Scratches all over! The whole batch is ruined!" Princeton snapped.
Every pair of eyes in the room snapped back to me.
I slowly wiped my glasses, then sauntered over and checked out the error code flashing on the screen.
"Looks like the servo motor's overloaded, so the robotic arm's off its mark," I said, cool as ice.
Just laying out the facts, my voice flat.
"Bailey! You didn't do the pre-start checks this morning?" Princeton barked, his tone loaded with accusation.
I shrugged, pointed at the Operations Manual on the wall, and recited, deliberately, word by word, "Section Three: Pre-start checks and adjustments are standard work tasks and must be done during official work hours. It's just past 8:30. This is official work time."
My voice wasn't loud, but every word was crystal clear.
Princeton was so stunned he couldn't get a word out, his face turning a shade of red like he'd swallowed a bug.
He knew the rules were ironclad, but for the last ten years, I'd always done this job early, out of pure habit, no extra pay, no complaints.
They got so used to me doing it, they just took it for granted.
"I'll handle it!"
Roger barged in, looking all hyped up and ready to show off.
"It's just a torque parameter, right? I got this!" he said, sounding way too confident.
He shoved the operator aside, plopped down at the console, and started hammering away at the keys like he owned the place.
Jaxson came rushing over when he heard the commotion, and when he saw his nephew step up, his face lit up with approval.
He shot me a glare that practically screamed, "See? The world keeps spinning just fine without you."
I just hugged my thermos and stepped back, watching with icy indifference.
Roger cranked up the torque parameter, and sure enough, the alarm stopped. But the machine started wheezing and struggling for breath like someone with asthma, its every move labored and rough.
"All done!" Roger jumped up, a smug grin plastered on his face, practically begging for his uncle's approval.
Jaxson gave him an approving nod and clapped him on the shoulder. "Nice work, Roger. Young folks need to have the guts to take charge! Not like certain people around here, raking in a fat paycheck but only good at dodging responsibility!"
That jab was meant for me, no doubt.
I didn't bother responding, just kept my eyes on the conveyor belt, watching the new batch roll out.
Sure, the scratches were gone, but now every edge had a fine line of burrs.
To anyone who didn't know better, it looked fine. But once the quality control scanners got a look, the whole batch was still trash.
I didn't call it out.
Why bother saying anything?
Later that afternoon, it was time for the annual tune-up on one of the key pressure sensors on the line.