Circuit Breakers

Untitled Episode

The sound of alarm rang in my ear, pulling my consciousness away from a deep slumber. I gasped, raising my head from the pillow, only to see my laptop screen still alive, though on lock screen mode. Have I slept with my device left open? I asked myself, my eyebrows creasing out of confusion. Remembering what had happened last night, however, made my eyes widen, causing me to scramble to open my laptop again.

A few seconds later, new emails and messages began loading, all sent last night when I was deep in my sleep.

'Aiah, I was wondering if you already have the revised version of your campaign material?'

'Aiah, I need to see the new version before going to the office tomorrow. That's a mandatory part of your learning path.'

'I viewed our shared folder, and you still haven't updated any. All your other peers have been given the green light with their proposals, and you're left behind.'

'See me in my office tomorrow.'

I wish I hadn't woken up from that sleep, because seeing the new messages from my editor had put more weight on my shoulders, and now I feel heavier than yesterday. I sighed, looking at my half-revised design. I'd even forgotten the ideas which I had drafted in my mind because I was too sleepy to jot them down. I bit my nails, thinking of any remedy, but no matter how hard I brainstormed, nothing came up. 'Your work is already in the mud; stop digging a deeper grave, Aiah.' I said to myself before shaking my head. I stood up from my bed and immediately took work clothes from my closet. I bolted towards the comfort room and bathed myself as quickly as I could. When I was all dressed up for work, I took my bag, hung my laptop over my arm before quickly descending the stairs. When I reached the kitchen, I saw my parents and sister eating their breakfast, so I put aside all my worries for the day to force a smile.

"Good morning!" I greeted, hiding all the morning inconveniences with a pretentious cheerful tone. I laid my laptop in my usual dining spot, a few inches away from my father's, before kissing him on the side of his temple. He simply nodded, signaling that he recognized my presence in the kitchen. He was busy scrolling through his phone while reading work messages. "When I came home last night, you were already asleep," I commented, before walking toward my mom, who was eating cold mixed fruits.

"It's fine. How are you?" She asked, looking up at me. "You have an excess lipstick stain on your upper lip," she commented, even pointing her finger at it.

"Really?" I asked, suddenly getting conscious, so I took a paper napkin on the side before looking at the nearby mirror. Because my mind was preoccupied by what was happening from work, I did not notice that my lipstick was not neatly put, my blush on felt too excessive, and I'd even forgotten my eye mascara. I felt so disorganized that I just knew it translated towards my mother.

"Aiah, are you okay?" Here she goes, asking all the obvious questions—not to make me feel better but to probe into what's going on with me. I turned to her, nodding to dismiss her invasion to not make a big deal about it.

"I'm okay, Ma. You don't need to worry," I said briefly.

"I just noticed that, these days, you go home late. You barely eat dinner. I also noticed for three consecutive mornings that you're always in a hurry, as if you are running late—"

"Ma, I'm fine." That's it. I had to cut her off before things escalated. The one thing that my own mother knew about me is that I always hated it whenever people asked too many questions, especially when I didn't feel like answering. Her motherly instincts knew the right buttons to push just so I would tell my struggles straight in her face. But she also knew me too well. I was good at hiding it, too good that it would take her a long time to push me to the edge. "I need to go. I still have a meeting," I said, my other hand instinctively touching my right wrist to glance at my watch, only to notice I had forgotten it upstairs. "s**t, my watch," I blurted out. My mother's lips pursed, as if saying she knew it.

"You know you can always tell me anything—"

"Ma, I said I'm fine!" I said in a more collected yet pointed tone. Now I felt like falling into the lion's den. My younger sister sipped nervously on her glass of milk with my father raising his head from scrolling through his phone.

"Why do you seem so irritated? Your mother's just checking on you," he said calmly, but with a displeased facial expression.

"Because work these days is hectic, and I would appreciate it if you would not overanalyze whatever it is that I'm doing." I said in a calmer tone. Before they could even speak, I ran upstairs to get my watch. It took me a few minutes, only to find it on my bedside table. I sighed in complete exhaustion before going out. I carelessly pulled the door to a close, and when I came back down, I heard low chattering on the table and what I saw next shocked me. My mother stood up from where she was seated and was now occupying mine while reading the contents of my still opened laptop with my father.

"I told you, something's really wrong with her these days," my mother mumbled while my father sat there silently, obviously reading what Mom was showing him.

"If she wanted to show you her issues at work, she would. Can we just let her sort out her own problems?" Anna tried interfering from her seat but to no avail.

"Oh, look at her editor's emails. All bad. They also gave her a warning for not responding promptly—" At this point, the last string of patience that was left on my body was stretched to its limit that I didn't even care to walk in between my parents before claiming my own laptop. I did not even speak, closing my own laptop with my arms shaking. I successfully put it inside my bag, and yet, I forced a smile.

"I told you I'm doing just fine. You do not need to look at my laptop without my permission," I murmured, my teeth gritting from the pressure and shame I was feeling at the moment that I began turning around. "And just so you know, I'm not a child anymore."

"And we have already told you a million times too, that if you take that path, something might go wrong along the way." My father finally spoke, and it sent chills down my spine. Whenever he gave his two cents, most especially when it was directed towards my life choices, it was not a pleasant feeling because the words he uttered, no matter how intangible, were panoptic shards. They just knew where to exactly pierce me, no matter how far I distance myself from them. "It's a big risk. What if they remove you there soon? Even the runner-up conglomerates in the beauty industry next to Beau Cosmetics would second-guess whether to hire you or not because you did not even last in that company for a year." But even if I was always pierced, I always tried to maintain the dignity that only I could give to myself.

"Who told you that I plan to get myself sacked anyway?" I asked, all my optimism left my voice. The tone that escaped my lips was a raw product of exhaustion and concealment.

"I know you. That's your pride speaking again," he argued. Even if I was standing still, I couldn't face them because I was too afraid to look at their faces, only for my vision to blur. Tears are traitors, anyway. "Who would back you up when things go south? We do not have any single connection in that industry, not even your mother. If you chose the path we told you to pursue, you wouldn't need to force yourself into that company."

Did I really force myself into that company when I got a merit-based job invite? Heck, I was invited because I deserved to be there.

"You only think of your short-term gains. 'Oh, I would take this program because I know I wouldn't get a grade lower than dos. Oh, I would take this job because I graduated with latin honors.'" he said, mimicking my voice in the most excruciating way possible. "As if that merit has bearings when you are face-to-face with ruthless bosses just like what you are experiencing now. If you only listened to us, we could have maximized our resources so you could graduate as a doctor too." He continued, repeatedly trying to hammer his words inside my head. "You know the real problem here? You have big potential, but you dream too little." This time, I didn't flinch. I turned around and looked at them dead in the eye.

"You think my dream is small because you like to belittle it," I mumbled, my voice cracking with all my strong facade crumbling down. "But I'm going to prove to you that there's another path other than medicine where I could be proud of myself, and if I ever reach that, I wouldn't even ask your apology, nor would I ever ask you to be proud of me. Maybe just acknowledge that I was right about my decisions all along," I said, gulping as my fear began becoming too real. My vision went blurry, and tears slipped through my eyes, yet I did not even gasp, even if the tightening of my throat could nearly kill me. It was just that before turning around again and leaving without looking back at all.

---

The cold breeze from the air-conditioning system of the office hall brushed against my skin, causing me to shiver a little. I walked towards the security checks, and the first thing I saw was Beau—a robotic machine made to look like a female human who, we're told, had eyes that could easily screen your identity through facial recognition.

When I passed through Beau, I anxiously clicked the eighth-floor button of the elevator before stepping inside. A few more people followed before the door closed, and as I felt the lift ascend, I felt like my gut fell to the ground, so I closed my eyes and did some heavy breathing. I did not notice that it had already reached my designated floor. "Excuse me," I murmured towards the people in front of me before stepping sideways and bolting out.

Our office, as usual, smelled like a combination of a floral fragrance reminiscent of fresh lilies and cyclamen. The tall, transparent glass walls allowed us to see the overlooking view of the metropolitan Manila skyline. The ceiling was decorated with posh and geometrical lighting designs, while the walls were decorated with abstract paintings and pictures of our past and present beauty products. The creative subordinates of Beau packed the seventh floor where the writers and publicists were situated; the eighth floor is where the art department was located, while the ninth floor is the production floor where one can find our photo studios. Before I could even reach my own work desk, Sophia, wearing a brown collared midi dress while holding on to her tablet, intercepted me.

"Hey, Miss Jean told me that she wants to see you in her office for some urgent matters," She glanced behind, pointing to the small room opposite to our work desks. "And she also told all of us to wait for her in the huddle room while you two talk," she smiled, tapping my shoulders. "Is everything all right?" She asked, with a hint of slight concern in her voice.

"Of course, everything's fine," I muttered confidently, as if I hadn't faced a lot of inconveniences from the very moment I opened my eyes. "See you in the huddle room," I continued, before glancing at the door of Miss Jean's office. It was made of glass, but it was always covered by a shutter. Just as when I was about to walk past Sophia, the middle curtain was folded down, and I saw a familiar pair of eyes peek through. It was Miss Jean's. It caught my gaze before the curtain of the shutter folded back up, and I knew it was a signal for me to come to her office immediately.

I placed my things on my work desk before walking towards the door. I knocked three times, and I heard her faint voice from the other side saying it wasn't locked. When I entered, I saw her from behind her rectangular table, sitting at the swivel chair while rolling a pen in between her fingers.

"Good morning, Miss Jean," I mumbled, before sitting when she signaled that the chair opposite to her was empty. "Sophia told me that you want to talk to me?" I asked, my voice unsure and my confidence continuously fading out because I could feel that her observant aura was so keen to examine me.

"Yes, and I also sent you a message that I, indeed, wanted to talk to you," She gave a timid smile before removing her glasses. "I'm sure that in your almost six-month stay in the company, you have heard about targeted and rapid job rerouting?" At first, I was so unsure of why she was telling me this, yet I heard about that scheme many times. I've even read a few articles about it.

"Y-yes," I responded.

"And what have you gathered from hearing or reading about our latest company policy?" She asked me again before sighing.

"It's the company's way to upskill everyone by determining whether their jobs can be done by advanced internal artificial intelligence currently developed by Beau?" She snickered before looking back at me as if my answer was wrong.

"We're talking to each other privately. I am a middle manager, not the big bosses, so I really don't care about company euphemisms," she said, her voice filled with authority. She laid the pen at her table before speaking once more. "What have you gathered from reading about our latest company policy, say, from the press?" I cleared my throat, suddenly remembering that one article from The Manila Express saying that Beau's targeted and rapid job rerouting is a poorly worded phrase that just means replacing more people with artificial intelligence.

"That is the company's way to slowly replace people with AI?" I asked, unsure whether to bring it up within the bounds of our physical office, as if the building itself has hidden eyes and ears.

"And do you know who will bear the brunt when Beau starts rolling out this latest company policy rapidly?" she asked. This time, I wasn't sure how to answer it, or was I just scared of the fact that I might know very well the answer to her question? "Look at this." She then turned her laptop to me, showing me different news items about the company reducing their new hires, retiring jobs tagged as redundant, and people who were promised job reroutes receiving notice to not come to office until further notice. "Obviously, people who would bear the brunt are not the big bosses and not managers close to the executives. Did you notice that no breathing human security is at the front desk to greet you? Once upon a time, we had a bunch of hardworking people whom Beau trained to the hilt in order to ensure that the company's security was intact from any external threat. And in a snap, they're replaced by a robot." Then she pointed her index finger at the table. "People who would be lined up in the chopping block are creatives like us who would not step up in the work that we do," she stood up, looking down at me as if she already knew what was running inside my mind. "Remember this: if the higher management sees that machines with no need of monetary compensation make better campaigns and multimedia materials than humans whose needs the company need to sustain, we'd be kicked out in no time." I couldn't even begin to look at her. What was she trying to imply? That I was not doing my best? "This is your wake-up call, Aiah. Do better."