The female bee in hive despises this mechanism. While she originally conspired it to be useful in conserving energy the spring before, she had found it to be the greater of two evils - cold from the air outside, or the constant subjection of her eardrums to unfriendly loud noises. It seemed like there was no compromise. The female bee could not get cold. The female bee was not productive when cold. In order for the hive to function at optimal efficiency, the female bee could never be anything less that productive.
It's 3:16 p.m. on a friday afternoon. The bee notes this. She pretends this means something to her; she pretends she will remember it. She won't. In thirty seconds, the bee will move on to something else after realising that trying to attach meaning to a moment lost inside of a concrete cave that emulates every other day of the week is just like trying to make believe that her golden bee hair is somehow better than all the other golden-haired bees. It'd be true for a while, but then reality would hit. As Philip K. Dick put forward, "Reality that which is left after you stop beliving in it, it doesn't go away." The bee remembers this phrase in a book she read a while ago, but fails to recall the title. Her mental gestalts return to the associations a second earlier, but the idea is already lost back in to the void of potential, waiting for its next victim connected to It.
A worker bee enters the hive. She straightens herself up.
"Packing slips, Pik. AutoWerx and Hallfil Lubricants. The AutoWerx is allocated to the parts expense account, fity- uh, er - "
"Yeah. That's the one; the Hallfill isn't going in to fifty-fifty either, its - "
"Fifty-seven-fifty-six." The worker bee pauses and cocks his head slightly.
"Exactly. Mister Schmidt is in the main foyer right now, so - "
"I'll get his bill to him right away." Pik interrupts, with a blended smile of get the fuck out of my office, and have a nice day.
Pik yawns as soon as the other man - er, bee - leaves the office and returns to her daydreams about colonized, organised insects. This is a daring fantasy for Pik, who finds seemingly organised systems in nature to be a most curious emergent property of her favourite global system, Earth. An otherwise feral and naturally irrational landscape of interactions.
She glances around the hive. This would be so much nicer a hive if there were windows, she thinks. Pik selects to ignore the obvious contrast to natural beehives which bear no windows. She doesn't care. Her hive needs windows. Her hive. Yes, that was right. This was her hive. It might as well be. She practically lived in this box; grey and coloured with dust and debris. If this is my hive, then I am the Queen.
Pik laughed out loud.
Somebody. Coming. Door. Now. Campaign. Advertising. Report.
Before the door even opens, Pik picks up a white portfolio with a computer-generated label from atop the pile of handwritten debris cluttering her desk.
"Pik," the bee- er, man - starts.
"The advertising statistics are in this folder. Campaign number twenty-three has reached its full gross return with the advent of our most recent equipment sales. Campaign thirty, however, is still sliding into the red despite our clean-up at the dealer conference two weeks ago. I also collated the bar charts and the histograms. Keep in mind the scatterplots on pages ten through twelve are not reflecting causal relationships; merely correlational."
Pik's superior stares for a moment. Silence ensues.
"Can I go home now?" she asks softly. The man nods without saying anything, and before he can return to thank her properly she is already half-way to the train station.
[A million points if you can guess who's work environment inspires this and reeks of SUCK.]