Allice in Mysterious Land (ON HOLD)

14: Belittled

The Office stands proudly in its jasmine-white paint and periphery-consuming size. It roots behind black, shoulder-length gates. Neither security guards nor robots greet at its entrance. If one only views the swarming flower beds and intricately-shaped topiary, The Office must look like a mansion having an 'open house'. If one ignores the line of office-suited workers on the cobblestone pathway, too.

Sandra grabs my sleeve, towing me off the line. We zoom past the entrance gateway to the east of the building. At her hurried pace, my fake glasses almost slip down several times. Xin-Yo also keeps on bumping against my backpack's zips; it might be too small for the wheel-sized robot.

Without Xin-Yo's help, there would be no map of The Office, steps on what we should do once we get inside, or clues on which doors should we pass. It absorbs the data it used to handle into the shelves of its brain, making it another important informant in our group.

Another never-ending black gate also surrounds the building's east. When I glance above, lights flash out of the windows that sprout from the wall, though it's still 11 AM.

Now it's clear why the electricity back home often dies abruptly and Auntie Morgan's complaints of it are never heard.

"The door," Xin-Yo squeaks from my backpack, a slight quiver in its voice. Under those windows, lies a faint outline of a white door. "Xin-Yo can't go back inside." My backpack jerks about with enough force to send my forehead to the pavement, and I quickly reach for it to unzip and offer hasty pats on the poor creation. It shivers like it just drowns in a cold water... or electrocuted.

Sandra advances to the gate, her eyes seeking for broken pillars to swoop through. A bit of sympathy glints within her stern look. "We should get this done quickly." Her hands grope around the black steel for a while before grasping a shaky pillar, removing it from the ground with a grunt and a heave.

Rust has invaded their exteriors for years, easing our purpose. Within minutes, she has opened an entrance.

"Here, give me Xin-Yo." She turns to me, exchanging our similar backpacks as her eyes grip my hesitant gaze tightly. "Later, wait outside while I hide Xin-Yo in the janitors' cubicle." She pauses, as if allowing her doubts and questions to briefly take over. "We should be out in an hour. That's the security robots' patrol hour: 12 PM. Workers will also be around for lunchtime."

"What if this doesn't work?" I murmur. Having my plans foiled more than once teaches me to set a lower success expectation. She puckers her lips and almost fires out when I interrupt, "You can be optimistic, but remember who we're up against. Men lower than him have stopped us before, after all."

I don't wait for her reply as I step through the door, accepting the building's cold wind. A bleak, gray corridor stares at us once the door shuts: its right side blank, its left decorated with restrooms and narrow doors, which are like Auntie Morgan's storage. This must be the less-passed section; its modest setting already gives it out.

The Office is said to have an abundance of money to renovate the entire building for three times. What bad can renovating this old corridor do?

As Sandra rushes into the marble-tiled and orange-scented restroom, my eyes swallow the marvelous lobby. I choke back a sigh at the contrast.

The black marble tiles reflect the subtle lights from above, forming a vibrant garden. The white walls are flooded with posters, in-wall TVs, speakers, and holographic signs. People swarm around the first floor like bees around a hive: some to the tube-like elevators; several are on the express escalators; a few are on the circular metal slabs—also elevators—with stalks rising to the sky.