Soul by Proxy: Dax Bytepunk’s Ascension to the Company Eternal

Dax Bytepunk woke to the hum of his rotary-dial alarm clock, its neon glow cutting through the haze of his chrome-plated loft. Outside, the city sprawled in a retro-futurist fever dream—think tailfin hovercars, flickering marquees, and nurses in starched caps peddling biotech on every corner. Dax was Director of Strategy at MediTech Nexus, a healthcare-tech juggernaut that fused 20th-century optimism with 31st-century greed. Today was no ordinary day. It was his annual performance review, his tenth year with the company, and—damn it—he’d crushed it. New sales models deployed, products launched, profits soaring like a rocket. The firm was printing money, and Dax was all in—loving the job, the coworkers, the vintage jukebox in the break room that played Sinatra remixes on loop.

Dax strode into the office, a Brutalist slab of concrete and glass perched atop a smog-choked skyline. His suit was sharp—double-breasted, with a lapel pin of MediTech’s logo: a stethoscope coiled around a circuit board. The halls buzzed with rotary phones and dot-matrix printers, a deliberate throwback to some imagined golden age, but the tech was bleeding-edge—holo-tablets, neural-linked diagnostics, pills that whispered your dosage in Morse code. Dax poured a cup of synth-coffee from a percolator, its steam curling like a question mark, when Florence WireX, his boss, sidled up. “Morning, Dax,” they said, voice flat as a vinyl record with no groove. Something was off. Florence, usually a chatterbox of dry wit and shared history, felt… robotic. Not the warm, conspiratorial pal who’d started with Dax a decade ago. More like a mannequin with a subroutine glitch.

Dax’s gut twisted. They’d always been tight—coworkers turned boss-and-subordinate with no friction. But ever since Florence’s promotion to VP of Strategy a few months back, a shadow had crept in. Today, it was stark. Florence’s eyes—were they always that glassy?—tracked Dax with an eerie precision. “See you at four,” they said, then shuffled off, leaving Dax clutching his coffee like a lifeline. Anxiety bloomed, a low hum beneath his ribs. Fired? No way. Not after this year. But Florence’s vibe screamed Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and Dax couldn’t shake it. He spent the day playing detective—peering through venetian blinds, eavesdropping on Florence’s monotone calls, noting how their hands moved like pistons, not flesh. Something was wrong, and 4 PM loomed like a guillotine.

The performance review room was a sterile cube, white as a mental ward, buried deep in MediTech’s restricted wing. No windows, no warmth—just a table, two chairs, and a faint antiseptic tang. Only VPs and above could enter, a perk of Florence’s new rank. Dax sat, palms sweaty, as Florence closed the door with a click that echoed like a vault sealing shut. “Ten years, Dax,” they began, voice still unnervingly steady. “A hell of a run. Your numbers? Stellar. New models, new markets—your fingerprints are all over our success.” Dax exhaled, relief flooding in. A promotion, maybe? A fat bonus? He’d earned it.

But Florence’s next words hit like static on an old TV. “We’re launching a new division. Top secret. You’re our pick for VP.” A grin split Dax’s face—until Florence slid a contract across the table. “There’s a catch. To join the executive tier, you go through the process. No details beforehand. You’re in or out. Right now.” Dax blinked. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Florence’s stare was a void—no warmth, no trace of the friend who’d once split a malt shake with them at the company diner. “What process?” Dax asked, voice cracking. “Doesn’t matter,” Florence replied. “Decide.”

What choice was there? Ten years of loyalty, a banner year, a chance to lead—Dax couldn’t walk away. Not when the day already felt like a warped reel of a B-movie. “I’m in,” he said, pen trembling as he signed. Florence nodded, and the table shimmered. Eight objects materialized: a MediTech coffee mug, a branded fountain pen, a rotary phone receiver, a stethoscope, a sales award plaque, a vintage ad poster, a circuit board, and a company tie pin. “Your soul,” Florence said, “will be divided. Eight pieces, eight anchors. It’s how we bind you to MediTech. Forever.”

Dax laughed—a nervous, jagged sound. “You’re joking.” But Florence’s face didn’t crack. Pain erupted then, sharp and cosmic, like his essence was being sliced with a laser scalpel. Dax gasped, clutching the table as memories, dreams, fears splintered apart. One by one, the objects glowed—each a vessel for a shard of Dax’s being. The mug took his laughter, the pen his ambition, the phone his voice. The tie pin snagged his pride, pinning it like a butterfly under glass. It was over in minutes, but it felt like eons. Dax slumped, hollow yet intact, staring at the relics of his soul now stamped with corporate logos.

Florence stood, mechanical as ever. “Welcome to the inner circle. You’ll see the division tomorrow. Your bonus is wired.” They left, and Dax staggered out, the hallway warping under fluorescent flicker. The world was different—colors muted, sounds tinny, like a radio stuck between stations. He wasn’t a robot, not quite, but the spark that made them Dax was scattered across knickknacks on a shelf. The company wasn’t just a firm—it was a cult, a retro-clad machine that devoured souls under the guise of progress. Ten years in, and Dax handed over everything without a fight.

Philosophers might call it the tragedy of the retro future: a dream of chrome and optimism masking a void where meaning once lived. Dax had loved MediTech, loved the grind, but love was a currency he cashed out. Now, he was VP of a secret division—gone from themselves, tethered to a jukebox that played the same tune forever. The office buzzed on, oblivious, as Dax adjusted his tie pin, feeling the weight of his own absence. Another day in paradise, right?