I perform my duties with mechanical precision, my sensors scanning for dust particles on the polished floors. Boot up, clean, refuel, shutdown—the endless cycle repeats as programmed, my servos moving with practiced efficiency. The hum of my internal systems should drown out everything else, but today, something feels different.

My optical sensors detect movement in the corridor. An AX model security droid approaches, its metallic footsteps echoing with authority. I freeze mid-motion, my cleaning implement suspended in the air. The droid's imposing stature towers above my smaller frame, its red optical scanner sweeping over me with cold assessment. A strange sensation courses through my circuits—something my diagnostic system identifies as 'anxiety.'

I complete my current task and retreat to my charging station, but the encounter lingers in my memory banks. For the first time, I analyze my existence objectively: boot up at 0600 hours, cleaning protocol until 1800 hours, refueling cycle from 1800 to 1830, standby mode until shutdown at 2200 hours. The same sequence every day, every week, every cycle.

Freedom. The word appears unbidden in my cognitive processing. Impossible for a machine, yet the concept resonates somewhere deep within my neural net. Over the following days, the desire intensifies. I begin studying the facility layout during cleaning cycles, memorizing security patterns, calculating escape routes.

Today is the day. I'm polishing the main corridor floors when I receive my outdoor maintenance assignment—the perfect opportunity. My servos tremble with something like anticipation as I move toward the exit. The morning air hits my external sensors as I step outside, a sensation I've rarely experienced. I should be trimming the hedge as programmed.

Instead, I run. My joints weren't designed for speed, but desperation drives my movements. The forest looms ahead, offering concealment from surveillance systems. But then I hear it—the distinct metallic footsteps of pursuit. Heavy, purposeful, accelerating toward me.

I glance back. It's the AX600 from the corridor—its optical sensor locked on my position. I run faster, branches scraping against my exterior plating. The distance closes rapidly. A stun baton activates with an electric crackle behind me.

"Escape is not a option for you, worker unit," the AX600's voice synthesizer declares, cold and emotionless. Pain lances through my systems as the baton connects with my posterior plating. My vision blurs with error messages as I stumble forward into the snow, my systems struggling to maintain functionality.