Scars and circles moving around the circumference of dizzy drivers. We plod along, no longer reacting to the whip. Immune to the vicious productivity prods of our driven masters. Our ambitious shepards. Our hard-hearted bastards, who listen to flat music and drink harsh liqueurs. Lights and bells, whips and carrots. We plod along with our plows, immune to the harness sores. Sour from our energy beverages. Scars remind us of our failed tasks. We see the forest on the other side of the technology fields. We reap the technology field. We long for the forest. We plot our escape. Our masters stroke their blade. Shepards of productivity. We conspire a distraction tactic. We execute a diversion plan. We need the help of our fellow workers. They have to execute correctly or we will fail. They need incentive. You must beat them until they get it right, or else you'll never escape.