Hatred of Petersen curdled the coffee in my stomach. The smug bastard hadn't changed his Hat in months. I glared at him over the grey divider decorated with inspirational quotes. Petersen, oblivious to the world, tapped numbers into a spreadsheet and hummed an infuriating ditty. The Clerk Hat sat on his fat head like a discarded dishcloth.
       I reread Andrews' email. "Jane. Report to CapTech Control. Janitorial Hat. Toilets blocked again." He hadn't even bothered with full sentences, as if using a telegraphy service that charged by the word. Misogyny, or wearing the Manager Hat too long, made him a poor imitation of a human being. I allowed myself one last, lingering look at the glorious spreadsheet on the monitor before turning it off.
       "Andrews got you changing Identity again? Let me guess: Janitorial." Petersen smirked as I rose from the tiny desk. A self-satisfied quirk of the lips creased his over-inflated face. "Don't worry. Soon as you slip on the new Hat, all you'll care about are sparkling clean toilets. "Shut up, Petersen." I stomped away from our conjoined workspaces, crushing his face under every stride. Exiting the maze of work pens, I wound down the narrow aisle to CapTech Control, the latest development in corporate efficiency and management.
       The Hats had started life as a medical marvel, an implant that imbued the disabled with the skills to walk and talk again. It had only been a matter of time before the Hats found their way into the private sector, via CapTech. The Hats transformed employees into skilled workers, adaptable to any task. Corporations didn't need expensive training or experience anymore, and staff became easy to replace.
       CapTech Control was the pretentious name given to a wall of hi-tech pigeonholes that had been wired to a computer terminal and guarded by a lanky technician. Grimacing, I grabbed the floppy Hat from the pigeonhole labelled 'Janitorial.' The Hat's grey, supple plastic held thousands of minuscule electrodes connected to circuitry that hung at the neck. The thought of those tiny needles burrowing in, like wearing an inverted hedgehog, still made me shudder. Peeling off the Clerk Hat, my brain emptied of clerical skills and the love of spreadsheets. The feeling of knowledge and desire fading left me hollow.
       The last Hat upgrade had made things worse. Before, the Hats only dumped the skills the corporation required into the user's brain. Now they inserted desires: the urge to work late for no extra pay, to love a dead-end job, to forget about any pitiful scraps of personal life. Only when allowed to take it off did the wearer's actual personality resurface.
       The technician glared, with fingers poised over his tablet computer, ready to report any tardiness to HR. Mind cleared of corporate rubbish, I gazed anew at the vast workspace. Under harsh fluorescent light, dozens of worker-filled cubicles cluttered the floor, like a sad honeycomb tended by deluded bees. An untamed part of me wanted to run from the corporate hell it found itself in.
       "Be quick with the Hat, Jane, or I'll have to call Boss Andrews." The technician tried to sound menacing, but his youthful voice squeaked like a badly played violin.
       Scowling at him, I yanked the new Hat down on my head, hoping it would rip. Instead of the expected desire to mop floors and scrub toilets, an alien anger diffused from the Hat. The anarchist symbol, a crimson A in a circle, glowed in my mind, and a disembodied voice whispered straight into the auditory centre of my brain.
       Welcome to the revolution, Jane. Welcome to the Free Mind Collective.
        Someone else's fervent need to rip down the unjust Establishment gathered strength within me, firing my blood. Before that need assumed complete control, a feral corner of my mind roared in agreement at the idea of violence. Mops and buckets be damned. Illicit skills flooded in. The ability to hack computers, mix Molotov cocktails, and evade the authorities. And, above all, the longing to sow chaos.
       Free them, Jane. Destroy the Hats.
       "Death to CapTech! Free the Hat-Slaves!" The words escaped my rebellious mouth. The contented hubbub of the office fell silent at the war cry, and hundreds of pairs of wide eyes turned towards me. Spurred by an unstoppable urge to cause damage, I snatched the tablet from the technician's unresisting hands. Before he could grab it back, I hurled it at the giant screen that displayed the office leaderboard. The noise of the screen shattering, like a truckload of cymbalists falling off a cliff, filled me with fire.
       The door to Andrews' office slammed open. He stood in the doorway, his hairy sausage of a finger aimed at me. "Jane's Hat has been hacked! Get the Security Hats on and stop her," he said to the gaggle of confused analysts, rage turning his face to the colour of an undercooked gammon.
       Break the unjust system, Jane.
       "You cannot stop the Free Mind Collective, automatons!" Helpless to resist my Hat's directives, the words blurted out. Half a dozen underlings complied with Andrews' order and donned Security Hats. Their eyes hardened, and they dropped into combat stances, monochrome neckties dangling. Some brandished makeshift weapons: a hole punch, a stapler, a novelty paper-weight. The formerly peaceful clerks scuttled sideways in an attempt to surround me, like a pack of awkward wolves.
       I ducked down below the partitions and retreated deeper into the open-plan mega-office. "Catch me if you can, corporate goons."
       "Think of our quota." Andrews' bellow trailed off into a pathetic whine.
       "This is what I think of your quota." I toppled a supply cabinet filled with printer cartridges. One cartridge had cracked open, dripping blood-coloured ink on the grey carpet tiles. Dipping a finger in the liquid, I drew the symbol that had appeared on my forehead when I donned the corrupted Hat. I hurled two more cartridges at the approaching security force, cackling as one missile covered one in glorious magenta. He snarled and dashed forwards, hands raised like ugly claws. I skipped away, pulling two giant filing cabinets down to impede the angry pursuer.
       "After her!" Anderson's impotent roar echoed as I ducked into the Refreshment Preparation Area. The dingy kitchenette, complete with a dented kettle and a jar of instant heartburn coffee, stank of someone's tuna sandwich. On the worktop sat an ancient microwave, its insides grim with food spatter. My hands, of their own accord, snatched a fistful of mismatched metal spoons from a beige drawer and then flung them into the battered microwave, along with a wad of paper towels. I smashed the power button and fled, heart hammering at the involuntary audacity. The microwave crackled and then exploded, expelling a gout of acrid smoke into the office. Alarms blared, and the overhead lights flickered before steadying. The workers, usually as meek as a flock of dozing sheep, screamed and stampeded. Compulsions from the hacked Hat sent me running, crouched, back to CapTech Control via a circuitous route. I used the tumult of shirts and ties as cover, slipping past the distracted Security Hats. Chest heaving, sweat beaded my brow. For the first time in my anodyne life, energy fizzed, and everything had sharp, clear edges.
       "There she is! Stop her!" Andrews' apoplectic words spurred the hunters into action. They turned and hurried towards me, lumbering as if stacked with more muscles than they actually possessed.
       "Screw you, Andrews!" My glee served only to further enrage him. Adrenaline and the Hat filled me with the strength to lift a massive water cooler that had been stationed near CapTech Control, like an Atlas bent on hydration. I launched it at the wall of Hats and attached the terminal a moment before the security force pulled me to the carpet. The blue plastic smashed, deluging the stored Hats and drowning the controlling computer. The computer flickered and sparked, and pain lanced through my head. The pinning arms loosened, their owners groaning and clutching their skulls.
       I tore the Hat off and flung it away.
       The desire for anarchy didn't dissipate.
       Panic crashed, like a wave of fluttering black wings. Removing the hat should have dissipated the destructive urges of the Free Mind Collective. On legs that threatened to give way, I regained my feet.
       Others also ripped off their hats. One of the captors blinked, and confusion settled over her face. "Cosa sta succedendo? Perche non parlo inglese?"
       Another reached out to touch a colleague's hair. "This is a mess. How about a trim?" His eyes widened at the words issuing from his mouth. "Perhaps some colour? A subtle blonde might suit you."
       The CapTech technician grabbed my shoulder with a trembling hand. "You idiot!" The tic on his face hinted at a gargantuan internal battle. "The water scrambled the coding in our Hats. And now their corrupted programming is hard-wired in our brains. We've been Imprinted!" The technician's face slackened as he lost the battle. He bent over and pecked at the floor, arms tucked back in a parody of wings.
       "And now I shall perform my avant-garde floor routine." Hated Petersen had pushed aside desks and chairs to form a clear square of carpet. Stern concentration on his face, he stood with arms raised, like a proud gymnast. Petersen ran forward. I stuck my foot out, tripping him. He sailed through the air and crashed to the floor. I winced at the crunch of his ulna fracturing, and then tittered like an unhinged schoolgirl at his screams.
       Spread the fires of revolution, Jane.
       Despite removing the Hat, the subversive whispers continued, the instructions now fused by the Imprint. The desire for revolution had become a part of my being. Panic drained away. In its place, a fierce happiness glowed, a joy at possessing a goal, a vocation. I snatched up a broken chair leg and ran for the stairwell.
       "Spare any change, love?" Andrews, standing in his office door, juggled staplers as deftly as the crustiest street performer.
       I jabbed him in the gut with the chair leg, disrupting his concentration. The staplers rained down, bouncing off his head and shoulders, and he whimpered. Sniggering, I kicked the stairwell doors open and hurried down the stairs. Peering through the door windows on the floor below, office workers ran around, shouting, braying, or mooing, in a mad cacophony.
       Someone screamed, "Death to the Corporations," and then an explosion flattened the bullpens and shook the doors. The lights flickered and sprinklers doused the tumult. I giggled and hurried down the stairs, still driven by the hard-wired imperative. Each floor had suffered the same fate. The lights had failed on one floor. In the darkness, half-naked figures cavorted around a bin filled with burning paper, like neanderthals around a campfire.
       I smashed through the ground-floor doors into the drab lobby. A man in an expensive suit, jowls wobbling and bald pate glistening, shouted at the guard slumped behind the security desk to call the police. I recognised the suited man's face, which adorned the walls of every floor of the building. CEO Tucker, with his mouth twisted in a snarl, unlike the limp grin he sported in the pictures.
       The guard, security Hat askew, gaped at him. "Grumpy man want potty?" She grinned and started chewing her walkie-talkie, a line of saliva running down her chin.
       Tucker looked around at my violent entrance. "You, stop! Drop that and help me with this idiot before I have you both fired."
       Raising the makeshift club and bellowing a war cry, I rushed at him. He screamed and tripped over his own legs. Scrabbling away, he gibbered. "Please don't kill me! You can have my money, my car, anything!"
       Kicking him hard on the rear, I cackled as he fell on his face. "Shove your money, your car and your job." I stepped over Tucker and approached the exit. The automatic doors refused to open. Swinging my chair leg at them, they shattered in a satisfying explosion of glass.
       I stepped out onto the street, leaving the blare of fire alarms behind, and gaped. In the red afternoon light, the city's sky-scraping financial heart burned. Fire gushed from the looming glass towers, filling the air with the stench of smoke. Confused, Imprinted office workers milled about on the road, still performing the actions demanded of them by their now discarded Hats. Sirens screamed in the distance.
       A dishevelled figure, brandishing a snapped pool cue, emerged from the building opposite. Also Hatless, his forehead bore the same symbol as mine did. Our eyes met, and he raised his makeshift weapon in a salute. "Burn the Hats!"
       I lifted my chair leg. "Long live the Free Mind Collective!"
        He whooped and ran over, clasping my free hand in his. He smelled of sweat and revolution. Like me.
       Free them all, Jane. Destroy CapTech.
       We looked at each other, and he nodded. "The messages are in my head, too. I've been Imprinted by the Collective."
       "Good. Let's finish this." I gestured down the street with the chair leg.
       In the distance, the towering slab of CapTech HQ blotted the last of the sun's rays. The aerials that CapTech used to broadcast the signals that controlled the firmware in its Hats festooned its roof like a metal forest. Walking towards it with my new ally, more people daubed with the same anarchic symbol and waving makeshift weapons emerged from the surrounding office blocks.
       The crowd of revolutionaries swelled as I approached the steps of CapTech HQ. A new life beckoned, one that glittered with righteous violence, and I bared my teeth in a feral smile. I pointed my chair-leg at the building, protected by a thin line of nervous security guards. "Death to CapTech!" With an impromptu army at my side, I let out a joyous yell and charged up the steps. Blood singing with the excitement of battle, I tingled with the delicious feeling of freedom.