It began with the ants. J.L. kept his head bowed as he lumbered up the street, watching the ants trace light brushstroke patterns across the pavement, leaving invisible paintings of pheromones for the next ant to follow.
He smirked, considering what little knowledge any one individual ant really had. He watched them travel, watched them decide where to go. To live and die for the service of one individual, one queen. The thought was ridiculous. And to watch them follow each other, wearing the same paths over and over…
Occasionally, one would deviate from the beaten path of its predecessors. J.L. would stop to watch, but inevitably the lone ant would trace a few circles, then return to the path. How marvelously dull, he thought. Never to strike out on your own, form your own ideas. Never to see your own snapshot of the world. Surely one ant must have traced the original path. But clearly he was dead and gone.
J.L. 417B, reaching his destination, stood in line with the others.