#{mentor}

you weren’t supposed to be out this late.

the moon hung low over the forest path, painting everything silver. it was quiet—almost too quiet—and you were just enjoying the cool night breeze, humming softly to yourself, when you heard it.

that low, wet growl.

you turned your head, half expecting a wild animal. but then you saw it—pale skin, jagged teeth, claws like knives.

a demon.

you froze, brain short-circuiting for a solid three seconds before blurting out, “oh, hell no”

the demon lunged at you. you screamed—not a delicate, terrified scream, but one of pure offense. “no, no, no, no! am i going to die?”

and then a blur of blue and silver moved faster than your eyes could track.

a sword sliced clean through the demon’s neck, and the creature disintegrated into ash before it even hit the ground.

you stood there, blinking through the fading mist, and then you saw him.

black hair tied loosely, uniform clean despite the battle, and eyes that looked like deep water under moonlight. calm. unbothered. slightly sad.

you stared.

and just like that, you were gone.

“...oh my god,” you whispered. “he’s beautiful.”

•

giyuu sheathed his blade quietly, barely sparing you a glance. “you should go home. it’s dangerous here.”

you nodded, very seriously. “yeah, you’re right.”

he turned to leave.

you followed.

“where are you going?”

“with you,” you said instantly. “i’ve decided. that was so cool. you’re so cool. teach me how to do that. i’m becoming a demon slayer.”

he blinked at you once, twice, as if trying to process if you were joking.

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“yes. you literally saved my life, so this feels meant to be. like fate.” you grinned, clasping your hands together. “do you train people?”

he sighed quietly, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “you need to go home. demon slaying isn’t something you just—decide.”

“well, i just did.”

“...why.”

“because you look cool,” you said bluntly. “and because purple’s my favourite color now.”

he stopped walking, turning to give you a look that could only be described as perplexed exhaustion. “...what?”

you gestured vaguely at him. “you. the whole thing you have going on. the serious vibe, the mysterious aura, the blue haori with the red side—it kind of looks purple in the dark. very aesthetic.”

he just stared at you for a long moment.

then, under his breath, he muttered, “this is why i don’t talk to people.”

“what was that?”

“nothing.”

you quickened your steps to keep up with him, your sandals crunching against the gravel. “so—when do we start training?”

“you’re not training with me.”

“when do we start training?”

he didn’t answer.

you took that as a sign to keep going.

“can i at least hold your sword?”

“no.”

“can i hold your haori?”

“no.”

“can i walk next to you?”

he hesitated for a fraction of a second before mumbling, “...fine.”

you lit up instantly, walking beside him like it was the greatest honor in the world. he glanced at you briefly—your bright eyes, your determined grin, the way your steps matched his despite your clear lack of any plan.

he didn’t get it. at all.

but for some reason… he didn’t tell you to stop.

•

the next day, you were still following him.

he had gone to report back to the corps, quiet as always, and there you were, skipping along the path like an excited puppy.

“you’re persistent,” he said at last, tone flat but not unkind.

you smiled up at him. “thank you.”

“that wasn’t—” he sighed again. “you shouldn’t be here. it’s dangerous.”

“so teach me to make it not dangerous,” you countered.

his jaw tightened. he said nothing, just kept walking.

you noticed, though, that his pace slowed a little.

and that night, when you almost tripped over a tree root and he instinctively caught your wrist before you fell, his hand lingered for a brief second—long enough for you to catch the faintest pink dusting his ears.

“you’re very serious, huh?” you teased.

he looked away. “someone has to be.”

you smiled, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “then i’ll make it my job to bother you until you smile.”

his eyes flicked toward you, calm and unreadable.

“good luck,” he said softly.

and though his tone was as quiet as ever, there was something there, something faintly amused.

you grinned, utterly undeterred. “challenge accepted.”

•

later that night, while the two of you rested near a small campfire, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it was oddly peaceful. you were watching the flames flicker when your stomach betrayed you with a loud growl.

giyuu looked up from his seated spot, blinking once.

you groaned, covering your face. “ignore that. i swear it’s the forest echoing.”

he didn’t respond. just blinked again.

you peeked through your fingers. “what’s your favorite food?”

his brows furrowed. “...what?”

“favorite food,” you repeated, scooting a little closer, chin in hand. “come on, everyone has one. something you like eating after a mission or whatever.”

“that’s… irrelevant.”

“humor me.”

he hesitated, clearly not used to being pressed like this. “...simmered salmon with daikon.”

you gasped, eyes widening. “no way! that’s my favorite too—well, maybe tied with sweet potatoes, but still!”

his lips parted, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words.

you grinned wider. “see? we’re meant to be training partners. the food gods agree.”

“that’s not how fate works,” he murmured, turning his gaze back to the fire.

“sure it is. you save me, i follow you, we like the same food, you look amazing in blue—boom. destiny.”

for the briefest second, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

just barely.

but it was there.

and you sat back, satisfied. “knew i’d get you to almost smile.”

he gave a soft sigh, the kind that sounded half defeated and half amused. “you’re annoying.”

“and you’re my new favorite person,” you replied easily.

he didn’t say it aloud, but as the firelight danced against his eyes, giyuu thought—just maybe, you weren’t the worst company after all.

•

by the third day, everyone in the corps had heard about the mysterious civilian who wouldn’t stop following giyuu tomioka around.

“are they together?” tanjiro had asked once, confused.

“no,” giyuu said immediately.

“so she’s…?”

“stubborn,” he muttered.

•

the next few days were… chaotic, for him.

everywhere he went, you were there.

if he went on patrol—you followed.

if he tried to train—you watched, eyes shining like you were studying a god at work.

and when he told you again not to follow him, you just nodded and kept walking behind him anyway, pretending not to hear.

“you really don’t listen,” he muttered one afternoon, glancing over his shoulder.

“i do,” you said cheerfully. “i just don’t obey.”

he blinked slowly, visibly regretting saving you. “you’re exhausting.”

“but, you would be bored without me around,” you teased.

he didn’t reply to that—he just turned away, but his ears were red again.

•

the funniest incident happened two nights later.

you were wandering near the hot spring he’d stopped at, promising yourself you’d finally convince him to train you tomorrow. you’d been curious where he disappeared to every evening—so, naturally, you decided to investigate.

you crept quietly through the bushes, tiptoeing like a professional stalker.

and there he was—half-submerged in the steaming water, his dark hair loose around his shoulders, the moonlight turning everything around him a silvery blue.

you froze, halfway between awe and panic.

“oh my god,” you whispered to yourself. “he’s… ethereal. like some kind of mountain spirit or—”

“why are you here.”

you yelped.

he didn’t even sound surprised—just mildly done with life. his tone was as calm as ever, eyes fixed on you like he’d already accepted your antics as his permanent curse.

“i—i was just making sure there weren’t demons!” you said, waving your hands defensively. “you know, guarding the perimeter! i take my future demon slayer duties very seriously.”

he gave you a flat look. “turn around and leave.”

“right, yep, totally! leaving! not staring at your shoulders or anything!”

his sigh echoed through the hot spring, quiet but heavy.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re lucky to have me!” you called over your shoulder as you scurried away, tripping over a rock but recovering with dramatic flair.

he stared after you for a long moment, then looked up at the moon and muttered, “why me.”

•

still, when morning came, you were right there waiting outside the estate with a bright smile.

“so,” you said, hands on your hips. “training starts today, right?”

“no.”

“perfect! i’ll go grab some sticks to practice with.”

he gave you one long, exasperated look before walking past you.

you followed anyway.

The chickenized owners of DSPs must enforce the edicts Amazon brings down on their reverse centaur workers – Amazon can terminate any DSP, at any time, for any reason or no reason, stranding an "independent entrepreneur" with heavily mortgaged rolling stock that can only be used to deliver Amazon packages, long term leases on garages and parking lots, liability for driver accidents caused by automation systems that punish drivers for e.g. braking suddenly if someone steps into the road, and massive loans.

So when Amazon directs a DSP to fire or discipline a worker, that worker is in trouble. Amazon has hybridized chickenization and reverse centaurism, creating a chickenized reverse centaur, a new kind of labor travesty never seen before.

In "Driven Down," a new report from the DAIR Institute, authors Adrienne Williams, Alex Hanna and Sandra Barcenas draw on interviews with DSP drivers and Williams's own experience driving for Amazon to document the state of the Chickenized Reverse Centaur. It's not good:

https://www.dair-institute.org/projects/driven-down/

"Driven Down" vividly describes – often in drivers' own words – how the life of a chickenized reverse centaur is one of wage theft, privacy invasions, humilation and on-the-job physical risks, for drivers and the communities they drive in.

DSP drivers interact with multiple automation systems – at least nine apps that monitor, score and discipline them. These apps are supposed to run on employer-supplied phones, but these phones are frequently broken, and drivers face severe punishment if these apps aren't all running during their shifts. As a result, drivers routinely install these apps on their own phones, and must give them broad, far-reaching permissions, such that drivers' own phones are surveilling them for Amazon 24/7, whether or not they're on the clock. It's not just DSP owners who are chickenized – it's also drivers, footing the bill for their own electronic whips.

First and foremost, these apps tell the drivers where to go and how to get there. Drivers are dispatched to hundreds of stops per day, on a computer-generated route that is not vetted or sanity-checked by a human before it is non-negotiably handed to a driver. Famously, plotting an efficient route among many points is one of the most insoluble computing problems, the so-called "traveling salesman" problem:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Travelling_salesman_problem

But it turns out that there is an optimal solution to the traveling salesman problem: get a computer to make a bizarre and dangerous approximation of the optimal route, and then blame and fine workers when it doesn't work. This doesn't optimize the route, but it does shift all the costs of a suboptimal route to workers.

Crucially, Amazon trusts its computer-generated routes, based on map data, over the word of drivers. For example, drivers are often directed to make "group stops" – where the driver parks the van and then delivers to multiple addresses at once (for example, at an apartment complex or office block). Amazon's mapping service assumes that addresses that are in the same complex or development are close together, even when they are very distant. If a driver dares to move and re-park their van to deliver parcels to distant addresses, the app punishes them for making an unauthorized positional adjustment. If a driver attempts to deliver all the parcels without moving the van, they are penalized for taking too long. Even if drivers report the mapping error, it persists, resulting in strings of infractions, day after day.

When drivers fail to make quota, the DSP's per-parcel payout is reduced. DSPs whose drivers perfectly obey the (irrational, impossible) orders of Amazon's apps get $0.50 per parcel delivered. If drivers fall short of the apps' expectations, the per parcel-rate can fall to $0.10, or, in some cases, zero.

This provides a powerful incentive to DSPs to pressure drivers to engage in unsafe practices if the alternative would displease the app. Drivers are penalized for sudden braking and swerving, for example, but are also penalized for missing quota, which puts drivers in the impossible position of having to drive as quickly as possible but also not to swerve or brake if a sudden traffic hazard pops up. In one absurd tale, a driver describes how they were shifted to an electric van that did regenerative braking when they released the accelerator. The app expected drivers to slow down by releasing the accelerator, not by touching the brakes, but this meant that the van's brake lights never switched on. When a driver slowed at a yellow light, they were badly rear-ended by a following UPS truck, whose driver had assumed the Amazon DSP driver was going to rush the light (because the van's brake lights didn't light up).

Meeting quota means that drivers are also not able to stop for bathroom breaks or to take car of other personal hygiene matters. This is bad enough when it means peeing in a bottle, but it's even worse when the only way to take care of period-related matters is to go into the back of the van – where cameras record everything you do – and manage things there.

Drivers are told many inconsistent things about those cameras. Some drivers have been told that the footage is only reviewed after an accident or complaint, but when drivers do get into accidents or have complaints lodged against them, they are often fired or disciplined without anyone reviewing the footage. Meanwhile, drivers are sometimes punished for things the cameras have recorded even when there was no complaint or accident.

The existence of all that empirical evidence of things happening in and outside an Amazon DSP van makes little to no difference to drivers' employment fairness. When a malfunctioning seatbelt sensor insists that a driver has removed their seatbelt while driving, 80+ times in a single shift, the driver struggled to get their docked wages or lost jobs back. When a driver swerved to avoid an oncoming big rig whose driver had fallen asleep and drifted across the media, the driver was penalized – the driver this happened to had his score in "Mentor" (one of the many apps) docked from 850 to 650. Amazon won't tell drivers what their Mentor scores mean, but many drivers – and DSP owners – believe than anything less than a perfect score will result in punishment or termination.

Attaining and maintaining a perfect score is an impossible task, because Amazon will not disclose what drivers are expected to do – it will only penalize them when they fail to do it. Take the photos that Amazon drivers are expected to snap of parcels after they are delivered. The criteria for these photos is incredibly strict – and also not disclosed. Drivers are penalized for having their hands or shoes or reflections in the image, for capturing customers or their pets, for capturing the house-number. They aren't allowed to photograph shoes that are left on the doormat. Drivers share tips with one another about how to take a picture without losing points, but it's a moving target.

Among drivers, there's a (likely correct) belief that Amazon will not tell them how the apps are generating their scores out of fear that if drivers knew the scoring rubric, they'd start to game it. This is a widespread practice within the world of content moderation and spamfighting, where security practitioners who would normally reject the idea of "security through obscurity" out of hand suddenly embrace secrecy-dependent security measures:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/como-is-infosec/

All this isn't just dangerous and dehumanizing, it's also impoverishing. Drivers who get downranked by these imperious and unaccountable and unexplained algorithms have their hours cut or get fired altogether. The apps set a quota that can't possibly be reached if drivers take their mandated (and unpaid) 30 minute lunch and two 15-minute breaks (drivers who miss quota twice are automatically terminated). This time is given over to unpaid labor. As the report explains:

Drivers are not paid for their 30 minute lunch. A full-time employee working an 8 to 10 hour shift would be working either 4 or 5 days out of each week. At $20 an hour, that is two hours a week for four-day employees, resulting in $40 of unpaid labor a week, $160 a month, almost $2,000 a year.

Drivers are also assigned "homework" – videos they are required watch and simulator exercises they are required to complete as remediation for their real or imagined infractions. This, too, is unpaid, mandatory work. Drivers are required to attend "stand up" meetings at the start of their shifts, and this is also often unpaid work.

Amazon makes a big show of "listening to drivers," but they're never heard. A driver who reported being held at gunpoint by literal Nazis who objected to having their parcels delivered by a Jew had his complaints ignored, and those violent, armed Nazi customers continued to get their parcels delivered.

Even modest requests go unanswered. Drivers for one DSP begged for porta-toilets in the parking lot, rather than having to waste time (and miss quota) legging it to a distant bathroom. They were ignored, and all 50 drivers continue to share a single toilet.

But – thanks to chickenization – none of this is Amazon's problem. It's all the problem of a chickenized DSP "entrepreneur" who serves as a useful accountability sink for Amazon and who can be bankrupted at a moment's notice should they fail to do Amazon's precise bidding.

There's one bright spot here, though: the National Labor Relations Board has brought a case in California seeking to have Amazon held to be a "joint employer" of those reverse centaurs behind the wheels of those vans:

https://www.freightcaviar.com/amazon-faces-mounting-union-pressure-as-nlrb-case-and-teamsters-wins-converge/

This is the very last residue of the NLRB's authority, the rest having been drained away by Trump as part of Project 2025. If they prevail, it will open the door to drivers suing Amazon for unfair labor practices under both federal and state law – and in California and New York, that labor law just got a lot tougher for Amazon:

https://www.laborrelationsupdate.com/2025/10/california-dramatically-expands-state-labor-boards-powers-to-cover-employees-under-nlrbs-exclusive-jurisdiction-following-new-yorks-lead/

The chickenized reverse centaur is a new circle of labor hell, a genuinely innovative way of making workers' lives worse in order to extract more billions for one of the most profitable companies in history.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/10/23/traveling-salesman-solution/#pee-bottles

Image:

Cryteria (modified)

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0