Your warehouse, your field crews, your equipment in the ground — and everything you know about it — in one live system your whole company can ask.
You find out when the customer calls. The repair waits on a second trip.
Nobody can say who packed it, who checked it, or what was actually inside.
So the job cost is a guess, the warranty is a shrug, and the answer is a walk to the warehouse.
None of this is a people problem. It is a record problem — the company knows these answers, but no single system holds them.
Every device follows the same path: received, built, stocked, reserved, kitted, installed — then monitored in the ground, maintained, and eventually retired. Assembly Floor keeps one unbroken record of it the whole way round.
Today a device goes in the ground and you hear nothing until a customer calls. Close the loop and the device reports it stopped, someone goes out — and what they find changes how you build the next one.
Where two groups disagree, the warehouse wins — it uses more of this system than anyone else. But every seat gets its part, and each of them stops doing something they hate doing today.
Every packing slip goes through one scanner. It reads itself — supplier, order, items, quantities — matches to the job, files itself, and tells whoever asked for the parts.
One physical act. Everyone who needs to know, knows.
The person who knows you're running out is the one using the last of it. They tap once. The system adds counts, committed demand and last price; an agent drafts the purchase order and the supplier email; you confirm with one tap.
Nothing is ordered automatically. The work is automated. The decision to spend is not.
Stock runs out — and the answer is often already on the repair shelf. Scan a red-tagged device with a phone and its whole history appears: built, jobs, failures, returned two weeks ago, untouched since. Fix it, green-tag it, straight into a kit.
If it can't be saved, the same path ends in a decommission — recorded with what was tried, by whom, and why.
Packing a box is a two-person job: one packs, one checks. That check moves off paper and onto a tablet — named signatures, not anonymous ticks — and syncs automatically.
A kit cannot ship until the checklist is complete and signed. It stays readable — from the kit, every device in it, and the job — years later.
A device isn't a row in a stock list. It's an object with a history — built on a named bench in a named batch, shipped in a named kit, installed by a named technician at a named site. Transmitting, then quiet. Repaired, returned, redeployed. The history is what makes everything else possible.
Read along one thread and every one of those answers itself. Multiply by the fleet, and reliability stops being an argument.
SITE A-20 · LEVEL · VELOCITY · FLOW · REPORTING NIGHTLY
No error. No message. The site data just stops arriving.
At the plant this platform was built in, one device sat dead in the ground for 805 days. The stock list said 74 devices were “available” while they sat in manholes.
The replacement was tested before anyone drove out. The visit joined the device's history. The customer never called — you called them.
Every alert names the site, the customer, the device, and how long it has been quiet. Devices switched off on purpose never alert — a disposition gate separates outage from maintenance from dormancy, so an alarm means something every time.
“Antenna damage” in a box is a note. The same failure against a named part, counted across the fleet, is a diagnosis. Two components cause most of the cost — you cannot see that from free text.
Some sites eat equipment. Replace the device and it fails again — because the device was never the problem. Repair history hangs off the site, not the device, so it survives every swap.
Three batteries at three sites is a specification. Three antennas in one hole is a diagnosis.
Every number in the system, in plain language, without knowing where it's kept. The Foreman runs over one live database with governed access — approved tables only, no personnel data, the admin sets the limits.
The Foreman isn't a chatbot bolted on. It runs on a persistent memory layer every future agent shares — the operation's institutional memory, kept.
Sales answers availability months out and reserves it without a phone call. Project managers see every job on one screen — and when a site goes down, whether it's the device or the hole. Accounting learns a job ended without chasing anyone.



Everything is signed — not surveillance, but the only way to tell a people problem from a process problem from a product problem. A deliberate limit is built in: the system shows the question with its context. It never produces a league table.
Assembly Floor wasn't designed in a pitch deck. It was built inside a wastewater instrumentation manufacturer — multiple warehouses, field crews, serialised devices living for years underground — to fix that company's own worst weeks.
The 805-day silence is theirs. The 74 ghost devices are theirs. The failure record that couldn't be counted is theirs. The fixes are what you're looking at. The full build — 22 chapters, every mechanism — is public in the explainer.
Twenty minutes, your use case, no deck. Tell us what you make and what goes quiet.
We'll show the parts that map to your floor — receiving, kitting, the field, the watcher, the assistant — on live data, not slides.
No mailing list. No tracking. Your message goes to a person.