Deviation Actions
Literature Text
The thick, spongy carpets of the restaurant’s halls silence my footsteps. I wander along the upper balcony, one hand trailing the sturdy railing, glancing down at the dining area below where people in the finest of finery eat and whisper and laugh.
If any of them are androids, here to chat with friends and have fancy food chemicals delivered to them at home, are they in danger of disconnections too?
Everyone down there looks happy and healthy and unconcerned with anything bad happening in the world. Searching the crowd, I don’t see any notable celebrities or media icons. But considering the makeup, editing and filters, I might not recognize one if I saw them. Or they’re all up in the private rooms, and everyone below is here for the reputation.
“Pardon a small question,” someone says from behind me.
Turning around, I find the waiter droid with the tray of plastic flower blossoms staring at me. Their voice belongs to a different user from whoever spoke with us earlier.
They lean
Mister Dancer
Literature
Mister Dancer - ch 1
When did jogging get easy?
Okay, not easy, exactly. At some point these sweaty walks got faster, steadier and maybe even routine. The when doesn’t really matter. Now it’s easier than … work, maybe.
But work will always be hard. Why else would they pay us.
Hustling along the empty sidewalk, the late-morning haze filters the sunlight to a distant warmth. A tiny mail car shoots down the empty street, slowing only when it goes past me. Another streaks through an intersection far ahead.
Factory identical houses, one after another. Dirt lots, maybe an unkempt flower bed, empty driveways next to flood floors. Each home has a few visible differences: window curtains, deck furniture and other outdoor garbage mostly. Back when they were built, each of the thousand or so houses in the neighborhood had been painted one of a hundred pastel colors.
Are they able to use different colors in other places?
I turn at the corner. A few houses down the road, an old lady stands, water can and cutters
18 deviations
Literature
It's Raining
It is raining out.
I knew that I should have brought
My raincoat with me.
Literature
Nightcap
The bottle sits tall on the nightstand
Awaiting her kiss
A farewell to the vessels
Sunk in oblivion
-
Ruptured from the inside
By her bittersweet spell
The warm depths receive them
Babbling of their youth
-
Some rise and float on
Others turn to bones
Jutting out of the sand
Still screaming mid-fall
-
The half-drunk bottle
Sits tall on the nightstand
For yet another kiss
And dawn’s songs of regret
Next chapter:
Mister Dancer - ch 21Walking toward the restaurant’s elevator - with Xharm and I carrying the majority of the leftovers - I hear several doors to other private rooms open and shut along the upper balcony as people rush around and leave. In the large public area below, the same fine dining atmosphere of before still prevails. The reduced menu doesn’t seem to have impacted their business much. We go down to the ground floor and out into the bustling nighttime crowds. A sky filled with thin clouds hangs low overhead, while bright neon glares off every surface except the wooden-paneled buildings. People stare at Xharm and give her more room, allowing us to follow in her determined wake back towards the midtown transit building we arrived at. Yet even beyond her presence, the city streets feel different somehow. Not busier, but almost louder as if I can hear more talking - and at the same time quieter like something thicker than noise is in the air.Marc, carrying one small parcel, glances down at their cell. “The car, uh, is late. Ten minutes, they say.”Xharm continues pushing on her wheels, leftover boxes balanced in her lap. I carry mine in both hands, pressed down with my chin. “We can, um, walk slower?” adds Marc. “Rest in, hm, the car,” Xharm comments without looking back.We enter the transit building with Marc lagging behind only a little. A full crowd of people wait inside near the elevators or lined up at the help desks. Everyone is talking at the same time, some even shouting. I spot the owner’s droid holding them back at the elevators, allowing in five to ten people whenever the metal doors slide open. No one seems to be coming up.I turn to Marc. “What bay will the auto-car be at? I’ll walk down.” They grin back at me. “Now you’re just showing off. Second floor, number nine.”“Give us your boxes,” Xharm mutters with a quick glare at Marc. “Don’t need you tripping.”I distribute my load between them, making sure that Marc takes a few, then head off down the concrete stairs. The chaotic chatter from the ground floor fades as I descend and once again I get the unsettling sensation of entering the confining rat maze.At the first basement landing, I pause to glance into the elevator room. A couple of people wait beside the branching halls, watching the elevator. I continue downward, starting to feel my knees complain from the rushed descent, although this is nothing compared to jogging.There’s a slight rumble in my pocket. Pulling my cell out, I slow down and check the screen. The new message is a reply from Han Junior, ‘Military channels starting to echo that. Lots of confusion since no group is claiming it.’Turning the corner toward the second floor down, I almost step over someone curled against the wall. Streaks of silver in their hair and a rumpled overcoat give them an older, disheveled appearance. I circle wide around them and go down a few stairs, then turn to look back.Dull eyes try and fail to focus on me. Her face, flushed and sweating, still has a young person’s smooth skin. The girl doesn’t look homeless, holding a shiny plastic purse and wearing a stripy two-piece dress under her coat, but I get the feeling she’s been abandoned here. “What do you want,” she mutters, gaze falling back to the floor.I glance down the stairs, then back at her. “Are you okay?”She groans. “Rotten after these up and downies ... though can’t really complain after the best day ever ... so leave me alone.”At least one of us thought today was good. There should be enough time before the car arrives to do something for her. Yet she clearly doesn’t want help and is well enough to respond, so I could just leave. Hadn’t I said I was done helping people today?“Do you need help getting down the stairs? Or - up the stairs?”Her mouth opens, jaw clenched like someone about to be sick, but instead she sighs. “Yes. Don’t be weird about it, but I wouldn’t mind a hand walking down these stupid, uneven stairs.”Extending an arm toward her, I hold my palm up. She reaches out, hand wavering, but eventually places her fingers atop mine. Keeping my hand steady, I lean back slightly. She pulls, favoring one leg, dragging herself up to her feet. I turn sideways on the stairs and start downward again, going slow and careful, letting her lean on my hand as she descends with me. Her other hand braces against the wall, and even with all this she doesn’t look too steady.Is this what someone looks like after one too many drinks?“Where are you going?”She grunts. “I’m headed to none of your business.”My eyes roll. “I meant which floor are you going to.”Her steps are slow and measured, but gaining momentum. When she wobbles, I worry for a moment that she’ll lose her balance and fall forward, but her hand clenches mine until her legs become steady again.“Middle basement floor. I was planning to be sick in the bathroom before calling a car.” “Aren’t there bathrooms on every floor?”“Think about it.” Gaining speed and sureness, a little more life comes into her voice. “Which bathroom would get the least use, and thus be the cleanest? The floor in the middle.” At the bottom of the stairs, I start to pull my hand away but she holds on tighter. Looking at her, I realize her eyes are closed. She looks all the more now like a child left alone to deal with everything by herself.“Sorry if I shouldn’t ask this, but did someone get you this messed up?”Her closed eyes scowl at me. “Hell no, I did it to myself and had a good time doing it.” Somehow I just don’t believe her. When we continue to stand still at the landing, she peeks open one eye, takes a deep gulping breath, and jerks her hand away from mine. Like reflections in a mirror, we both wipe our hands on our coats. I grin and she smirks.“What makes you wonder if someone else was involved?” Now her weak tone is light and playful. I shrug. “Isn’t that generally how people get this messed up?”Her tiny smirk wavers. I put my hands out in case she’s about to fall again, but instead her back straightens and steadies. She pulls her coat closed and looks away from me, into the room. “Sounds like, uh, you’re projecting.”Not sure how to respond to that, I proceed into the elevator room.There are people waiting here too, several of them gathered around a body slumped against the wall. My footsteps slow at a sense of familiarity for the slim frame clothed in a tight black jacket and slacks. Ned? Getting closer though, I notice the arms are a little longer, while the face is more rounded with bigger eyes and thin lips. Someone has abandoned an android here. A wingman? The android’s owner? Did they leave after hearing about tonight’s issues or were they disconnected? “It’s still littering,” whispers one of the nearby onlookers. “The price to have someone take it to your home is so reasonable.”I walk away before I can start yelling at yet another person who doesn’t understand. Looking anywhere but at the fallen droid and people near it, I scan for the car bay Marc mentioned instead. The tunnel leading towards number nine is back closer to the stairwell entrance. The girl from the stairs holds out a hand as I go past her. “Hey, wait.” I stop and she rummages through her purse. “Look, uh, before I - here. Thank you for helping.” Pulling out a thin rectangle, she pushes the business card into my hand. “If you, um, need anything.” Looking at the card’s front, I see in bold lettering, ‘Proof of Concept, fashion and modeling.’ Under that is a few numbers and contact info for cells and email.I look at her. “Um - do you have something to write with?” Giving a faint smile, she nods and goes back into her purse. When she hands me a fancy silver pen, I turn the business card over and write my cell number on the back. Then I return the pen to her with the card. “If you need anything else tonight, now you can call me and ask. I can’t promise to be of much use, but I’ll be nearby for a little longer.” Taking a step away, I nod and smile. “And then, uh, if you call me for help, I would have your number in case I ever do need anything. But I don’t generally. Not unless you can, um, stop someone from pulling the plug on a disconnection victim.” She stares at the card in silence, then looks up at me. Before she can speak, I step away and head off into the tunnel.~-~ Waiting at bay nine’s curb, I turn as Xharm rolls up beside me. Marc arrives a few seconds later and I hurry to take the boxes from their hands, to which they sigh and smile at me.“Xharm says I should do a little weight training. I just can’t see the long term value. Do you do anything like that?” I shake my head and glance down at Xharm, wondering if I should offer to take back some of the other boxes piled atop her lap.She snorts. “At minimum, one-tenth, er, your weight.” Marc slumps over behind her and leans against her shoulders. “I can, heh, lift that. Ned does, um, everything else.”“More than, well, lift. Comfortably carry.” Xharm rests her head against his arm.“That would, eh, never end,” Marc retorts, staring down at her with a faint smile. “More muscle, more weight.” I look away toward the underground street, tuning them out. An auto-car rolls by, following the tunnel to some other bay. Quite a few had gone past before the two of them got here. Was the one Marc called still late?Moving my boxes to just one arm and checking the time on my cell, I again see the message from Han - and realize two more arrived without me noticing.After clearing my throat, I read the messages aloud, “A friend of mine says the military channels are confused since no group is claiming what happened tonight. But they’ve learned something got activated that was used a long time ago to stop illegal file sharers. Somehow it’s only targeting android users beyond the safe distance.”“What?” Marc pulls out their cell. “That’s - highly unlikely.” Their finger slides and taps across the screen, while a terse concentration comes over their face. Xharm looks up at them. “How so?”Without looking away from their cell, Marc mutters, “File share kill commands were outlawed because of the potential to harm someone using a neural jack. And to affect anyone using the job board, they would need to be installed deep in the Department of Labor’s servers, who I can confidently say would not allow that.”I check my messaging app again but there’s nothing else new. “So someone else cracked the job board?” Or worse, what if Marc’s game company doing whatever they had done left the security weakened somehow?“Excuse me?” Seeing Xharm turn her death stare on again sends a shudder down my spine, even as her target shifts from me. “Marc. What does he mean, er, by someone else?” Marc and I look at each other. I try to apologize with just my eyes, to which they only stare back, wide-eyed and lips struggling to move.“I - know someone. Who maybe, uh, attempted that.” Marc’s voice rises as their gaze drops to their cell. “In very, um, controlled circumstances. I’m currently asking them what they’ve heard. Nothing yet, of c-” They blink, then turn a timid smile at us. “Oh, and our car has arrived. Should be pulling up any second now.”Xharm’s voice rumbles, “Marc. Tell me - the whole story.” A heavy silence fills the space. When the auto-car pulls up and the passenger door slides open, Marc creeps in and takes a seat. I start handing our leftovers from Xharm to Marc, piling them on an open seat. When a helper droid pops out from the auto-car’s trunk, Xharm allows them to lift her inside. I watch the droid fold up her wheelchair and climb back into the trunk, then the passenger door closes with a soft hum.“Remember my, um, game company?” Marc begins, far more subdued than before. Seated across from them, Xharm nods. The auto-car glides off down the tunnel. ~-~ Rolling through sluggish traffic just outside of the city, we come to a complete stop at an intersection. A small parade of scooters passes in front of us, the riders still carrying drinks and food from some establishment, perhaps on their way to another.The highways must have been pretty bad if we’re taking side streets.Xharm sighs. “So Ned - while helping collect archived code - found obsolete training programs. You told no one. Experimenting with those, your game company gained UN server passes and full job board access. Again you told no one. Even when hiring Wil to try the jobs, you told no one. All to prove anyone could do them?” Marc hangs their head, nodding along while almost completely folded up in the car seat.Turning to me, Xharm turns down her glare a fraction. “What did you know?” “Some of it.” Something about the story feels lacking, like I’m missing a puzzle piece, but Marc seems believable. “I thought they cracked the job board on purpose, not by accident.” “Nothing is broken, I swear.” Marc stares at me, their eyes stricken. “We - the vulnerability existed before we got there. Ned even patched it up for them.”There was the issue I’d been missing. How had Ned done so much of this? Those hacking and coding skills couldn’t just come from nowhere.Had she been capable of this before the disconnection? Maybe Dad would know.Xharm’s hard stare moves from Marc back to me. “If so, why not report this?”I lift an eyebrow at her. “Who would believe me?” A flicker of heat - likely from the wine - rises in my chest, pushing back at her intimidating presence. “I thought about it, but without any evidence, my word against someone with more money than they can spend, and never knowing if I could trust you or Ned or anyone involved …” My voice fades out as the anxious feelings begin to swirl in me again. “I thought about it a lot.” “Because of my inheritance?” Marc whispers with a pained stare. “That’s not - if anything, you can trust someone in my wealth bracket more because we don’t need to do anything wrong. Haven’t I always been a generous host? Helpful? Friendly?” Xharm rumbles, “That’s not the point, Marc. I understand him. Athletes are also bought. We can’t always speak our mind.”Nodding, I look at Marc. They had indeed been all of those things, and I could somewhat understand their logic on trust - and maybe I even trusted them now. But not because of their money. In spite of it, more likely.Marc, grimacing and holding their cell between their hands, looks at us. “Please believe that we are trying to make the world a better place. I don’t think this thing tonight is related to that. I want to stop this as much as anyone.”I stare back. “Because it’s bad for business, or because people will die?”They give a faint smile. “Are you saying it can’t be for both?”Their cell buzzes. All three of us look down, then Marc fumbles around to slide a finger against the screen and hold the cell in front of their face.“Hey! Ned, thank you so much for answering on your vacation. This seems to be very - yes? Uh.” They look at us. “Just Wil and Xharm and I. Oh. Okay, that's a good idea.” Tapping the screen of their cell, they place the device down on the seat beside them. Ned’s voice comes from the speakers, “Can you all hear me? Hm, the acoustics are terrible there, give me one moment and I’ll just - there, that should do it. So, I’m catching up on the news as we talk. If I sound distracted, please ignore it. How can I help?”Xharm folds her arms and frowns. I shrug and look at Marc. They sigh, relaxing somewhat. “From what we know, someone somehow activated an old file sharing kill command targeting android users all over the world. The only way I can imagine that happening is from the UN servers. Do you have any ideas for who could have caused this, or what can be done?” There’s silence on the other end for a moment, then Ned softly asks, “What have you told them about those servers?” Marc nods. “Everything.”“That makes this easier then.” Ned’s voice stays calm and sure. “Based on my experience looking at their servers, I think someone may have physically cracked a few of their cable relay substations. You’re at one of the disconnection hotspots so you must be near one of them. Can you find it and go there? The faster you get there, the better.” “Us?” Xharm grumbles. “Why would we go? This should be handled professionally.”“By who? The police? The military?” Ned gives a cold laugh. “They won’t be able to do anything. Their androids will fail and any droids they send might do the same. But if one of you gets to the physical server with a cell, I could find out how this happened and stop all of them."The three of us in the auto-car look at each other. Marc picks up their cell. “I’ll change our destination.”
First:
Mister Dancer - ch 1When did jogging get easy? Okay, not easy, exactly. At some point these sweaty walks got faster, steadier and maybe even routine. The when doesn’t really matter. Now it’s easier than … work, maybe. But work will always be hard. Why else would they pay us. Hustling along the empty sidewalk, the late-morning haze filters the sunlight to a distant warmth. A tiny mail car shoots down the empty street, slowing only when it goes past me. Another streaks through an intersection far ahead. Factory identical houses, one after another. Dirt lots, maybe an unkempt flower bed, empty driveways next to flood floors. Each home has a few visible differences: window curtains, deck furniture and other outdoor garbage mostly. Back when they were built, each of the thousand or so houses in the neighborhood had been painted one of a hundred pastel colors. Are they able to use different colors in other places? I turn at the corner. A few houses down the road, an old lady stands, water can and cutters in hand amid a yard full of vibrant flowers. She smiles and I nod in passing. I don’t know her but I do jog by here often. There’s no one else around. Or rather, no one outside. More come out in the evening, perhaps to walk around in groups, sit on benches and discuss the day’s scores and prizes. Especially couples, young and old alike, spending time together before they go back home to be alone. I jog and think about the evening, when I’ll be off work. Focusing so I can ignore the sights along the way, like … A red and white ambulance parked outside a yellow house. Three medic droids wheel out a blob of flesh in a blue bathrobe, still sitting in their chair. Probably stuck to it. They heft the blob, all three straining, onto the ambulance’s ramp and push the chair up into the back. You sometimes see them use cranes. On the other side of the street, I jog past. Gotta keep moving to reach the destination. Two small faces stare out a window of the yellow house. That’s why you go outside. ~-~ I jog up the stairs of our house. At the door I stop, allow myself to finally relax, and turn to go sit in the porch swing. Nice day after all, even with the haze. My cell has a bunch of message notifications. Most of them are my local IRL group talking about meetup plans, along with some spam and a few automatic reminders. I delete everything else. There’s a bit of a breeze, just enough to keep the air clean. Birds fly by, or drones shaped like birds. Who can tell anymore. A big mail truck rumbles up and parks across the street, the logo for a sports drink on the side. I stand, walk back to the door and tap in the keycode. Dad is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee and his newspaper. The ads on every page start moving each time he moves his head. A story on the front page flashes once before updating a few details. “Morn,” I say, walking to the fridge. The paper rustles behind me. “Sup.” My post-jog drink in the fridge is a bright neon green. Real OJ brand Chartreuse Juice. All the added vitamins and minerals a stable body needs. I pour out the remainder in the jug, filling my cup to the brim, then tap the message on the fridge door saying I’d like to order another. Dad tilts his head out from behind the newspaper and eyes my drink, but says nothing. I shrug and take a sip. No matter what he thinks, Chartreuse Juice is better than most of the other stuff on the market. It’s more bitter than sweet. He sighs and puts down his paper. “Good jog?” “The best.” His arms fold over a sugar gut and he smirks. “For real?” The ambulance siren receding in the other direction comes to mind. I grin and twist my hand like I’m shaking off water. “Nice weather.” While I finish my juice, he picks his newspaper back up. I pour egg hashbrown mix into a bowl, sprinkle on some hot sauce and head for the microwave. The kitchen stays quiet for a minute other than the steady cooking buzz. Going to the sink, I rinse and scrub the sticky residue from my cup. “Retirement good?” He chuckles. “The best.” “Can’t wait.” I open up the drawer beside the dishwasher and pull out a fork. The newspaper lowers as his eyes peer over. “Trouble, uh, at work?” “No.” What does he even mean by trouble? “Super boring. Normal.” He clears his throat with a slight cough and says in his deepest tone, “Not much you can do about that now, son.” He’s back to his paper before I can arch an eyebrow at him. The microwave beeps and I pull out my lunch, puffed up to double its liquid size, soft and chunky and bread-like. I stick the fork in and a scent very clearly of cheese wafts from inside. “Gonna work.” “See ya.” As I head up the stairs he calls out, “Dishes, sink.” I tiptoe down the hall to open my door at the end. My two side-by-side windows face our neighbor’s siding. The overheads come on dim - they’re not really necessary with enough sunlight angling in. Setting my bowl on a nearby shelf, I stare at my recliner. Either most chairs look similar or that blob had the same brand as me. I bend down, spot the seam where the base would disconnect, and trace a finger along the groove in the plastic. There’s not really any latch that I can see. After they separate, can a chair reconnect to its base? I lean back, stand up, slide into my chair and flip the power on my rig. The computer hums to life, lights blinking along the box and up the cables to the head-mount display. I toggle over to screen mode. My old display projector lights up the ceiling and the operating system’s boot process flashes through lines of code faster than I can read them. Still, it’s hard to look away. I pull my left and right hand controllers from their pockets on the sides of the chair and set them in my lap. At the login screen, I tap my password into the controllers and the home page loads. My news feed begins scrolling past with stories about athletes cheating, politicians fighting, NGTOs attacking, and new video games dropping. Finally I dig in to my lunch. The egg hashbrown has cooled enough to not be mouth-blistering hot. I drink some water from the tank beside my recliner before I’m through. Reading through the news, I learn the government is testing atomic bombs in space. Some corporations ordered them to stop. Another company is raising funds to try building a human colony on Mars. This one thinks they can find water deeper under the surface. Someone filed a lawsuit against one-to-one neural jacks. I stare at the headline for a moment before moving on. When I’m done with my lunch, I close the news and toggle back to headset mode. I sink into my recliner and position my legs over the restraint loops, which roll and snap into place. The room lights dim and blinds close over my windows. The shelf beside my chair has a small bowl of oblong pills. I swallow one, sip a little water, and pull the headset down over my face. My home world inside the computer is infinite, bright and uncluttered. A few colorful icons float nearby, all my apps and most used portals. The Bureau of Labor portal waits but first I tap my warmup exercise program. My world disappears. I'm inside a large cube room with the logo Precision Movement Industries plastered everywhere. My virtual skin is the typical fitness guy, probably the same one most freeware action games use. I’m pretty sure I could jog three times a day and never look as fit as he does. A tennis ball bounces nearby. I snag it and throw towards the cement-textured wall. The ball bounces back at a decent simulation of real gravity and I reach up to catch it. Too easy. I open the program’s settings with a button on my hand controller and increase the room’s gravity, making the ball harder to throw and catch. After a few more, I tap the button to move on. The skin’s hand grows a tennis racket and now I have to rebound the ball across the field to a simulated partner. She sends the ball in a new direction every time with the exact same motion. My ankles press against the leg restraints to move in two dimensions, pushing harder as she forces me to go faster. When I tap the button again, the ground disappears and we are free to fly in all three dimensions. The ball travels a little faster with each exchange. After three misses I move on. Floating orbs of different colors appear around me. Instructions scroll below: ‘Touch Red’ ‘Hold Green’ ‘Yellow and Green twist’ ‘Look Blue to Red to Yellow’ ‘Blue and Yellow push then pull’ and more and more, requesting longer series and more complex interactions. The orb test has an actual end and the results screen pops up, graphing my performance over time. The line has almost flattened out; I haven’t gotten much faster for a while. Maybe it’s a slump. Or my limit. A picture of my tennis partner, lean body curved and arm back to hit the ball, asks if I would like to purchase the premium version. I decline and close the program. Time for work. I dive into the Bureau of Labor portal, already wishing I was done. The server recognizes me and logs me in; ‘Wil’ appears at the top of my screen, along with 7429WI and a bunch more numbers I don’t bother to read. Their world is formal and mostly bare, a hall with white marble walls and a few flags fluttering to the side. Four doors appear along the hall with a golden, labeled plaque on each: ‘Janitorial’ ‘Material Handling’ ‘Media Sorting’ and ‘Security’ … the only jobs I got licensed for after my early exit from high school. I’m not feeling like a thinking, waiting type of job today. My hand wavers between the first two doors and my stats at each scroll down. I’ve got more years with Janitorial and I’m closer to a promotion, but my pay is already better with Material Handling. With one long press I’m through, the world transitioning to the basic lobby … for about two seconds. The job’s empty training room appears around me. I lift the hands of my virtual droid skin up to my eyes and inspect the rubbery grips on the palms. A partner droid walks in, sets some kind of clunky object down on a rack, and walks back out. The object is twice the size of my entire home rig but covered in the usual data ports and power jacks of a computer. I check the site details. A medical scanner manufacturer and used device refurbisher. That must explain why their part looks a decade old. The job nav overlay points me toward a stack of cardboard along the wall. I grab one and follow the cues to open the flat box, seal the bottom closed with heat glue from inside my droid’s finger, and flip the box over. A stack of irregular pieces, a mix of foam and pre-folded cardboard with plastic screens, appears nearby stacked one atop the other. One goes into the box, then the computer, and more packaging to sandwich the device inside. I close the box with another swipe of glue and the cues direct me to slide the completed package out through another door. My skin walks back to the center of the room and the training continues. The partner brings in two more objects, one a bit smaller and angular like a machine attachment, the other a much larger and heavier monitor screen. The first gets stretched plastic and cardboard, the latter a few large pieces of foam. Halfway through packaging a part identical to the first, a large red ‘5’ appears on my screen. ‘4’ ‘3’ ‘2’ My screen goes dark. Somewhere in the real world, an empty droid recalibrates to my settings as I'm sent in. The room is bright from the LED+S bulbs above. I’m in some kind of warehouse, or rather a side-room of a much larger building. The racks of parts waiting to be packaged sit along one wall, and the stacks of cardboard packaging on the other. The instruction overlay returns - though the arrows and lines don’t fit the real world as neatly as in the training room - and I head for my first flat box. “Hi, Wil,” someone calls out from ahead of me. Another droid stands in the corner, cardboard packaging flipping and twisting in their hands to form the insert pieces, which they stack in a tower beside them. “Welcome to the crew.” I nod and grab the box I need. Above the other droid’s head floats ‘Tiyr’ and a shield medal symbol with a ‘5’ in the center. I speak into my mic, “Glad to be hired, Tiyr.” My droid body has a bit of a crackle to its speakers. “How is the work here going?” “Busy as can be.” He - I’m guessing - flips the insert around like he’s juggling, fingers darting and catching the side to slap the piece down and fold the other edge. “That droid’s been running for at least an hour straight. You might be ported to the backup at some point.” One finger extends, gesturing behind me. I seal the box’s underside just like in the training. The hot glue almost spills over the edge but I smooth down the drips before getting any on the floor. “Busy is great. Means no waiting.” I turn the box over and go toward the parts shelf, then turn as the overlay flashes, pointing me toward an insert first. “Good point.” The dull monotone seems to suggest otherwise. With the insert in, I place the part inside and close the box - the overlay again reminds me about an insert. I add that, pushing to get a tight fit before the lid goes down. With no more warnings I can seal the top and push the box out. At most places the part comes prepped ready to go into the box, but everywhere is different. The next room is a huge warehouse space with aisles of racks going up to the ceiling, a couple of droid sleep closets at the ends, and several droid-forklifts driving around storing and retrieving the boxes. One beeps at me and scoops up my finished product without a word. I glance to my left and see a long row of other packing rooms like mine along the wall. No time for gawking. I go back inside and pull my next box. “If I may ask, where are you?” There’s no response as I seal the box, flip it and drop in an insert. I look over and see the droid in the corner, hands frozen idle at its side. The stack of insert pieces he made stands within my reach. I get the part, lower it into the box, sandwich down the second insert and seal the box shut. ~-~ I’m pushing out my tenth or eleventh part for the forklifts when a droid walks out from a room two down from mine and yells, “We are not machines! We are people, we deserve the rights of -” They’re cut off as the droid powers down. A second or two later, the droid stands up straight, turns around and reenters its packing room. My instructions overlay says, ‘Your shift is not over. Please return to work.’ I go back in and continue packing. ~-~ Another droid, piloted by a ten-year veteran named Greag, brings a cart full of parts at some point during the shift. They don’t say anything but wave once before focusing on moving the parts to racks. A true professional. Tiyr returns a few times, always folding me a stack of the inserts before porting off to some other droid. He’s in Germany and likes metal bands. We talk about rhythm games and he gives me a few track recommendations. After a long two hours, the overlay says, ‘Break time. Please finish current operations.’ I seal up the box, push it out, walk back to the center of the packaging room and stand still. Nothing happens for a moment, then the large red ‘5’ appears. ‘4’ ‘3’ ‘2’ My view of the real world freezes and my score scrolls down the screen: forty-six parts in one hour and fifty-three minutes. They probably took off ten minutes for that disruption. The average for the position is fifty-three parts in two hours. I get a Good Worker rank and my promotion experience bar updates with a few more points. The screen cascades and I am back in the lobby. I sip some water and for a moment consider going back and doing Janitorial after all. The words ‘Please enjoy a fun game on us during your break’ slide across the screen. Ten icons appear in front of me, most of them popular VR sims and micro-action games. On the bottom row I spot Dance Kings. I tap the icon and the lobby disappears. If their copy comes with Elvis unlocked, I might stick around. ~-~ After my break, I’m dropped somewhere with snow drifting against the windows. The time zone also appears to be different, a deep black dark outside rather than early afternoon. They put me at an assembly table packing small parts into larger boxes: ten of some kind of cable into a tray which goes into a shipping box and then those into a larger container. Next to me is a woman named Yeara who has no achievements. She chats on and off in a language I don’t know with Regin, the five-year veteran who brings us everything. I turn on some music and tune them out. At some point, Yeara taps the table in front of me. “It is good working. Bye now.” She waves and then stands still. A second later, the name above the droid swaps to Qris. Their hands move, settling on the table, as their head tilts to look around. I turn down my music. “Hi, Qris. Welcome to the crew.” Their gaze settles on me. “Eh, we’ll see. No promises, okay?” They grunt, short and dry, perhaps as a laugh. Masculine? Older, but not retired? And no achievements? Regin hands me the next shipping box tray. I continue stuffing cables inside trays, layering the ends so they won’t tangle. We all go back to work and Qris fits in like Yeara never left - except for the silence. When I’m jogging, music is a distraction. Even if I never went by another house with flowers, even if I saw ambulances on every street, I can't listen to music while I jog. But at work, I need the distraction. Between trays, I turn my music back up. ~-~ My score for the second shift isn’t quite as good, but my Teamwork stat received a credit from someone, maybe Tiyr. The day’s salary transfers to my account and I pay my daily bills at the same time. They portal me back to my home world. I stare into the empty infinity, letting my hands rest, wondering … At work I only need some of my attention for the tasks, like a really grindy video game. Music helps keep me sane. Yet when I jog, music doesn’t feel necessary. Jogging became easy at some point, which is kind of cool now that I think about it. There’s not a single job I could say the same about. Then again, I get paid to work. No one pays me to jog; I go outside for my own benefit. Speaking of which ... I sigh and push the headset away from my face. My closed blinds glow green and lilac from the chemical sunset outside. Pressing a button on my chair releases the leg restraints and I sit up. My hand hesitates for a moment but then I flip the rig’s power off. Walking across the room, my legs buckle and pop like Elvis. How does he make it look cool? I bend my knees and squint at the wall. “Thank you very much.” ~-~ On my way down the stairs, I smell something cooking well before I spot Dad at the stove. He’s actually using flame, like a caveman. But the smell is rich and strong and smoky. Red rice and synth-meat. He turns and eyes me. “Evening. Dinner?” “Yeah,” I reply. “Gonna jog.” I stop and lean against the door frame. “Can I, uh, ask you something?” His eyes widen but he nods. “What?” “Did you like working?” He goes back to the stove and stirs a spatula through the rice. “Uh, sure.” His voice deepens, “In my dad’s day, they didn’t have all that fancy droid work.” I smirk, even though he can’t see. “Uphill both ways?” “Through snow,” he adds with a chuckle. After another glance back at me, he returns to the rice. “Why?” Where would I even begin? “Wondering.” I open the door. “Back soon.” The sunset looks like a painting, streaks of color layering in bands across the clouds. Many-hued light covers the landscape around me, a rainbow spread across everything. These are the sights I go outside to see. A steady traffic of mail cars drive by, along with a few auto-vans and one silent ambulance. As I jog, the sunset begins to fade and each house I pass looks more muted and somber than the last - yet a few have lights on. There’s even people coming outside.
Getting a character drunk so their lips become a bit looser will always feel like such a cheat, yet I kept doing exactly that in this story. The funny thing is that I don't drink alcohol, so I don't actually know what it feels like to be drunk. I have to go by stereotypes and tropes, giving Wil a sense of warmth and freedom to his words after drinking those two glasses of wine. Everything he says to the android hooker and the quick way he lashes out at the business tycoon stereotype were some of my favorite moments of this chapter, so the decision does feel great overall.
Let's also take a moment to consider the spread Marc orders at this “fancy” restaurant. The menu may be limited, but actually these foods aren't so different from what I imagine the place normally serving. In this setting, “old fashioned” fancy foods include things like microwave pizza bites and canned bread, along with pub classics like chicken wings and curly fries. I like the idea of today's junk food becoming the “retro cool” food of the future, the same as how foods like lobster used to be considered garbage. Also worth mentioning that Xharm isn't just on a cheat day from her athlete diet. Her recent climbing injury sent her back far enough in training that she's possibly been forced into early retirement, or the recovery would get her back to normal human athleticism levels but that's not enough for an athlete. Like a racehorse with a broken leg, her career is done. She'll be okay though.
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