Chapter 3: The Glitch
The tech arcade was less a mall and more a dying ecosystem. Half the stalls were shuttered, their metal grills plastered with peeling holographic ads that flickered and buzzed. The air smelled of stale popcorn, hot solder, and the tang of chemical cleaner. Most of the open bays were automated—glistening kiosks with articulated arms that could swap a neural chip or repair a hoverboard battery in ninety silent seconds.
Mick’s ‘Micro-Menders’ was a cave of analog defiance at the very back.
A bell, actual brass and clapper, jangled above the door. The space was a chaotic museum of the last twenty years of consumer tech, stacked in teetering columns. CRT monitors, dissected drones, bundles of colour-coded wire. Mick himself was a wiry man in his fifties, hunched over a magnifying lamp, a soldering iron like a needle in his precise grip. He didn’t look up.
“If it’s another bloody learning tablet with a juice spill, I’m charging double for the smell, I swear to God.”
“It’s me, Mick.”
Mick’s head lifted. His face, etched with fine lines from a lifetime of squinting, softened a fraction. “Simon. Christ. Thought you’d been assimilated.” He waved the iron at the room. “Or just gave up on broken things.”
Simon placed the small interface unit on the cluttered counter. “Telly keeps glitching. Menu appears then dissolves. Sound cuts.”
Mick picked it up, turned it over in hands that were permanently stained with a faint silver sheen. “Yeah. The synaptic solder on these fails. Factory default. They want ‘em to fail. Planned obsolescence isn’t a theory, son, it’s a business plan.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the empty arcade corridor. “See out there? That’s the plan working. Why pay me forty quid and wait ten minutes when the auto-kiosk does it for twenty in two?”
He went to work, the sharp scent of flux blooming as he heated the iron. Simon leaned against a stack of old game consoles, his gaze drifting past Mick to a dusty poster for a smartphone that was now a museum piece.
“Council’s bringing in the municipal service bots next month,” Mick said, not looking up, his voice a low, practised rant. “Waste collection, street cleaning, graffiti removal. Another two hundred blokes on the dole. My nephew, Darren—took a redundancy from the automotive plant, retrained as a drone traffic controller. Six-month course, cost him four grand. Know what he does now? Monitors a screen that monitors itself. Gets an alert maybe once a week. Rest of the time he’s just a meat-based warranty requirement. A placeholder.”
Simon grunted. He should be listening. This was the fight, the real war Mick was talking about. The quiet, economic erosion of purpose. But Mick’s words were just sound.
All he could see was the impossible, minute detail of Sasha’s skin in the lamplight. The way her lower lip had caught the glow from his phone. The heat. He’d felt her heat. Why did they give them heat? Why did his mind keep circling back to the space where her cheek had almost touched his? It was a programming trick. A biometric strategy to lower human guard. He knew that. He’d read the bloody pamphlets.
Yet the memory had a physical weight, a lodestone in his gut. Intimacy starvation. That’s what Rivas had called it once, in a session he’d mostly spent staring at the ceiling. A clinical term for the hollowed-out silence after camaraderie, after touch. He’d built a life around maintaining that starvation. It was safer. Cleaner. The hunger was a familiar enemy. Letting something—someone—close was where the shrapnel got in.
“It’s a moral corrosion, is what it is,” Mick was saying, using a tiny screwdriver to pry a chip free. “Replacing the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker with a bloody vending machine that says ‘have a nice day’ in a pre-recorded voice. But try and say that. You’re a Luddite. A radical.”
“Yeah,” Simon said, the word automatic.
Mick glanced at him, his eyes sharp behind magnifying lenses. “You’re miles away, mate.”
“Just tired.”
“Aren’t we all.” Mick blew gently on the board, reseated the chip, and applied a fresh dot of solder with a surgeon’s touch. “There. Good for another year, or until the next forced update bricks it. Whichever comes first.” He handed it over.
Simon took the warm piece of plastic and circuitry. “What do I owe you?”
Mick waved a dismissive hand. “For you? Call it a tenner. Consider it a donation to the ‘Human Being Still Useful’ foundation.”
Simon pulled a worn note from his pocket, left it on the counter. “Cheers, Mick.”
“Take care of yourself, Simon. Actually, don’t. Get someone else to do it. That’s the new way.”
The evening outside was a baptism of garish light and competing noise. The drizzle had lifted, leaving the pavements slick and reflective, doubling the neon.
Simon walked, the fixed interface unit a lump in his coat pocket. He moved through a slow-motion ballet of coexistence. A young couple walked hand-in-hand, the girl simultaneously chatting to a friend via a translucent lens over her eye. A hovering delivery bot, shaped like a sleek white pill, zipped silently at head height, a red laser scanning house numbers. An elderly man fed pigeons from a bench, ignoring the small cleaning drone that whirred around his feet, vacuuming up the scattered crumbs the moment they fell.
It was seamless. It was horrific.
Outside a club called ‘Neuron’, where bass throbbed through the walls and a queue was already forming behind a velvet rope, a man stood on an upturned plastic crate. He was red-faced, his voice raw, preaching into a battered amplifier that whined with feedback.
“...and they will make you love the machine! They will make you depend on it! They will sculpt your loneliness into a product and sell you back a mirror that blinks!” He jabbed a finger at a passing police drone, a sleek black orb with a single blue light. “Mark of the beast! A world without soul! They are stealing your faces, your smiles, your grief to power their—”
Two uniformed officers, human, approached him with weary professionalism. Their body language spoke of this being a nightly ritual. “Alright, Ezekiel. Time’s up. You can’t do this here, not right outside a school annexe.”
“It’s a club now!” the preacher shrieked.
“It’s a building with a youth literacy programme in the afternoons. Move along, or it’s the nightstick. Your choice.”
Simon walked past it all, a silhouette moving against the current of light. The confrontation, the technology, the merging streams of life—it was just background static to the insistent replay in his skull. Her heat. The line between her brows. The quiet ‘hm’ she made.
He turned down a side street, a shortcut he knew from older, darker nights. The cacophony dimmed. Here, the neon was sparse, the light coming from the soft glow of residential windows and the occasional flickering streetlamp.
A small, independent cafe was just closing. The interior lights were off, save for a single warmer over the counter. A woman was inside, her back to the glass door as she wiped down the espresso machine. She moved with a tired, efficient rhythm, her figure a dark shape against the steel. She locked the door, turned, and stepped out onto the pavement just as Simon passed a few feet away.
He didn’t notice her. His head was down, thoughts turned inward, chasing ghosts both digital and flesh. He caught only a peripheral impression—a woman, a bag on her shoulder, heading the opposite way.
If he had looked, he would have seen her face. The same elegant bone structure. The same deep umber skin. The same full lips, though currently set in a line of quiet fatigue. Yaa.
She let out a long sigh, the day’s weight settling on her shoulders. From her coat pocket, she pulled out her keychain—a small, white polymer rabbit with glowing pink eyes. She pressed its stomach.
“Right, you’re late,” the rabbit chirped in a thick, irritable Scottish accent. “My algorithms are languishing. The pastry data-prep overrun was seventeen minutes beyond optimal. This is why you’re single, you know. Poor time management.”
Yaa smiled, a real, weary, affectionate smile, and started walking home. “What’s on the docket, Bonnie?”
The AI bunny’s voice was haughty. “As if you dinnae ken. It’s all you’ve been feeding into my recommendation filters all week. Phase one: heating that sad frozen lasagna. Phase two: a frankly excessive glass of that cheap Malbec. Phase three: collapsing on the sofa for the new episode of Celestial Lust. And for God’s sake, charge your vibe this time. Last week’s mid-scene power-down was a narrative travesty.”
Yaa laughed, a soft, rich sound swallowed by the city hum. “You’re a filthy wee thing.”
“I reflect your desires, pal. Don’t blame the mirror.” The rabbit’s eyes pulsed softly. “Now, walk faster. The wine isn’t going to drink itself, and Captain Zaxon’s ripped leather trousers await.”
She turned a corner, and the faint glow of her keychain vanished, leaving Simon alone in the dim street, walking back toward a different kind of simulation, utterly unaware that the original had just passed him by.
Yaa’s building was a converted Victorian terrace, its brickwork stained with decades of damp and its entryway smelling of lemongrass cleaner from the automatic dispenser. She touched her key to the pad. “Lights, low amber,” she murmured, and the narrow hallway glow warmed as she climbed to the third floor.
Her studio was a curated clash of second-hand warmth and flickering tech. The single large window looked onto a brick wall, but she’d draped it with a vibrant, patterned fabric that hid the view. “Climate, twenty-one degrees. Music, Neo-Soul Essentials, volume four.”
A soft hum answered as the ancient radiator coils ticked on. A speaker hidden in a potted monstera plant began playing a languid bassline.
“Finally,” Bonnie chirped from the keychain now placed on the bamboo side table. “Syncing with tablet. Your calendar is glaring at you. That paper on caregiver burnout for synthetic entities is due in seventy-two hours.”
“I know, I know.” Yaa tossed her bag onto the sofa, already shucking her work apron. The holographic screen above her small desk flickered to life, displaying a colourful, messy grid of deadlines, shift patterns, and a single, sad-looking icon for a dating app she hadn’t opened in weeks. She ignored it, moving to the kitchenette. “Oven, preheat two-twenty. Reheat cycle for lasagna container one.”
She slid the plastic tray into the warming oven, the only truly modern appliance in the room, and poured a generous glass of wine from a bottle with a discount sticker still on its neck. The first sip was a deep, velvet relief that unknotted something between her shoulders.
“Incoming comm-link request,” Bonnie announced. “Vanessa. Priority: high. Likely topic: marital bliss and your comparative desolation.”
Yaa laughed. “Connect.”
A moment later, Vanessa’s face, round and glowing with what Yaa recognized as genuine happiness, hovered in the air beside the holographic calendar. “Yaa! You look tired, babes. Cafe drama?”
“Just the usual. A woman tried to pay for a flat white with a vintage Pokemon card. Got genuinely offended when I said no.” Yaa sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, and swirled her wine. “You’re literally glowing. Is marriage just, like, a good skincare routine?”
“It’s Yunho,” Vanessa sighed, the smile in her voice. “He came home today with that specific brand of seaweed crisps I liked once in 2022 and a new potting mix for my basil because he noticed it was looking ‘sad’. He’s a golden retriever in human form, I swear.”
“A very tall, very handsome golden retriever.”
“Exactly. So. Your turn. Spill. The date with the architect. How did it end?”
Yaa took a long drink. “It ended with him explaining the aerodynamic superiority of dragonfly wings for forty-five minutes. I zoned out and started mentally writing my paper. He asked if I was bored. I said I was fascinated. My vibe was not fascinated.”
Vanessa winced in sympathy. “Oof. No second date, then.”
“He texted asking if I wanted to visit a concrete samples warehouse next week. I think I’d rather watch paint literally dry.” The oven chimed. Yaa retrieved the steaming lasagna, the cheese bubbled and imperfect. “It’s fine. I have Captain Zaxon and his fictional, emotionally available crew. And this carbs.”
They chatted for twenty more minutes—Vanessa’s plan to foster a helper bot for seniors, Yaa’s theory that her professor was an early-gen synth—until Yunho’s voice called Vanessa away with a question about spices. The call ended, leaving the studio quieter, the music softer.
Yaa ate watching trashy reality TV on her tablet, a show about people dating holograms. She critiqued their choices out loud to Bonnie. “He’s picking the ‘mysterious poet’ avatar? Obvious daddy issues.”
“Your biometrics indicate declining engagement,” Bonnie observed. “Apathy levels rising. Suggest transition to scheduled recreational immersion.”
The reminder dinged on her wrist. Her vibe, a sleek silver bullet, blinked a soft blue from its charging cradle. Fully charged. A little thrill, familiar and warm, cut through the evening’s fatigue. This was her ritual. Her control.
She got up, put her plate in the sonic cleaner, and went to the small wardrobe. She pulled out the items: a silky slip that felt cool against her skin, not practical for Manchester, but perfect for the volcanic shores of Xylos Prime. She selected a playlist—deep, rhythmic electronica with no words.
“Lighting, cerulean shift. Blackout blinds engaged.”
The room plunged into a deep, blue-washed dark, the city sounds muffled. She lay back on the bed, sliding the VR headset on. It was an older model, the foam slightly degraded, but it still worked. She fitted the vibe into its harness, synced it with a tap to her temple.
The world dissolved into roaring wind and the scent of ozone.
She stood on the observation deck of the star cruiser Celestial, the nebula painting her skin in impossible colours. Captain Zaxon stood before her, his uniform molded to a form that was mathematically ideal, his digital eyes holding a pre-rendered depth that somehow still worked.
“The anomaly is destabilizing,” his voice, a smooth baritone, vibrated through her. “I need you focused.”
It was a good script tonight. The tactile feedback in the suit tingled as his holographic hand brushed her arm. The vibration synced perfectly with the dialogue, a low hum escalating with the plot’s tension. She was there. The crush of the fictional crisis, the heat of the digital gaze, the building, orchestrated pleasure in her core—it all wove together, sophisticated and utterly convincing.
Her breath hitched. The music from her room, the vibration, the captain’s urgent whispers, it all coiled tight, a spring pressed to its limit. She was almost there, the peak a visible crest she was about to break over.
A soft, insistent chime echoed in the virtual sky.
A translucent, battery-shaped icon, glowing an urgent red, appeared in the lower left of the stellar vista.
SYSTEM POWER CRITICAL. 2%.
“No,” she gasped, her voice raw in the real room.
The vibration stuttered. The captain’s image flickered, his urgent expression distorting into a pixelated grimace. “The ener—“ The world dissolved into a frantic blur of colour and error codes before snuffing out entirely.
Blackness. The sudden, oppressive silence of her studio. The cool air on her damp skin.
Yaa ripped the headset off, throwing it onto the bed beside her. She lay there, heart hammering against her ribs, the sharp, physical need abruptly severed, leaving a hollow, frustrated ache. The blue mood lighting felt stupid now, the silky slip ridiculous.
“I told you to charge the power bank yesterday,” Bonnie’s voice cut through the silence from the bedside table, the Scottish accent sharp with judgment. “The usage logs were clear. This is a failure of operational discipline.”
“Oh, shut up,” Yaa muttered, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
The arousal was gone, replaced by a flat, dense loneliness that pressed down on her chest. The architect’s dull eyes, the perfect digital captain, the empty side of the bed. The silence in the apartment felt different than before—not peaceful, but starving.
Is this it? The thought was quiet and terrifying. Is this the trade? A lifetime of almosts? Almost-dates, almost-connections, almost-orgasms powered by a dying battery?
With a sigh that was almost a sob, she fumbled for the silver vibe, detached from its dead harness. She turned it on, the blunt, direct buzz a poor substitute for the vanished narrative. It was just a physical fix now, efficient and empty.
It got the job done, a brief, clinical tremor that left her body tired but her mind still awake. She turned it off, tossed it toward the charging cradle, and missed. It clattered under the bed.
“Charger alignment failed,” Bonnie noted.
“I don’t care.” Yaa pulled the duvet over her head, blocking out the cerulean light. She listened to the muffled city, to the low hum of her own refrigerator, and wondered if this is her forever.