Adverse

I wake up and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes. Popcorn. Stubbly in a gravely, erratic pattern, it looks almost edible. It’d make a fine garnish, to be honest. Oh shit, I’m hungry — it’s time to get up. I throw the weighted blanket off me, toss my legs to the side, and sit at the edge of the bed for a few seconds. More than enough to activate it.

“Filet Mignon, caviar, Alaskan king crab, ahi tuna, truffle butter, bolognese. Do you miss the tastes of the Old World? Butter and salt, pepper and cheese? Just say Pleeze! With this third generation series, your daily food pills have never tasted better! Now with twice* the amount of nutrients and triple** the taste!”

I close my eyes as the woman’s upbeat voice rattles off all of its improved piquancies and newfound umami. The sound grows louder, louder still, until I open my eyes again. Stacks of falling food fill the space in front of my legs. The side effects stuff the bottom half of my vision. I stand up as the last complication — “internal bleeding” — floats somewhere off to the right.

A “Buy Now” button pulses in the middle of my vision, and I quickly look away. Won’t make that mistake again. The SteakFake from 3 months ago is still stockpiled in the freezer. Good and semi-succulent, almost authentic, but not 2 weeks’ wages good.

I’m already late as I wrestle on my khaki pants, a lavender collared shirt, and wrap my VirtuPal around my wrist while slipping on my shoes. I rush to the stop outside my complex. The schedule scrolls down the large LED screen slowly.

Campbell, 7 minutes.
Liberty, 19 minutes.
Estra, 23 minutes.
Wezuca, 31 minutes.
Commerce District, 40 minutes.

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I look up the street and see my Commerce District-bound floater coming to a stop at the Disconnect Terminal. The stop is pristine compared to my stop. Clean, white marble stretched ground and sky, and features no attendants, just machines that scuttle around carrying luggage and cleaning behind those that couldn’t be bothered to find a trash receptacle. I couldn’t afford to take that line every day, even with another job. Being Disconnected feels like a fad to me.

But my boss says if I’m late again this week, he’s going to cut my hours. I take off towards the stopped bus, tapping my VirtuPal. Check how much money I have in my account right now. The figure shines in my peripheral — $87.93. I slide into the floating bus, heaving breathlessly, just before the doors close. The cabin bounces as I step in fully. I reveal my wrist to the circular pay port affixed to the front of the bus. My account drops down to $12.43.

A seat in the second to last row illuminates green. I slide down the aisle, avoiding the occasional knee, hip, and lovehandle.

“Lethargy, low energy levels, no motivation, joint pain, excess fat. That extra weight will be the death of you. Fortunately, there’s a cure! For the low price of $425 per dose, with Nomafat, you can go from slob to sl—”

It cuts off suddenly as I reach the back half of the floater. I shake my head, the sudden withdrawal making me a little nauseous. The noises of the bus feel louder. Snoring, the rustling of fabric from shaking, impatient legs, the buzz of the bus fills my ears. I tap my VirtuPal to make sure my vitals are okay, but it doesn’t wake.

I look behind me before taking my seat. There’s a gap between the front and the back, marked by a white glowing line on the floor. The ad floats and continues on behind the line, muffled, displaying before and after weight loss photos. I sit, trying to acclimate, the noise still harsh in my ears. I look to my left and I can see outside — it’s brighter than the front. In fact, there aren’t any windows up front, only the windshield and the door. I guess I never noticed that before.

The rest of the people in the back of the bus look strange, unoccupied. Instead of looking straight ahead, absorbing the stream of ads that make the commute pass by a little faster, they look around.

A man a couple of rows directly in front of me smiles as we start moving. There’s a hum. Not from the bus, no, that’s silent. Ahead on my right, a woman and her child are conversing about something. An older lady sitting behind them is humming a tune. Unfamiliar, from a long time ago, I think.

The trees outside the window are a green and yellow blur. Flashes of neon metal would interrupt their pattern every few seconds.

“First time?” a woman seated next to me asks. I flinch. I hadn’t noticed her until then.

“Yeah.” The cost still stings. Might be short on rent next month.

She looks at me precariously, an eyebrow raised and a slight smile, almost as if amused. It’s odd. To see someone, with nothing plaguing my peripheral, is a bit surreal. There’s no glaze over her face, no trace of a thousand yard stare in her eyes. To actually see — it’s been a while since I’ve seen a face full of…light.

She’s pretty. Not pretty like the perfectly crafted women in the ads. No, they’re too attractive, too perfect. Skin fair, unblemished, voluminous blonde hair, straight and white teeth, tall, lean and busty bosomed. That’s what everyone wants to see.

She has soft impressions along her cheeks from decade-old smiles, streaks of salt and pepper in her chestnut hair, a low, raspy voice, and a quaint frame covered with a scratchy, oversized wool sweater. It’s light brown, makes her hazel eyes pop.

I can feel my face and the tips of my ears getting warm. I never look at women, or anyone for that matter, in the eyes. Most of the time I couldn’t even if I wanted to — it feels like a disservice, a distraction. But she continues to stare, expecting me to say something more. I look away, pretending to take interest in a bug scurrying across the window. She shifts in her seat, her eyes staring through the back of my head.

“What brings you to the back?” I look at her — still smiling, as if I had said something funny a few moments before.

“Oh, I’m just late for work. Couldn’t wait for the next one.”

“What do you do?” Forever curious, this one.

“Cooling Agent for ServerCorp.” Boring work really, just making sure the data servers don’t get overheated and some occasional diagnostic work. Nothing ever goes wrong, gives me plenty of time to think, get in a few extra ads.

“You?”

“I’m a curator,” she says, almost apprehensively. She looks away quickly and blood fills her cheeks. She’s strange.

“I thought there wasn’t much of a market for art anymore?” Since funding got pulled from most of the nations’ museums, they just closed. I don’t know if anyone ever thought to miss them either.

“Oh,” she says softly, her eyebrow twitching a little, “no, not that kind of curator.”

I can’t think of anything else to say.

“What did you leave behind, there?” she asks, nodding towards the white line.

“Nomafat, I think it was called.” She cocked her head. This woman and her expressions.

“You don’t need anything like that,” she says, looking me up and down. She mutters something about “calibration” under her breath. Looking up the aisle and back at me, she nods.

“I see. Your brain made a little leap between the people at the front of the bus and their weight. Could be because you paid for DC, or maybe you feel like your diet is lacking, or you’re scared to look like them. Regardless, this ad is prompted by insecurity and played at moments where the user could feel they need a push, especially near gyms or groups of people whose average weight is greater than or equal to 199.7 pounds.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that much went into it. I just opt in for the discounts.” That’s why anyone signs up. If you watch enough ads, you can even get extra water rations or, my favorite, $100 off rent. But the basic percentage off food pills and transportation is enough to keep me in the program, even if I don’t reach that extra threshold every month.

“The AdVerse is built upon, like, trillions of data points, collected and dispersed by curators like myself. When you sign up, the system, since it’s directly implemented into your body, collects biometric data. Curators determine how each ad gets sent out and when, based on habits, feelings, and all the human stuff the algorithm can’t figure out.”

“What kind of stuff do you get then?”

“Oh, no, I’m not enrolled,” she says before a short chuckle, “I never liked the idea of constantly being pandered to.”

I don’t know what to say to that. She’s looking at me like I ought to be offended.

“It helps ground me a little, if that makes sense.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, because no, it doesn’t make sense. We’re quiet for a moment.

“It’s like when music used to have words. Remember that?”

“I think so.” Vaguely — I was probably 8 or 9 when music had to be state-approved before it could be released. Somewhere along the way I guess words stopped being important.

“It was easy to get lost in the worlds the musicians created, you know? And now, it’s all an insouciantly, algorithmically-curated mess.”

I tap my VirtuPal to check my playlist. Ambiance, lo-fi, Nu-Jazz, Vibe, and DigiMall. Mostly state or machine generated, and all ad-integrated, of course.

“AdVerse would take me another step away from the ground beneath my feet, from me.” She is more serious now, a bit of venom caressing the end of her sentence. A scowl permeates her brow. A pang of guilt trickles down my throat and into my chest.

“I guess that does make sense.” I shift my feet around in my shoes, the leather squeaking.

My heart sinks a little as we reach the district. I can see the stout, window-laden building, donning ServerCorp in bright LED’s just above the revolving door, coming into view. She extends her hand. A smile replaces the dour expression etched in her face, almost as if she forgot the words that she just spoke.

“It was nice meeting you, I’m Natasha.” Almost autonomously, I stand up as the floater comes to a stop. I wrap my hand around hers and our touch lingers. When I thought to pull away, I didn’t. I, we, stare at each other.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say before letting go of her hand.

“Hope to see you again soon,” she says as I turn towards the exit.

I turn and flash one last smile before stepping over the white line. She smiles and waves back.

Have my feet not been touching the ground?

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I hop off the floating bus, my stomach rumbling.

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On the other side of the road, the Commerce District is coming to life. Lights are flickering on, storefronts are raising their gates, company holo-projections start to fill the skyline. Quiet, weightless giants conduct the sunrise, the city their orchestra. Lines form at banks. Planes, their dark wingspans stretching across the yellow morning sky, fly overhead. They’re low, and in waves, their deafening screech and rumble shaking the ground as they peruse, their destination unknown. Clicking and scuffing along the concrete breaks up the buzzing from the Lumo Lights lining the street.

“Government PSA incoming. Government PSA incoming.”

Everyone stops moving and stares into space, waiting with bated breath. It’s nice. The worker ants stop, even if just for a moment, to observe the heavy foot looming above them.

Silence, then the automated message:

“Rolling blackouts nationwide. The Center Authority imposes a curfew beginning at 8 PM tonight. Any citizens who neglect curfew will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Please remain indoors until the curfew is lifted.”

The message repeats itself four more times. A ping automatically comes up on my VirtuPal as a reminder to be home before 8. The light turns, a few cars blaze through anyway, taking out one or two of the most eager of us, then the crowd herds across the street and to their occupations. Business as usual.

I look down at my feet. They are touching the ground, I think. Perhaps not, I’m wearing shoes. I step over a mangled body, poor guy oughta know. Sirens off in the distance, a ritual best learned from the back of the crowd. I catch his eyes. Rather, his eye, the other is gone. My VirtuPal pings, something about work in my peripheral, but I can’t look away. I’ve seen the absence in his eyes before, like a light extinguished. In my own, in the mirror. Am I no more alive than a dead man?

The crowd, my legs, pull me forward while my eyes, a little heavier in my head now, want to pull me back, but can’t.

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Only after I find my feet planted in the Commerce District do I realize that I will be exactly 45 seconds late to work. A red, flashing ETA sits in my peripheral at 9:01. I turn and half jog. I can see the building, and my boss’s back as he enters the building. I sprint. As I reach the door, it opens automatically, I scan my wrist and dance around the crowd in the lobby towards the elevator. I’m wheezing, with hands on my knees, as I squeeze in behind my boss on the elevator and press the button for B3, the lowest level, and the home for most of our servers.

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“Cutting it a little close, no?” He stares straight ahead, not even bothering to look at me. I wonder what kind of ads he gets. I just chuckle and nod, still trying to catch my breath. He gets off at B1. The door opens and closes without another word.

I pop a food pill in my mouth — it should get me through the day at least, don’t have a ton left. Country fried steak and gravy, but chalky cardboard as I crush the little white pill with my teeth. The flavors wash down my throat and settle in my stomach. Reminds me of home. The faint smell of spent oil stains my clothes, the cicadas screaming from the trees filtered by the screen door. Before, when ads would dance on screens and decorate paper. Before, when war was just a conflict in a far away land, our backyard unoccupied, the bodies surrounding the fire civil, relaxed.

I’ll feel fuller through the next couple of hours. I’ll be okay enough until I get off, at least. I stalk the rows of servers for any potential issues, no red lights, no problems. They loom, black metal stretched ten feet tall, propping up the ceiling. They emit a musky heat; the server room is generally pretty cool to offset this. Green lights pulse and clear tubes jerk as they fill with water. I find my desk in disarray, just as I left it, open my desktop to a few notifications and plop down in my CloudAir chair.

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Server 3-79 is a few degrees too warm, so I type the number into my console, press a few buttons and it trickles back down to a consistent number. Work is mostly just this for eight hours. No visitors, no customers, just make sure the servers stay cool. Even if only one server goes down, it houses enough data to collapse entire sectors of the Commerce District if one were to overheat. Failure is not an option. This is made certain to everyone who enters the server room.

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I look up and almost my entire screen is red. I scramble a little, but it’s just some minor overheating, usually happens once or twice a week and calls for a full cooling flush and reset.

“Flush,” I say out loud, to no one in particular, almost autonomously. I click the little red button attached to my desk. The air conditioning cranks up and water flushes through and around almost every server. Lights tick back to green throughout the server room.

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‘I’ll have to disagree, Trev. Mafala Zouma is easily the best player in the league this season and is on pace for an MVP season in his contract year with the Defenders. He’s bigger and still as fast as Musa, and they’re fighting for relegation. I think Zouma and the Defenders will come out with a chip on their shoulder in this match.’

‘You know what? Roll the clip, man. This is from their last matchup at the beginning of the season. Musa throws a cheeky shoulder here to cause an eventual fumble, scoops, and run circles around the entirety of New Detroit for an easy goal. And guess what, Paul. He’s gonna do it over and over again in this matchup! For my Cyberball Special on MoneySpread I’m taking the over 2.5 goals for Musa and the Beavers money-line for an easy +200 turnaround.’

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The days seem to end quicker and quicker despite the monotony of the job.

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I purvey one last time before clicking the button to the elevator. My desk is still a mess, that’s fine. All the lights I can see are green. As I step into the elevator and the doors close, I think a light flickers to red, but it’s so brief I might be seeing things. I’m not allowed overtime, so it’ll have to be tomorrow’s problem. Servers will be going to power saving mode soon anyway and the night engineer is already on the way in, probably.

The sun’s already lain back across the horizon as I walk out of the building. Bright Lumo Lights guide me to somewhere, anywhere I’d like really, though they lack the personality of the stars they drown out. Back home, my VirtuPal reminds me. I peek into storefronts as I wander. Some, few, are still open, mostly the restaurants, a couple bars, though one only serves alcohol, and Mound’s, of course, just opened. A sexy gynoid dances just beyond the open door, stage lights glinting off its metallic dome-piece and strobing neon lights guiding the eye toward its— I keep walking, heeding the warning of my VirtuPal. Gangly sentries sit in the shadows of the other shuttered stores, just beyond the glass, daring perps to pick the locks or smash the windows.

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Terminal is empty after 6. Most went home hours ago to prep for the blackouts. An empty floater pulls up as I approach. 5 bucks, no DC this time, even if it is discounted for low traffic. It bounces under my weight as I step on. I glance towards the back, no Natasha, and I sit in the front row as the door closes.

My vision goes black. A wolf howls, a scream, wind blows in my ears, my heart is thumping in my throat. My lungs are on fire so suddenly, as if I were the one who’d screamed. Windfall is short, my knees ache.

“Experience Midnight Madness at Wellston Theater starring the venerable Dolores Abernathy as Ashley Canopy and Collin Royce as Bruxton Hayes — this wolfish romance is sure to get your heart racing and aching!”

These new experimental ads get intense.

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“Hello,” a voice says off to my right, prying me back to the real world, absent of the tropical music just playing in my ears.

“Hello,” I respond, though I’m not sure to whom.

“How are you doing this evening?” A small woman appears from a couple of seats behind me. Still not Natasha, but pleasant nonetheless. Blazing red hair erupts from her head, tucked behind protruding ears. Glasses are propped on her freckly nose. She doesn’t smile, so her question feels disingenuous.

“Fine, you?”

“Same.” She settles back into her seat and is quiet for a moment before clearing her throat. Strange one, she is. She clearly still has something on her mind as she peeks back over the seat a few more times, searching for my gaze.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Oh, me? No.”

“Okay, have a nice night.”

“Have you heard of Sun Escapades?”

I glance at her, but don’t respond.

“Feel bloated? Hate what you see in the mirror in the morning? Try Trubixten. Trubixten is used to treat mild to moderate facial inflammation. In clinical trials, Trubixten showed results in less than three weeks in 60% of patients. Take back your face, ask your doctor if Trubixten is right for you. Please do not use if allergic to Trubixten. Tell your doctor if you are or planning to become pregnant. Side effects include nausea, severe cramping, internal ble—”

“It’s a vacation planning module you can implant directly into your VirtuPal. I just got back from New Detroit, even had time to make a pitstop in Odetro to check out all the history. Really cheap too, Sun Escapades saved me a couple hundred bucks with the hotel and flight packages. You sure you’ve never heard of it?”

“I’m positive,” I say as I stand up. She looks defeated. I peer over the seat to make sure she’s at least not gonna jump in front of traffic later. She isn’t crying, which is a relief, but she doesn’t have any legs. Where there should be flesh, only metal tines attached to the floor. So she definitely can’t jump into traffic. But she can also never escape it. I can’t decide which fate is worse. The skin, if you can call it that, on her face is a little pale now that I think about it. And her shirt, a minimalist sun logo and the letters SE underneath. I roll my eyes and hop off the floater.

The streets are empty, and my apartment building looms. The brick is grimy, with soot dripping from its pores, but the windows are clean, mirrored, reflecting the lights of the city in the distance. Neighbors are attending to their minutiae. Lights off, extra water rations, extra food pills, flashlights, the works.

I tap my wrist to the front door and it slips open revealing the cold, gray concrete “welcome” center. The autonomous receptionist, staring off into the distance, dials up the elevator for me.

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I step into my apartment as the moans subside and the lights raise softly. I’ll have to sacrifice a pill for dinner, no use in getting the kitchen all stirred up if the power’s going out. I sit in my ComfyCouch recliner and kick the leg rest open. I flip on the television wall to whatever game is on — the Detroit Auto vs. the Toronto Beavers at the moment — and let my ads run.

“Midwest Magic at Mounds, every night! Come for the ladies, stay for the ‘wings!’”

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The tv and all the lights flicker, falter, then go out completely. Blackouts are happening more often nowadays. They need the power elsewhere, apparently.

I stand up, flip the lights a few times just to make sure. This point in the night is where most would wander off to sleep. With no ads to distract, the respite, silence, feels like a punishment.

But I’ve unknowingly made this habit. The blinds, a funny name I realize now, automatically shut during the blackouts to “preserve energy.” But if they never lock into place, they’re pliable, as if they were made of cheap plastic rather than alloyed metal. The crumpled wrapper of a water ration was all it took. I don’t know what prompted me to do this the first time, however many blackouts ago. Maybe the city lights, the quiet sinking into my skin, or fear. We don’t think about fear when we’re distracted. But the weight of the impending is crushing when we’re forced to reckon with it. I’m reminded every time jets scream across the sky, in a blink, headed north. For me, every red light is a death sentence, and every silence is a reminder.

The unlocked blinds let in a little moonlight. I like to look out onto the neighboring streets. They’re always empty, the occasional ration or food pill litter tossing in the wind the lone occupants. Other apartment complexes are pitch-black too. The moon, almost full, hangs in the sky, as if waiting to be pulled down. The air is rigid, the blackout bringing a tension to its constituents as they sleep or toss and turn, shuffling their sheets to betray the quiet.

Movement at the edge of the window draws my attention. A shadowy mass, floating down the length of the street. A group walks in step, their faces hidden, though, resemble uniformed soldiers. Carbon fiber corrals steel in stalks that creep up their backs and over their shoulders. They stalk, their mission unclear to me. One looks up at my building, craning his neck, probably looking at the top, where the pool, now dirty and closed for the season, overlooks the street. He scans down and he pauses, looking, I swear, right at me. I can tell now, they seem equipped with night or thermal vision, a neon green shining across the bridge of their noses. I flinch and let the blind close for a moment before peaking once more. The outfit moves further down the road, just past the front door to my building.

My skin crawls, anticipation shivering down my spine. This is the first time, in all these blackouts, that I’ve seen anything. Normally, the night passes like a whisper. Overhead, a sprawling bomber spreads its wings and glides, silently, due north. Indiscernible on any other night, a beacon under the full moon, it casts a shadow on the earth below.

I hear a knock. My heart leaps into my throat. I hadn’t realized how fast it’d been racing until it threatened to bring my stomach contents with it. I creep to the door. Another knock, this time quieter. I swing open the door and a short figure stands within its frame.

“This is going to sound so strange, but I looked you up and found you. It was actually way easier than it sounds. I promise I’m not a stalker. But I know you could use some company right now based on your ad queue. God, I know, I’m so weird.”

The voice would’ve been startling if it weren’t familiar.

“This is how it used to be, you know. Just show up at someone’s door and make ‘em yours.” I can see the outline of her mouth moving, the words spilling from her mouth and down to my feet. Firmly on the ground. Her hand reaches out for mine and I accept. Soft, warm.

“Natasha… come in, please. You didn’t have any trouble getting in?”

She responds by nuzzling her head into my chest. A woman of intention. Our bodies touched. Truthfully I wanted to talk, just as we had on the bus. More about being planted firmly on the ground. That’s what these nights mean to me — a chance to remember. I only remember in the dark. And she helped me remember in the light of day.

My heart, and head, thump. She kisses me. I don’t stop her.

No, we don’t stop. We tumble, and fall, into dark recesses, over and over, hoping this fleeting moment won’t change for the very next. But it does, and as much as I don’t want to like it, to receive this carnal blessing — I didn’t exactly earn it — do I have a choice? I opt in, yes, I beg to be taken advantage of. I never thought to think about the absence of this moment. Just take it, yes, accept it, you, I, can never escape. It brings me shame to admit that I never plan to. My feet are firmly on the ground. I’m in it, yes, and I’m okay with remembering only briefly if this is the means to the end.

“Our time is up,” she whispers in my ear. I shush her, brush her hair with my hand. It’s early morning now, the sun just broaching the horizon, trickling sunlight into my apartment.

She sits up abruptly, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and stands over me with her hands on her hips. Her face contorts, her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she opens her mouth wide. Like a screeching mockingbird, she erupts into a cacophony of metallic sound before clearing her throat and settling down into a smooth baritone.

“Thank you for your purchase of our robo-companion services. Your time with this customized lovely lady is now up — we hope you had fun. If you have any complaints, questions, or concerns, please don’t hesitate to reach the helpline. For urgent requests or refunds, please speak directly into the speaker. Otherwise, your account will be charged and processed within 2-3 business days.”

She turns and leaves after standing there with her mouth agape for a moment. I groan and turn back over to get a few more minutes of sleep.

“Stuck in a cycle? Every day feel the same? Consider joining the Disconnect community, a tight-knit group resisting all things electronic. We’ve recently revealed all new Disconnect terminals and bus sections with many more spaces to come with disconnectivity at their core. Say no to the AdVerse and all invasive tech. Come find your people, your place, your purpose in the Disconnect community.”