Dyad
Collaborative fiction with Sandolore Sykes
Dyad (n.): A pair of individuals regarded as a unit, especially in contexts of interaction, opposition, or transformation. In psychology, philosophy, and sociology, a dyad represents the smallest possible social group, charged with intensity, vulnerability, and potential for fusion or fracture.
Matchvector 075-A12 [LANG] i
My virtual counselor, Bonnie, wants the transcript—a log of events. She says I'm too easily distracted in the talk sessions, though I'm pretty sure she just can't keep up with my multifaceted storytelling, me being quite verbose–and I just feel that if I have the capacity and vocabulary to express what happened with Carrie, then I should fully realize that experience in my reporting of events and not skim over anything because details are important, and I can't help but remember the myriad specifics, especially on the most catastrophic and affecting date I've had in years.
It all started after a Mojave of a dry spell. And out of sheer panic, I thought I'd try ɴᴍɪᴛᴀʙʟ, a Dating Intelligence Agent that matches neurodivergent and psychologically diverse individuals with complementary partners.
Though it's quite obvious to anyone, I don't express any particular cognitive variability, I thought I might insert myself in the algorithm, mendaciously indicating my unique place on a personality disorder spectrum and hope for a sympathetic match. I know it sounds cheap, but in my mind, I'd tried all of the traditional tracks where every single person denied me a second date. Most of the time, I could take it in stride. I'm not everyone's cup of tea. But after a while, it gets to you, and I found myself under a blanket on the couch in the throes of loneliness on more than a few occasions as of late.
After a comprehensive questionnaire and subsequent remote interview, I was told that they had found me a match. And while they didn't get into the specifics right away, they told me that there were some potentially challenging accommodations I might need to consider before I agreed to a more formal in-person introduction.
I'd keep an open mind and see what was what. After all, it couldn't be worse than being abandoned at restaurants under the ruse of a restroom break. All true, it happened seven times.
"Oh. There won't be any restaurants involved on your date," the DIA told me, "—that is, if you are amenable to the list of prerequisite ablutions and sanitation protocols."
This got me fired up. But in a good way that I hadn't expected. I love process, as you may have guessed. Court procedurals, furniture assembly, and taxes are all so intellectually delicious to me, so naturally, a date involving any complicated requirements seemed not only reasonable but fantastically alluring.
Of course, I agreed to any and all of the conditions and asked if there was anything else I could or couldn't do, taking careful note to emphasize my willingness to create a safe and friendly space if and when me and my counterpart on the continuum of emotional health were to meet.
If we would not be dining, as is the convention, I was curious what the alternative construct might entail. Perhaps the theater with a few after-hours cocktails, maybe the jazz club, maybe the disco. But nothing could have prepared me for what was actually going to happen.
Matchvector 075-B44 [CARRIE] i
Dear, "Ask Martha," I am doing well, thank you for asking. As I have mentioned in my previous messages, I was working toward the important and necessary goal of making meaningful interactions with others, while still respecting my personal limitations, which are not arbitrary but, as you acknowledged, quite valid.
This date—the event that I had been so looking forward to, the one I had spent much time preparing for, both emotionally and spiritually—went far worse than I could have ever expected.
When I registered with ɴᴍɪᴛᴀʙʟ, I was thrilled by how much detail I was allowed to provide. The unlimited word count alone was an enormous relief. I was able to lay out, in full, all the elements that would need to be in place for me to successfully welcome my man friend into my home. He could not have seemed more ideal. Tall, handsome enough, well-spoken, and most importantly, completely agreeable to all my necessary boundaries. He also did not seem overly concerned with my appearance, which, as I mentioned, can have a certain overwhelming effect on some men.
The aftershocks of this date are still affecting me all these months later, and it is time that I explain to you exactly what happened on that fateful day.
I was so excited for his arrival on March 11th that I scrubbed every dish and surface multiple times. I repeated the process until my hands began to peel, at which point I was forced to put on oil gloves. Then I worried that the apartment would smell of bleach, so I ran the air recirculator at full blast and activated the floral purification cycle several times. A scent that could only be described as "overwhelmingly floral," was heavy in the room, but by then it was too late to undo it.
I wore a simple green blouse and a pair of jeans, so that he would not become overly aroused by my figure, and I tied my blond hair into a simple ponytail hoping it would not distract him from my personality. I wore very little makeup.
I acknowledge now that it may have seemed abrupt to insist that he immediately step into the Ionizing Heat Blaster. I had feared that he would begin with small talk. However, to my relief, he entered without hesitation and even seemed pleased to do so. I warned him that the process sometimes causes tingling or dizziness, and in response, he made a joke that I didn’t understand. I was so grateful for his flexibility that a polite laugh seemed like the least I could do.
Reliving these moments is difficult for me. You mentioned that I may be suffering from PTSD and recommended I take breaks when the emotions become too much, so I will continue this recount once I have had a moment to recompose myself.
Matchvector 075-A12 [LANG] ii
Earlier in the day, I had shaved and trimmed my moustache, swabbed my ears, and plucked a few conspicuous coarse hairs from the inside of my left nostril. The latter activity, unfortunately causing me to wince, and knock over my combination tobacco-bergamot cologne, spilling out across my bathroom vanity. The fumes were intense and in retrospect I probably blew out my olfactory sensors. But I soaked up as much as I could and splashed it over my body, probably underestimating the pungency of the scent due to my sudden and hopefully temporary anosmia.
I wore my stripes. Horizontal ones, brown and blue, on my polyester blend sweater, and vertical ones, grey and burgundy, on my wool trousers. In this way, I hoped to broaden my shoulders and lengthen my legs, not that I am affected by any particular body dysmorphia, I only wanted to accentuate my physique without directly calling attention to it (see, I'm trying to learn from my past experiences). Picked up some spring Tulips, yellow and orange. I thought roses might be perceived as too presumptuous, being the flower of love. And while I was absolutely ready for love, I was open to the idea of not finding it on this particular night.
Carrie, being agoraphobic, necessitated my state of preparedness. Somewhat relieved by this situation, I felt quite open and receptive to the plan. She was preparing a meal for us and had even asked about my dessert preferences, kindly indicating that she could even accommodate some allergy restrictions, of which I told her I had none that I knew of. I wouldn't call her humorless, but I did find her directness and perfunctory patter, a little flat. Wasn't worried though, it usually took a bit for people to warm up to me. I had practiced a few ways of breaking the ice with the DIA and was ready to unfreeze those cold waters over some lively conversation at dinner.
When she opened the door, I was struck by her sparkling blue-green eyes that shone above the N362 mask she told me she would wear until I entered through the Ionizing Heat Blast apparatus and scrubbed away any unwanted bacteria and particulate.
I was also struck by her golden hair tied up at the back and wanted to remark on its sheen and playful bounce but decided I might defer to a less dramatic moment, or so I thought.
When I stepped across the threshold of the machine, I felt the sizzle of hot air bubble across my form, including the tulips which immediately wilted and fried under the intense temperatures. And I would have been distracted by this set back, but was suddenly more concerned by another transformation as the Ion nozzle reached my mid section and down my inseam, causing me to experience some sudden and unwanted tumescence in that particular area.
I dropped the drooping flowers down over my not-so-drooping pleats, and in the heat of that moment, wanting to distract both of us, I tried to compliment her, "I love your pony bum," I said, completely miss-stating the correct phrase and quickly pointing at the back of my own head, trying to correct my blunder.
She might have smiled, squinted or grimaced—it was hard to tell, but she at least took a step back and invited me in, indicating a place to sit and take off my shoes.
Matchvector 075-B44 [CARRIE] ii
When he stepped out, I had the folded garments ready in my outstretched arms. Honestly, I was a little disappointed that not even one strand of his oddly helmeted hair was out of place.
His voice was rather garbled as he tried to say something to me about his bum, wildly gesticulating behind his head, and I hoped that he wasn’t going to pass out, his face looked unnaturally red.
I nodded toward the pile of garments and that’s when I noticed his expression. He glanced down at the wilted tulips that I was sorry to not have been able to accept, and for just a second, he looked like a woeful child, head bent, like he was in trouble. And something about it—it moved me. I don’t know why. But seeing him there, red in the face, breathing fast, looking so unsure. Before I even thought about it, I actually stepped toward him.
And in that exact moment, I smelled him.
And I am telling you—it was delicious. I don’t know if it burned my eyes, or I was just kind of moved, because I had actual tears in my eyes! The only thing I could do was grip the pile of folded clothes and hold it out to him like some kind of sacred offering.
He didn’t move at first. Had the agency not informed him about the clothes? Had he not read the whole document?
So when he suddenly snatched the clothes, I was startled.
When he returned wearing the green pajamas, I swear to you, my heart nearly stopped.
Something about them changed him. They gave him this…worldly look. Made him seem almost Asian, which I found very stimulating. His feet were bare–he wasn’t wearing the slippers—and I couldn’t help but notice how well-groomed they were.
We stood there in the hallway, just looking at each other, and I slowly lowered my mask. We didn’t speak or move. Just… breathing. It felt like hours, when it was probably just a heartbeat.
A single heartbeat.
I broke the moment by leading him into the living room. We sat on the couch, facing each other. I offered him a baby carrot. He accepted it graciously and went on chatting about how very comfortable the pajamas were, and how tasteful my decorating was.
And then—he took a bite. The moment his teeth sank into it, his face twisted into a horrible expression! For one awful second, I thought he had broken a tooth. It was that bad. But then I remembered—oh no—I had forgotten to tell him. The carrots were synthetic– I myself forget!
I started explaining myself, but then I just… kept going. I babbled about how I try not to let once-alive, now-dead things into my home. And then, for some reason, I kept talking—about how everything has a history, and how I don’t like those histories going inside me, and how I don’t want to absorb things that used to be something else, and—Martha, I was spiraling.
So, to save the situation, I poured us each a glass of wine and held mine up in a toast.
In a somewhat rude tone, he said: “Is this synthetic too?” When I told him it was real, his whole body relaxed. And then, Martha, he smiled at me.
Not just a regular smile, but a boyish, ear-to-ear, heart-melting smile.
Even though he immediately started talking—at great length—about the ethical concerns around synthetic polymers, and the ongoing debates about New-Flesh, it felt like we had suddenly just sort of settled in.
He stood and looked out the window at the city. He said something about the lights, about how beautiful they were, about how the high-beams of the FlyCars were piercing through the clouds.
I rose and stood there beside him, watching the side of his face, the way he gestured with his hands, the way his eyes shone.
And for the first time all evening, I felt something I hadn’t expected to feel.
I felt hopeful.
Matchvector 075-A12 [LANG] iii
She gave me the comfies, as expected, and I dashed to the changeroom, happy to find some private space to cool off with a splash of water and some spearmint mouthwash.
Perhaps overthinking, I decided to strip nude and not wear my underwear under the green garments. In case she asked, I was prepared with the correct answer. I folded and placed my clothes in the yellow bin on the floor near the tub as per the instructions that I had diligently memorized. The slippers were uncomfortably small so I left them near the door. Next came the check-in back at the foyer. And after that, I would just follow her lead. So far so good, now that we were past that awkward first look.
Stepping over the dead tulips, I walked over to her but felt like I was gliding. The jade evening wear swooshing over my thighs and draping my shoulders like a lounge lizard of spectacular countenance. I noticed her up-down my aspect quite thoroughly and for a moment wondered if we were connecting on a level I hadn't experienced in some time, not that I am completely estranged from the flirtatious threads of potential intimacy. I'd like to think that I do alright. But in truth, I do not.
Why she would still call this a living room, is beyond any rational assumptions. And while I commented in fastidious detail on everything from the floorboards to the fringed hassock, while washing down synth snacks with a glass of cheap wine, there was such a pall of ersatz charm and imitation cooze to the immediate environs, that I had to see if the rest of her interior world was similarly imbued with like imitation warmth. It could be important. A telling sign. I like to watch out for these things.
We glimpsed the lights of the city out the window for a few moments before I asked if she might give me a little tour around the place. This might have seemed forward, but I was relieved when she agreed and I felt her fingertips alight on my shoulder indicating a wish to move in the direction of the combination dining-room-kitchen. It was surely a signal, this woman shut away from the world, choosing me to be her touch sigil and initiand into her inner life, as it were.
I thought I felt her nasal exhalations on the back of my arm as we got jammed up in the doorway. I think she might have been sniffing me but I've been known to assign false intention to phantom sensation before. Indeed it is a more than common occurrence of which I am painfully aware.
The kitchen smelled wonderful mostly and I asked her what she had been cooking for us, to which she stared blankly at the oven for a second before turning to me and smiling, "Green bean casserole," she said, but I could tell she was worried. She then explained that she hadn't cooked for anyone in a very long time and she wasn't sure her culinary skills and palette were quite up to the standards of such a worldly gentlemen as myself.
So, as is my kind nature, I decided to relieve the tension by indicating my wish to continue the tour, placing my hand on the small of her back and pointing at what I now know to be the bedroom and the catalyst for everything else that happened that evening.
Matchvector 075-B44 [CARRIE] iii
Before dinner, I gave him a tour of my apartment, and I have to admit that when he placed his hand on the small of my back, I got shivers up and down my spine. Not the kind of shivers that physical contact normally gives me.
I went red-cheeked as we entered my bedroom, despite the fact that the bed is just a showpiece.
I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this before, Martha, but I sleep in what they call a kennel—I have the coziest little niche sleeping space you’ve ever seen. But I certainly did not want to explain this to Lang. And as it turned out, I didn’t have the chance, because the moment we stepped inside, he started opening all the cabinets and drawers.
I panicked. I had to distract him. The first thing that came to mind was TIKI. I told him I had the newest model and that maybe we could try it after dinner.
Martha, you have never seen someone’s head whip around so fast. He was thrilled. I swear, he was trembling. I was even able to take his hand and lead him back toward the dining room, while he rambled on, asking me questions he barely let me answer!
Because at that exact moment, I realized something terrible. I hadn’t cleared the cache from my last session. And there was simply no way I could let him see it–it is such an intimate thing, isn’t it Martha? A place for personal exploration—a virtual playground to let my imagination run wild.
Martha, I panicked. I couldn’t let him see how childish—how moronic—I am. I had to find a way to slip away and clear the cookies. What if he finds the Hold me Like a Baby sequence, or worse! The Let me Tear you Apart with my Claws sequence!
I guided him out of the bedroom, trying to hatch a plan to clear the memory while he, distracted, went on and on about the taste problem in the technology. How everything still had that weird tartar sauce or cinnamon flavor, but they’d made improvements. Sushi, Cajun barbecue—better now. But most things still tasted like tortilla chips. He certainly did know a lot about all of it!
I told him how delicious the smells were in the new TIKI400. And I think—that’s when the seed of doubt was planted in my mind.
Luckily, he was too busy explaining all the bugs in the system to notice. But then—while I was taking the casserole out of the oven—the thought took hold of me.
What if ɴᴍɪᴛᴀʙʟ and TIKI had partnered up? What if it was just one of their Hallucino-grams?
How did I know Lang was real?
And—more importantly—how was I going to test if he was?
Matchvector 075-A12 [LANG] iv
After the brief but strange apartment tour, Carrie seemed to take a very keen interest in how I was eating dinner. And while the food was surprisingly edible, I was somewhat unsettled by her close examination of my TMJ joint musculature and the rise and fall of my adam's apple as I swallowed. I tried to sustain eye contact, but her gaze inevitably wandered to some other part of my body, like she was performing some kind of clinical examination. It was both awkward and tantalizing, so I started to mimic her observational behaviour, hoping the reciprocation might harmonize into some kind of profound moment of intimacy, then who knows. Magic perhaps.
So I leaned in, almost certainly, a little too close because I felt her tilt away slightly, then rolled my eyes around their sockets in the most obvious display of investigation, tracing her neck and shoulder, then across her chest and up the other side, punctuating my analysis with a nod at the elastic tie holding her hair tail in place. With clear intention, she too, was deeply involved in some kind of physical evaluation. What was she looking for? What had she found? I felt seen but maybe a little too seen. Indeed the loose garments she provided would offer little cover for any embarrassing autonomic responses let alone any further serious probing.
I needed to break the silence and render the tension into something less revealing. The first waves of piloerection, had already started, zipping like electrified branches across my epidermis and I knew that nipple arousal would be next.
For anyone else this might not present as anything serious at all, considering my blouse was loose and light, but for me and my protuberant chest features, the golfball size display might be somewhat unexpected. And possibly misleading.
So I threw my arm out, and pointed at the picturesque painted tile backsplash running along the counter and inquired into its provenance and or maintenance. Both interesting enough conversational tracks, I was confident I could turn this whole scene around. But alas, my bulging hypertrophy got the better of me and I jolted to my feet, covering my chesticles, scurrying back to her bedroom, and finding some familiar distraction in the TIKI tech setup holo routines.
That's when I accidentally saw the “Hold Me Like A Baby” and “Put Me In A Tiny Box” scenes in the browsing history. The latter, firing up my curiosity. I couldn't imagine what it might mean.
I had expected her to follow me in despite my spontaneity, but was somewhat relieved to hear the clatter of her loading the dishwasher. Maybe I scared her off. Maybe the whole thing was over now.
The TIKI is now activated and it tells me to climb in, indicating the sliding doors, so I open the closet and contort my frame into the little cage inside and close the door behind me. Then it tells me if iI want to move to the next tableau, I have to cry like a big baby.
Matchvector 075-B44 [CARRIE] iv
While we ate dinner, I became distracted—single-minded. Or, no—double-minded, I suppose. Two thoughts were occurring simultaneously. The first was: I had to clear the cache. The second: I had to verify if Lang was real.
As Lang continued his monologue—I latched onto something he said: Taste was the one true weakness of TIKI technology.
I found myself looking at Lang’s beautiful body—he must work out a lot—and wondering what the easiest way to taste him might be. I began debating strategies.
A. Accidental tasting: Whoops, I tripped—mouth open—landed against your shoulder.
B. Joking: Haha, what if I just bit you right now? Just kidding. Unless...!
C. Sensual: The chocolate mousse will taste so much better from your finger.
Now, I have to admit—even though I find Lang fascinating—I simply could not concentrate on what he was saying. I was watching his lips. His teeth. The way his ears moved slightly when he said certain syllables. I kept trying not to let my eyes slide downward to his throat, to his chest, where a few tantalizing curls of chest hair peeked out from above the wooden buttons of his comfies.
And it also felt—this is hard to describe—like he was noticing me, too. His eyes didn’t just look—they jumped. From my shoulder to my elbow to my ear, like he was scanning me. And me? I was just basking. Basking in this new feeling. A feeling of… being seen. Or maybe even better—allowing myself to be seen. I realized I hadn’t heard a single word Lang had said in a while. My inner debate was too loud. And then—something strange happened just as I was about to excuse myself to the lady’s room to clear the sequences. A new thought dropped into my mind like a coin in a slot. What if I didn’t clear the cache?
What if—whether Lang was real or just TIKI—I let him see what I liked? What if I could just… be myself? I mean, if he was just a holomax, I could act freely, right? I suddenly relaxed. Not just mentally—my actual body relaxed. I swear to you, Martha, my shoulders dropped a full five centimeters. And in that exact moment, Lang’s monologue seemed to slow down.
And that’s when the plan hatched, on its own accord.
Lang scampered off to check out the unit while I cleaned up. Once he was logged in, I could sneak up behind him, grab a taste, and he might not even notice. Then I’d know what was what.
Where I really wanted to taste was the round of his shoulder. But that would involve undressing him, which—besides being logistically difficult—is also illegal under the new Tri-Sexual Consentement Laws.
So I decided to opt for the neck. Which, honestly, had its own appeal. So I let him settle into the TIKI and waited for my moment.
Matchvector 075-A12 [LANG] v
Transmogrified in Carrie's TIKI kennel space, I was a caged mongoose, though later, she would tell me I tasted like overcooked shrimp. I tumbled a clumsy infinity maneuver but kept triggering my flight response, thus sending me into more tail chase loops, catapulting the dander from my stiffened hackles into the air like my own personal Oort cloud of dead skin cells. The green comfy lounge-wear had vanished, so I was happy to be covered in this corse brown-black coat. It felt natural and distinctly liberating considering some of the physical discomforts I'd already experienced this evening, though what those were exactly, I couldn't quite say anymore.
I had been fully assimilated by another presence and found myself trapped, not only in this steel containment grid, but in another reality very close to what I remember might have been my own, but now, who could be sure? Who was this monster goddess approaching, fangs glinting in the laser blue hololites?
Squealing seemed not only logical but soothing in some pre-emptive expression of catharsis. So, I squealed in shrill dashes, then even louder as she moved in to extract me from the confines that were keeping me safe.
She opened the door to my pen and purred unintelligible hunger mouth shapes under her breath, heavy and textured with the saliva of wanton glands. Holding my shoulders and forelegs, she squeezed the last squeals from my throat, pulled me to her chest and bit into my neck. The pain was fleeting, but the afterbite gave me that slow drip of tingle, waterfalling over some dormant erogenous zone. But it was all wrong, it should have been me, the varmint, neckbiter, black-lip hair-snake, but now I'm here prone with an unfulfilled flesh fantasy consuming me and burbling through all this nascent animal sex energy.
I managed to nip her thumb and squirm my way out of her witchy grip to do the only thing my overly excited body-mind would let me, considering my awkward vantage. I had to hump leg.
Her calf meat was more supple than it looked and I was able to coil-clamp from ankle to kneecap with a tight mating bond. I positioned my mouth near her delicate leg pit in a tentative bite posture. Somewhere between a kiss and a pinch. My mongoose diaphragm emitting autonomic growls, bass gut low with throbbing texture. I hoped it didn't seem overtly aggressive. Only wanting to make this new alignment harmonize into a beautiful moment of rapturous stimulation for both of us, I must have underestimated my freshly formed fast twitch muscle fibres and first foray into herpestid non-copulatory mounting, because my enthusiasm resulted in enough torsional strain to cause a very painful rupture of my corpus cavernosum.
My sultry snarls escalating to shrieks of anguish, I tried to loosen my clamping embrace but I am as rigid as a taxidermied trophy, seized by the simulation and lost in her matrix. I crane my furry neck to look up into Carrie's face, somewhat reflective, but also menacing, maybe maniacal. My stain on her chin and her eyes radiate pixel rash rings of hypnotic power. I belong to her completely.
Matchvector 075-B44 [CARRIE] v
I need to describe what happened, though even my memories feel hallucinogenic. While Lang was in the unit, I was floating on a wave of great relief. I had given him access to my unfiltered fantasies—and made the decision to taste him—but more importantly, I was accepting that he might be human… or not. Either way, I was open to the experience.
Martha, I don't how much you know about Total Immersion Kinetic Interfaces, but I have the newest TIKI with the adaptive freestyle mode that reads your brainwaves and customizes a bespoke experience based on your preferences and programming. I've only used that feature once before, unfortunately resulting in an existential nightmare where I had to face my own inner world. I truly can't talk about it.
Let’s just say: I’ve read the manual several times since. I even programmed an exit–a shimmering rainbow heart—right into the center of my palm. If anything went wrong, there was a way out.
Lang was calm at first. When I pressed the release button to open the TIKI cupboard, I saw him curled there on the unit's sofa space, peaceful, like a beautiful little baby. I crouched above him and drew up the bravery to taste him.
I know this must sound insane to you, Martha, but the need to know if he was real had taken over my entire being. His appeal was so overwhelming, it had made me suspicious. I just had to know if the attraction was real, or if he was a creation based on everything I have ever wanted in a man!
I pulled the green fabric from his shoulder, and very lightly at first, I placed my mouth on the round of it. Shrimp, Martha. Shrimp! He was real. Salty. Not tortilla-chippy. The taste was complex, briny, and unmistakably human.
But I may have lost control of myself. What came next is something of a blur. I don’t remember biting him, but I saw the ambulance squad note the teeth marks later.
What I do remember is a chaos of limbs, of screaming, of slashing, and…other things… The cupboard is small, and when Lang began thrashing, we became quickly entwined.
He was howling. I tried to yell to him, “Push the palm heart!” but I don’t know if he heard me. I knew I needed to force-stop the system. But I also knew that doing so mid-surge could cause severe neural damage.
So I hesitated. And Martha, that hesitation may have been my biggest mistake.
Matchvector 075-A12 [LANG] vi
Hers.
Now that I say it, it seems like it was all inevitable. Luring me to her lair—I don't blame her, my brain, after all is quite a prize. The sweet meats of seduction digesting in her intestinal chambers. Excrescence of ecstacy. It is both bliss and blunder.
An in the last throes of corporeal oblivion, I twitch a secret code to anyone. But there is no one to decipher my unnecessarily cryptic cry for help.
I can't help myself. Incorrigible, I know. Here I go.
My skin stretches away like mozzarella. Can she see my aura strain against the long strings of this zipper space? Enamel chips away–cluster frags in white light.
The ambulance comes. They don't think I can see them. Their lips all tucked in. Micro headshakes as they lift the body away. I point out the hickey to Carrie. I know she can sense me. Taste me. Know me.
Matchvector 075-B44 [CARRIE] vi
My mother used to say, “Do you want the bad news first, or the bad news first?” She believed it was always better to see a ray of sunshine after the storm than to sit and watch the light get gnawed away by clouds.
Not that I care that much about sunshine. I actually have one of those new filter screens on my windows that makes everything look slightly overcast. I don’t like beams. I don’t like how the sun shows you all the dust in the air. It’s invasive.
Anyway, the bad news is: Lang didn’t make it.
And I do feel bad about that—especially for him. He really did have such a beautiful body, so that’s a shame.
Do you want the good news now? The good news is: because he died while still inside, his calibrated neural download was successfully booted to the main server. Which means his mind is still very much alive—inside my unit.
When the police came, they asked if I wanted his ashes—he didn’t have any family or friends to take them. I said, no thank you.
I had something even better. Nobody asked me about the backup. Do you think that’s very bad of me? To have kept him? It’s not like I was going to erase him. Though—that would be a kind of murder, right?
It was actually quite terrible, the moment it happened. I completely lost it. Crawled into my kennel and wouldn’t come outl. I wasn’t able to look. It was horrible. The paramedics didn’t even wipe their boots!
The ɴᴍɪᴛᴀʙʟ agency sent over a cleanup crew and I eventually crawled out of my kennel to go check the TIKI. But here’s the part that’s actually kind of great: I still get to talk to him. Can you imagine how happy I was to find out he was still in there?
Lang has a lot of free time now. He’s been building an avatar he’s really proud of, and since I upgraded the unit, he says most of the taste simulations are excellent.
So I spend time with him. I keep him company. This may sound weird, but despite it being virtual, sometimes things get … lively in there!
We’ve actually become very close. Sometimes he seems a little sad. I think he misses having a body. But I think he’s happy we get to be together.
And—it’s actually rather lucky, too.
I’ve come into a small fortune from the lawsuit, and I’m working on creating a new, improved polymer body for Lang! We’ve talked about it at length, but we’ve agreed: if he does get a new body, it won’t be going outside, after all, if it’s me footing the bill…
We really do get along well. I even tinkered with his verbal settings. I adjusted the sliders a bit, and now that he talks less, we have an even better time together. He’s actually very interesting, Martha. It turns out he has all these wonderful thoughts—just fewer of them at once is better for everyone.
I don’t know if most people would think this is normal, but honestly, it’s not the worst thing. Thanks to technology, he’s still able to exist. Still able to spend time with me. After all—you of all people should understand that, Martha. You wouldn’t even exist without technology, would you? I sometimes forget you aren’t even real.
So, despite it being obviously the worst date in the history of dates, it actually turned out alright.
I really appreciate all the time and energy you’ve given me, Martha. Helping me through the trauma. This has been a growing experience.
And I’m sure that—if the polymer experiment doesn’t work out—my next date will be much better.
Yours,
Carrie
This is a collaborative piece by Jon T & Sandolore Sykes . The catastrophe unraveled before their eyes as each writer took turns, discovering the story in real time.
music, video and audio design by Jon T
 | A guest post by
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Fantastic bad first date story. Love the twist at the end.
You guys, I'm in literal awe. I've tried this sort of "yes and" kind of writing with a partner before, but this... this is amazing! Uncomfortable, funny, HORRIFIC, and all with a momentum that...
I adore this. (that opening paragraph tells [and tells and tells] me everything about that character, it's fantastic. The ending is glorious and the audacity to punchline it with that music...)
Basically: holy shit this is fan-fucking-tastic!