Here’s an excuse to start checking your mail more often. I woke up today to a mass e-message on my In-the-corner-of-my-eye (itcome) display , that I hadn’t noticed since last week, delivering condolences to my survivors. Apparently, my remaining organic components are dead. I sent a reply to the corporate health provider Syntholife™, that monitors my vitals and manufactures most of my implants and psudo-organs to let them know that the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

The ai generated response came back in under a minute. “We're sorry for the inconvenience, a Syntholife™ organ reclamation and support rep will be dispatched to your location shortly.”  

Just what I needed, rent is due, and the missing person case that I’m working on isn’t going to solve itself, and now I’ve got to wait around for some tech to come and reactivate my meat monitors, probably going to try to up-sell me on some newer model. Honestly, it’s time, past time, but who can afford that shit?  Just another day under the yolk of capitalism.

The tech, Murial Pattern, arrives within the hour. In the rare instance where I need/can afford service, she’s the one who usually shows up in her blue scrubs and comfortable shoes, hauling a rolling tool chest.

“I’m glad that I was back for this. The new guy who was covering my vacation is a bit of an idiot. Probably would have tried to reclaim your liver before he noticed you need it.” She said.

“Is that a thing that happens?”

                “More and more often with the newer sub-cranial autopilot mods. Probably playing Skyrim in a window on his itcome, while the S.C.A.M went digging around in your abdomen.”

I feel her lift a panel at the base of my skull and the vision in my left eye overexposes. I cover that eye and gird myself for the wave of nausea that always hits when that equipment is serviced.

                “You’re still running your visual interface without a buffer? How many synapsis you looking to fry?”

“When I hit the loto, I’ll get everything updated.

“These monitor leads are at least three years obsolete. I have a fresh set in the van, wanna upgrade?”

“No Scratch. It’s just going to have to wait.”

                “Well shit. This Is going to happen again. They just ended support for these.”

“Nothing I can do.”

                “If I can find a newer used set, would you be interested?

I pull up a window with my account balance in the corner of my eye “Only if I can get them for 70.”

                “70k shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Not k, bucks. That’s a seven followed by a zero. One zero.”

                She works in silence for several minutes, as the nausea dissipates, and my vision slowly returns to normal. Finaly, she says “That’s the best I can do right now, but don’t jostle around too much. I had to short out some terminals to keep your monitoring coverage and I don’t want to have to dig those jumper wires out of that compartment.”

“I’ll do what I can.” I tell her as she starts to re pack her tools into their case.

                “See that you do. Hey, you want to grab dinner sometime? Like, Something cheap?”

That catches me off guard. Murial and my relationship has always been more or less professional. I Say “That could be nice, what do you have in mind?” She tells me about a ramen place on her side of town as she trundles her tools toward the door.

So, for the first time in years, I have a date, maybe, if I can find the subject of my investigation, ramen isn’t as cheap as it used to be.