Flick, the prime social media of the year, holds little in the way of education, but it did allow me to peruse a feed of pretty pictures and videos of people doing stupid things to supply brain candy. Sugary sweet traps for the mind. Convince us that everyone is thriving, there is no sickness, and all is perfect. It’s how it goes. But it’s not enough to distract me from my anxiety. I want to trade the fish bowl to get to the stars. The bowl is worth something, but what about the next item, and the next? What if I can’t trade up enough? Worries breed worries to weave a noose around my neck, drawing me into darkness.

  Cat videos help light the way back to reality and rational thought. All I can do is take each trade one step at a time. That’s the answer, but I’m not sure my anxiety cares.

  I tap my breakfast cig against a glass to clear the ash and trace the twirl of it through the air until it finds a home against the bottom. Grey shards of death against the neon pink. Disease infecting vibrancy to rot it away one speck at a time. To join the bitter decay underneath and connect to the ruins left in the wake of man’s folly. Because that’s what ‘Cuse has done. No Flick page can hide that. And we’d be fools to argue against it.

  We pretend that we’ve solved all issues with universal basic income, socialized health care, and drug services. Outside of certain circles, society has all but forgotten that a hundred years ago, the environment took a huge hit. It’s been thirty years since we entered a stabilized period offering relief. But that history isn’t bright.

  That doesn’t sell.

  People still want. Still yearn for things out of their reach, me included, with my want to reach the stars. Maybe I can lessen some of the destruction and not repeat the mistakes of the past by trading to get there. But until then, I’ll claw with nails like daggers to get what I want.

  I take another drag of the cig and flick through the feed, trying to distract myself from the thoughts and find something that isn’t an influencer selling me something. Another cat vid. Another trend dance done by a group. Pic of the sunset between the scrapes. Selfie. Selfie. A post from Dom Higgs, my tech genius idol, about her company’s achievement with an arm prosthetic.

  Az zooms behind me, chasing a small ball across the shop’s carpet.

  “Careful, bud, I don’t want to replace your core because you crack it,” I call after him. A thud announces that he has, once again, hit the glass case near my desk.

  “Jaqs, are you smoking in the shop?” Gen yells from the front.

  “No,” I lie and take another draw of smoke. I shake my wrist to get rid of the Flick feed and pull the fish bowl towards me. What was supposed to be a quick break lasted far too long. I still need to finish fixing the wiring in the bowl so that I can trade it. I need to get to the stars.

  “God damn it, Jaqs,” Gen says, coming to the back carrying a box with a jumble of parts and orange plastic poking free from the top. “I told you not to smoke in here.”

  I stub out the cig on the bottom of my shoe and put it back in the case. “I’m not.”

  A withering sigh leaks from her lips. She sets the box down on a teetering stack and stares at the fish bowl. “What is that?”

  “Fish bowl,” I supply unhelpfully.

  Gen rolls her eyes. “Why do you have it? I thought you were working on fixing the teacher bot.”

  “I am,” I say, motioning to where it sits in the corner, blocky head cocked to one side. The hands lie on the floor next to it, and Az takes one and shakes it. A school had dropped it off last week after they were told it was out of warranty. I’d taken it on with the hope of fixing it within a month. “I’m mulling through a bug and doing this to distract my hands.”

  “Seems like it’s to distract you.”

  “Seems like that’s what you’re doing.”

  The door dings, signaling someone had entered the shop. Gen swats the back of my head on her way past.

  “That’s workman’s comp!” I shout after her. I expect a laugh, but one never comes. Instead, Gen’s terse, low voice filters through the shelves. That doesn’t sound good. I lock my computer and pass by the glass cases that block off our work area from the rest of the shop. They hold old Apple phones and computers from the Silicon Age, right before the environmental collapse. Nothing more than collectible items with the advent of holos.

  I weave through the larger, bulkier bots like personal shoppers that are smaller than Az to household bots with silver humanoid appearances. Around the side of a construction bot, I come face to face with a tall woman with snow white hair in waves down her back. Her electric pink jacket and harlequin pants accented with black are offset with rose boots. Dashing and fashionable. She smiles. My heart skips a beat.

  Evangeline.

  I’ve had a crush on her since she entered the shop on my first day five years ago.

  Az peaks around my leg and waves at her. Evangeline waves back.

  “Hello, Evangeline,” I croak. The full name usage is odd on my tongue. It’s the one unbright thing about Evangeline, but I’ve never gotten up the courage to ask her why she doesn’t use a nick like the rest of us. “What brings you in today?”

  Hope grasps my heart, refusing to fall into the pit of despair below. Evangeline has never uttered the eight-word sentence I want. She’s never asked me out. I could ask her, but coherence in her presence is difficult. And our conversations happen in front of Gen at the shop. That doesn’t help.

  “Just stopping by,” Evangeline says, her voice husky and warm. It’s her usual answer. Evangeline never buys anything. She comes to talk to Gen in hushed tones that leave Gen cross. No matter how much I ask, Gen will never tell me what the conversations are about. Once, I asked Gen if Evangeline was the landlord of the building and received a look so sour lemons were jealous. Talking about the shop is off-limits. Still, sometimes I try, hoping for some information on how Gen’s shop came to be.

  “And leaving,” Gen snaps.

  Evangeline, stuck between us, arches a brow.

  Az blinks lime and runs off to investigate a shelf.

  Gen leans on the front counter. Her shoulders are hunched around her head, forming armor against the onslaught of the world. Evangeline must have gotten on her nerves extra in the short time she’s been here.

  “What are you working on, Jaqs?” Evangeline asks. She turns the full onslaught of her ice blue eyes on me, and all rational thought leaves my head.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Don’t say something stupid. Say something that will impress her.

  “Fish bowl,” I manage to say against the air trapped in my throat. “I’m fixing it.”

  Fuck.

  “Can I see it?” Evangeline asks.

  I blink. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she says with a smile.

  I nod and stumble towards the back of the shop.

  “You were leaving!” Gen shouts.

  Evangeline ignores her and follows me to my desk. Gen pursues us, her feet stomping on the hard floor. The fish bowl sits forlorn on its side on my cluttered desk. A pink fish stares up at us, mouth agape in horror at being left in such a compromising position. I cup the wires beneath the bowl and lift it, showing Evangeline.

  “It’s silly,” I find the need to say. “One of those swimming toys from when we were kids.”

  Evangeline reaches into the bowl and pokes the pink fish, spinning it halfway around the bowl. She smiles. “I think it’s cute. Where did you get it?”

  “The trade table at my apartment complex.”

  “That’s a lucky find,” Evangeline says.

  “That’s a weird find for that table,” Gen remarks over Evangeline’s shoulder.

  Gen is right. It was a weird find for that table. Most days, there’s food and some out-of-season clothing. I looked the fish bowl up last night after Mel dyed my hair, and it has a small cult following. Someone missed out on a good amount of cost because they didn’t know how to fix it. Their loss is my gain.

  “I’m fixing it to trade it for something better,” I say.

  Evangeline’s smile dims. Gen scowls.

  “What’s the end goal?” Evangeline asks.

  I pause. Two people know my end goal, Gen and Mel. To tell another person is to break off another piece of my heart. I’m not sure I can do that with Evangeline. “It’s silly.”

  “I bet it’s not,” she replies, her smile all but gone. Her voice has a grave quality.

  “Well, no, but it is expensive,” I offer in consolation.

  “How much?”

  “Around two or three hundred thous cost.”

  She whistles. “That’s a lot.”

  I grimace, scratching my nose to hide it. Doubt and self-consciousness flit across my mind. And, deep within, grief rears its ugly head, threatening to devour everything and sink me into the numbness a part of me craves.

  The deep unending blankness that blitzes across my mind is like a drug. It calls for me to avoid the pain of my body, life, and the future. To give up progress in processing what happened to me and dive into bargaining a cure or allowing the anger to consume me, hoping it helps. But it’s not healthy, and with a deep breath, I wrench myself back from the edge of despair. Neither bargaining nor anger will help. I have to move forward and accept what happened to alleviate my pain.

  At least that’s what my therapist told me.

  Evangeline leans forward, her ice blue eyes boring into mine. A flush creeps onto my cheeks. She’s too close for my brain to function. It screams static between my ears.

  “Have you heard of Prism?” she mutters. Her eyes are sharp, her mouth a tight line. There’s a context here I’m missing.

  “Evangeline,” Gen growls. My eyes flick to the snarl that flashes across her face, but Evangeline ignores her. It spikes my heart rate, threading it through my body, pulling taut until every single muscle sings.

  “No, what’s Prism?” I ask, voice small, breath caught in my throat.

  “It’s nothing to talk about in this shop.” Gen snaps. “I mean it.”

  Gen’s always worn her anger on her sleeve. She snaps and growls at the drop of a hat. We’ve all come to accept it as a part of her. But it gets tiring to deal with. It draws a sigh from my lips, and my chest relaxes.

  Evangeline’s seriousness breaks. The smile slides back onto her face, and she chuckles, a smooth sound that wraps around me like the wind and draws me in. “Seems I’ve overstayed my welcome today.”

  “The first second of every time you come in is too long,” Gen barks.

  Evangeline winks at me and, with a cheery wave to Gen, she heads out. The door chimes behind her and slides shut. I stare at where she was standing, brain rebooting after the wink blue-screened it.

  “Jaqs,” Gen growls. “Whatever you do, if she asks, do not trade with her.”

  “What’s Prism?” I fire back.

  “Drop it. You don’t want to get involved.”

  “I get to decide that. Tell me, Gen.”

  She shakes her head.

  I work my jaw, gnawing at words I could release. They’d slice like daggers, finding Gen’s weaknesses. The words turn inwards, slicing through me hot and quick to ignite the festering anger. Gen has no right to choose for me, but she’s so stubborn I won’t get an answer from her if she doesn’t want to give it. I’ll have to try and ask Evangeline later.

  “I’m serious, Jaqs. Do not get involved with Evangeline,” Gen says, brows furrowed.

  I blow a raspberry. Az turns at the noise. He’s been waving a wrench at his larger outside frame, his reflection distorted. “It’s Evangeline. She’s harmless.”

  “No, she’s not! She’s trouble.”

  “Trouble?” I roll my eyes.

  Gen snorts out a breath. “She’s the type of person who will use what you want against you. Trust me, you don’t want her or Prism’s help.”

  “But who is Prism? A corp?”

  “Something like that,” Gen says, deflating. She may be stubborn, but I’m persistent. With a sigh, she sinks into my chair. “You remember those riots during the last election? From that weird fringe group wearing all black? That’s Prism.”

  That happened right when I got sick. I was distracted by not dying and didn’t pay it much mind. But the rumors were everywhere about a group wanting to return to a profit-driven society where the rich get richer and the poor get left behind. I hadn’t heard anything about them as of late.

  Gen fiddles with the fish bowl on my desk, her mouth a tight line of worry. “Prism makes deals, with a cost to match. You’d be surprised how far people will go to get what they want. Prism feeds on that. They get power from that.”

  “How do you know?”

  Gen shakes her head and stands. “Please be careful. You have enough on your plate, and this could ruin the progress you’ve made.”

  My tentative hold on my anger snaps. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Gen’s teeth clench, eyes locked on mine. “A year ago, you were in the hospital. It’s recent that you’ve started accepting what happened and moving past it. I don’t want the progress you’ve made on that, or on getting to space, to be derailed because you’re trading things to try and get there. Especially to someone as slimy as Evangeline.”

  My blood boils, jaw growing tense. The world narrows to Gen. A target for the scope of my anger. I breathe deep and cage the vile words that want to rip free from my throat. Gen’s showing she cares; in her own way. It’s not like her parents set her up to have the best tools to deal with the world. And the world hasn’t shown her kindness either.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here where my anger can focus on her presence.

  I stomp off towards the garage to work on the bots there. Az teeters after, wrench in tow. There’s a bot that needs to be welded shut next to the work table. I grab the mask and shove it on. My boiling blood has reduced to a simmer, but the hurtful thoughts still slash across my mind. Words tied together with malice. Formed into sentences designed to destroy. But it’s not worth it. It will cause more damage that will get us nowhere. I take a deep breath, hold it until I encapsulate the anger in a bubble, and breathe it out.

  It takes five repetitions.

  Gen appears at the corner of my vision. I put down the welding torch and tilt the helmet up.

  “What?” I snap.

  Oops. Getting rid of the anger was a fine idea, but dregs remain.

  “I’m sorry. I’m taking my anger and frustration out on you, and it’s not right.”

  That takes the wind out of my sails. I sigh and meet Gen’s eyes. Then blink in shock. Dark circles bruise her pale skin. She’s not wearing any makeup and old clothing more suited for cleaning than work drapes her curves. Comfort clothing. Guilt courses through me at having not noticed earlier.

  Oh, God. “You OK?”

  Her eyes flick up. They glisten and are lax in a way that points to one thing. Exhaustion. “My fucking parents took off again.”

  Az waddles over and places a small hand on Gen’s leg, blinking a soft pink. Her eyes soften, and she pats his core twice in answer. My brows shoot up. Showing him warmth and affection kicks in when things are terrible with her fam. When the mothering instincts she’s had since she was seven flare. Tends to happen when parents leave, and it’s up to the oldest to parent their siblings.

  “Are the kids all right?”

  Gen sighs and shakes her head. “Ben says they have food for a week. But I’m gonna move them in with me. Was up all night mulling it over, and it’s for the best. Ben and Sar deserve something stable. School began a few weeks ago, and they’re being forced into this. I hoped that after we all went to therapy last year, our parents would care more. Guess not.”

  “If you need any help—”

  “It’s fine. We’re used to them not giving a shit.”

  I’m just saying—”

  “Jaqs.” My name is laced with a warning.

  “We’re here for you, Gen,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about the space you take up. You’re allowed to lean on Mel and me. Take up space if you need it.”

  I’ll press myself into the cracks of the wall so she has space to breathe.

  Gen blinks, her lip wobbling. She wipes away a tear, her tough exterior cracking from the inside out. It’s enough to get me moving. I place my arm around her and pull her into a hard hug. She leans into me.

  “I don’t deserve you.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “Yes, you do.”