Back at the office, Adam and Stevie Chan stepped into the midday glare, heading out for lunch. Adam hesitated on the threshold, his eyes scanning the street nervously, as if expecting someone to leap from the shadows. Stevie was already deep in conversation, rattling off lines of code like a casual incantation. Adam barely registered the words.

  The street buzzed with life. Commuter drones zipped overhead, and autonomous delivery bots weaved between pedestrians like obedient terriers. Stevie kept his gaze straight ahead, his gait smooth and purposeful. A suited man passed by, glancing up from his phone.

  “You okay, Bob? How’s the golf?” Stevie called out with a grin.

  The man frowned, momentarily thrown off. “Yeah, fine. How are you?” he replied automatically.

  “Great! See you on the course!” Stevie shouted back, offering a backwards wave without missing a step.

  Adam raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you played golf.”

  “I don’t,” Stevie said, laughing.

  As they made their way toward the sandwich shop, Stevie greeted nearly everyone they passed by name—no pauses, no conversations, just rapid-fire recognition, like a celebrity speed-running a fan meet. A woman in her early thirties actually doubled back and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Sorry, do I know you?” she asked, brow furrowed.

  Stevie turned, flashing a smile. “We don’t know each other well, but we’ve met... Give me a second.” He scratched his nose, eyes lifting as if scrolling through internal archives. “Alan’s party. Hawaiian theme. You’re a singer and actor, right?”

  The woman gasped. “Oh God, I was so drunk that night. Hope I didn’t embarrass myself.”

  “Cocktails, right? Umbrella, pineapple rings—classic.”

  “Wow. Your memory’s insane.” She laughed.

  “Anyway, gotta run. Short lunch break. My boss is a tyrant,” Stevie said, shooting a playful jab at Adam before continuing on.

  They entered "After We Left," a café that appeared to have been designed by an AI with a fondness for psychedelics. Thick, varnished wooden benches floated above black tubular glass legs, around which robotic ivy twined itself in hypnotic, serpentine motion—nature in hyperdrive.

  Oversized filament bulbs glowed from the centres of copper and brass flowers hanging upside down from the ceiling, casting a warm, surreal light. Drones styled as giant ladybirds, butterflies, dragonflies, and bees hummed gently through a swinging hobbit-style kitchen door, carrying trays of food with robotic precision.

  It was a blend of steampunk and industrial minimalism with a hint of 2020s nostalgia—half art installation, half acid trip. Adam looked around, a mix of fascination and amusement.

  “Nice place, huh?” Stevie grinned as they dropped into their seats beneath a luminous copper daisy fixture. “The whole theme’s built around that idea—you know, where humans abandon Earth and split between Mars and... well, what’s out there.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “What, ruled by robot insects or real giant insects?” Adam asked, raising an eyebrow as a sizeable ladybird-shaped drone buzzed toward their table, menus clutched in its claw-like mandibles.

  It clicked softly in a cheery, clipped accent—oddly charming, like how you might imagine a ladybird would speak if one could.

  “Please raise your hand to summon me when ready to order food,” it chirped. “Drinks may be ordered directly at the bar.”

  It turned forty-five degrees and extended a delicate leg toward the far side of the café. There, a towering spider-shaped automaton tended bar, twelve limbs dancing in coordinated service. Each appendage bore a microphone that slithered under customers’ mouths like a serpent sensing prey before darting off to mix cocktails or pull drinks with eerie efficiency.

  The ladybird drone deposited the menus and zipped away.

  At a nearby table, a swarm of gleaming metallic ants—some marching, others airborne—busied themselves clearing away the remnants of lunch. Each ant carried a single item: a fork, knife, or spoon. In tight formation, others worked together to hoist larger objects—ceramic plates, mugs, glass tumblers—marching with precision like a well-drilled platoon. Their high-pitched chatter, a rhythmic clatter of miniature mandibles, echoed faintly through the café, drawing curious stares.

  Customers paused mid-conversation, some raising their devices to capture the scene, others simply watching in quiet amusement. The display was routine in the café, but still mesmerising.

  Adam and Stevie watched too, though with less wonder and more calculation—the gaze of programmers appraising lines of living code. After a moment, they turned back to each other, resuming their conversation without mentioning the ants.

  “I’ll just have a juice and… that chocolate and carob cake,” Adam said absently. Then, after a pause: “So. Are you gonna tell me how you pulled that little party trick? Knowing everyone’s name... when none of them had a clue who you were?”

  Stevie smiled slyly and turned toward the panoramic window. “See that woman over there?” He pointed into the distance. “You probably can’t. Too far.”

  Adam already had a sinking feeling. He didn’t interrupt.

  “She’s had her lips done. Boobs, too. Arse. Shame, really—she was already attractive. Why do people keep getting plastic surgery when they look perfectly fine?” Stevie said earnestly, then leaned in, his eyes gleaming. “Want to know how I know all that?”

  Adam nodded slowly, bracing himself.

  “I had one of my eyes replaced,” Stevie said. “Bionic. Takes instant snapshots, runs facial recognition, accesses public profiles, scans through clothes, and zooms in microscopically. Since getting the brain chip, I figured—why stop there?”

  Adam’s mouth fell open. “You took out a healthy eye?”

  “Donated it,” Stevie said proudly. “Someone out there’s seeing the world for the first time thanks to me. Win-win. And get this—I’m getting my hearing done next week. Super hearing.”

  “You’ve got to stop,” Adam said, genuine concern in his voice.

  “Why?” Stevie gestured around the café. “You didn’t even notice the eye. And let’s be real—my natural one would’ve started to go in ten, fifteen years. You can detect a lot with the eye, such as tumours and dementia. But my chip handles all that now. We live in a connected world, Adam.”

  He waved toward the other diners. Over half were buried in their devices, some not even looking up as they sat with friends.

  The word “connected” triggered something in Adam. Phone.

  His eyes widened. He’d left it at the office. Viktor and his crew might already be tracking him—hell, they could be watching him right now, in this very café.

  That phone was his lifeline. His only weapon.

  He shot up. “I need to head back—I left my phone,” he said, barely keeping the panic from his voice.

  As he rushed toward the exit, Stevie called after him, voice ringing across the café, “See what I mean? Get a brain chip, Adam! You won’t regret it!”

  An elderly woman at the following table turned with an irritated scowl. “Will you be quiet!”

  “Mind your own business, Barbara,” Stevie muttered with a smirk, then leaned back, watching the door swing closed behind his friend.

  The woman kept staring, trying to place where she knew him from.