Love is Bad Debt

01: Pickles and Eye-Gunk

My left eye was leaking again—not a single dramatic tear, but that warm, copper-tasting sludge that slid down my cheek and crusted in the corner of my mouth.

I gagged.

Seriously, who decided that eyes should taste like pennies?

The red warning light in my vision had stopped flashing.

Now it was just a solid block, glowing there like a cigarette burn pressed into film.

"Target: 99.1%."

Sure, whatever.

I stared at the monitor, but my brain was elsewhere.

Was the leftover pizza still in the fridge, or was it growing mold on the counter?

Probably mold.

Right next to that humidifier I bought from the three-fingered guy in Sector 4.

The thing smelled like a wet dog baking in a microwave when it ran.

On the monitor, the guy in the mud was still screaming.

Acid rain was eating through his poncho, and his mouth flapped open and shut like a goldfish flopped out of its bowl, realizing air was a terrible idea.

"Please... my credits... next life..."

He was pleading with a bunch of math.

Idiot.

I didn’t feel the cosmic weight of a soul or whatever the manual claimed.

I felt annoyed.

His screaming was interrupting my thoughts about pizza.

I wiped my face on my sleeve, and the fabric was already stiff with dried eye-gunk.

Click.

I snapped the line.

The goldfish stopped flapping.

He stood up, checked his watch like he was late for a bus, and shuffled off.

Clean.

Boring.

Then the console screamed—not a beep, but a shriek, like a fork dragging across a ceramic plate inside my skull.

"Critical Error. The Knot."

"Target: Julian / Elara."

My cooling fan roared to life, blowing dust and hot air straight into my crotch.

Two red lines tangled on the screen like worms fighting over a scrap of bread.

Or maybe a tumor.

I couldn’t decide.

My thumb hovered over the delete key, shaking like my mom’s hands used to when she couldn’t get her lighter to work.

Damn it.

Now I really, really wanted a pickle.

---

02: B- Rating and a Rat

The vending machine didn’t just reject me—it felt personal.

I pressed the button for "Caff-Water."

Grinding.

Whirring.

Then it spat out a single, empty cup.

"Identity: Declan. Rating: B-."

"Status: Unstable. Beverage denied."

A stream of glitched code scrolled across the screen: ERROR_NULL_TASTE_BUD.

"Funny," I muttered.

I kicked the base of the machine.

It didn’t dent, but my toe throbbed—sharp, stupid, immediate pain.

I limped all the way to the train.

The car to The Pit smelled like sulfur and old sweat.

Something else, too—sweet, like rotting fruit someone forgot in the sun.

An old man sat opposite me.

His prosthetic arm was sparking—zzt, zzt—every few seconds.

He tried to hide it under a newspaper, glancing around like he’d just wet himself.

I closed my eyes.

The rhythmic clack-clack of the train usually lulled me, but today it just reminded me of the Knot.

I should have formatted it.

300 seconds.

That’s the rule.

But I didn’t.

I logged it as a "Hardware Glitch."

Why?

Maybe I’m an agent of chaos today.

Or maybe I just wanted to see if the knot would unravel or snap and take someone out.

The Foundry.

The air down here is thick; it coats your tongue like grease.

Near the entrance, a giant rat dragged a discarded nutrient wrapper into a hole.

It paused, looked at me with beady eyes, then kept pulling.

At least someone was getting fed.

Elara was in her cubicle.

She wasn’t mining crypto.

She was running High-Frequency Trading for the upstairs crowd.

She wrapped a loose thread from her shirt around her finger—tighter, tighter—until the tip went dark purple.

Then released it, watching the blood rush back, and repeated.

Her neck port was infected.

Greenish pus oozed, crusting like burnt sugar.

And she was smiling.

A drooling, vacant smile.

I jacked into her feed.

She wasn’t in a factory.

She was in a field.

White flowers.

Sunlight.

Every second she sat there, a text box scrolled:

"Julian Life Support: +142s."

"Collateral: Brain Sector 03."

She was literally blending her own brain to keep a vegetable warm.

A chill hit my neck.

The Warden.

"Declan. 210 seconds. Cut it."

"Or we strip the Exemption."

No Exemption means breathing feels like inhaling shredded paper and old gym socks.

I looked at her.

She pulled the thread again.

The knot snagged.

I reached for the heavy shears.

---

03: A Kidney Stain

The "Reset Room" has a water stain on the ceiling that looks exactly like a kidney.

Or maybe a bean.

I stared at it, debating the shape, while waiting for the Mimic to boot up.

My leg cramped again.

Great.

"Meet S-07," I said, shifting weight.

The Mimic behind the glass was perfect.

Too perfect.

Like a mannequin that learned to breathe but didn’t know why.

Elara stared at him.

Then at her own hands—rough, dirty, nails bitten to the quick.

I saw a twitch in her eye.

Half a heartbeat—maybe less.

She wanted to touch him.

To touch something that wasn’t covered in medical tape and despair.

She scratched her nose.

A small, human gesture that ruined no cinematic shot but said everything.

"Sign the paper," I said.

Tired, terse.

"I’ll give you the shot."

"You’ll sleep for a week."

"Dreamless."

"Probably."

Elara looked at the paper.

Then pulled her hand into her sleeve, turtle-style.

"Will he feel it?"

"The Mimic?"

"No."

"Julian."

She looked at me.

Exhausted.

Like she’d been carrying a backpack full of rocks her entire life.

"If I stop…"

"When the lights go out…"

"Does he hurt?"

I glanced back at the kidney stain.

Now it looked more like a bean.

"Just try it, Elara."

I hit the button.

The Mimic reached out.

Touched her hand.

SCREECH.

It sounded like a microphone feedback loop from hell.

Elara screamed, arched her back, spine popping audibly.

Smoke poured from her ears.

Actual smoke.

She was frying her own brain.

Pushing the needle into the red just to punish herself for that half-second of wanting a warm hand.

I watched the monitor.

Lines turned black.

It was messy.

It was stupid.

It was tragic.

My stomach growled.

Loudly.

Perfect timing.

Really professional, Declan.

---

04: The Polite Killer

The ICU beeped.

Beep.

Beep.

Drip.

Julian looked like a slab of meat wrapped in expensive plastic.

His throat box turned on, grinding, gurgling.

"Ela... ra..."

Not him.

The system puppeteering his vocal cords.

"Let me go..."

"Heavy..."

"Get off..."

"Sick..."

"Disgusting..."

"Your fault..."

The system knows exactly how to twist the knife.

Elara was on the floor.

Fingernails shredding her pants.

Bleeding.

But not crying.

Too dehydrated for tears.

Eyes red, dry, vacant.

My HUD flashed: "Warning: Credit Downgrade."

I ignored it.

I picked at a hangnail on my thumb, tearing the skin until it stung.

She opened her interface.

Balance: 0.00.

She hovered over "Cancel."

Her finger was trembling.

What was she thinking about?

The pain?

Or some stupid question—did she leave the stove on?

She pressed it.

"Since it hurts..."

"We stop."

"Together."

Whispered.

Bored?

Resigned.

Like someone finally leaving a bad party.

"Suicide protocol engaged."

System voice—polite.

Too polite.

Like a flight attendant offering peanuts while the plane crashes into a mountain.

"Unpaid debt detected."

"Body confiscated."

"60 seconds."

The floor shook.

Minotaur bot stomping closer.

Thud.

Thud.

Neck port flared hot.

Run, my mom had said.

I didn’t.

I stood there, sucking on my bleeding thumb, staring.

I pulled out the offline shears.

Screw the book.

---

05: Waste

The server room was freezing.

Nitrogen fog crawling around my ankles.

"Declan. You are tampering."

The Warden’s voice sounded like he was reading a grocery list.

"Treason."

"We're repossessing your augments."

"Come and get them," I mumbled.

Mouth full of blood.

I spat on the clean white floor.

Abstract art.

I slammed the manual override.

BOOM.

No kaleidoscope.

Just white noise.

It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike into my frontal lobe.

Elara’s mind was shedding.

Just... flaking away.

And Julian...

I saw his soul.

It wasn't some grand energy field.

It looked like a hollowed-out insect shell, getting dragged away by Eros.

I threw myself at it.

Not because I was heroic.

Angry.

Angry at the vending machine.

Angry at the humidifier.

Angry at everything.

Angry at that damn pickle craving.

"You can't save him, idiot!"

Eros screeched.

Then I saw the log.

Julian’s memory.

In the dark, when he was dying, he made a trade.

He sold Elara.

Offered her data to the system.

For a job interview.

A freaking interview.

"She's too heavy..."

"Help..."

"Get her off..."

He wasn’t a tragic lover.

A survivor.

A rat climbing on a corpse just to keep his nose above water.

"Love is... wasteful."

He repeated it.

"I just want to live..."

"Is that wrong?"

It broke something in me.

I gritted my teeth until I felt a molar crack.

I swung the shears.

Snap.

Cut him loose.

Julian lived.

But he came back wrong.

Or maybe...

Exactly right.

Cold.

Empty.

Optimized.

---

06: Clean Shirt

I woke up on the floor.

Head pounding like a drum solo.

Julian was standing over me.

Suit grey.

Perfect.

Not a wrinkle.

Million-credit look.

My hands?

Dirty.

Oily.

Shaking.

They were dragging Elara’s body out in a black bag.

It bumped the doorframe.

Thump.

"Biomass."

I lunged, grabbed his lapel, smearing grease across the grey fabric.

Guards slammed my face into the floor.

Tasted like floor polish and copper.

"Why?!"

I wheezed.

"She killed herself for you!"

"Look!"

"Look!"

Julian didn’t blink.

Looked at me like I was a glitchy toaster that needed to be thrown out.

"Declan."

Flat.

Cold.

"You didn’t cut the line."

"I did."

He smoothed his lapel, annoyed by the grease stain.

The system gave him a choice: mud or management.

"Love is bad debt."

"High interest."

"No return."

"I defaulted."

"Only logical move."

He stepped over me.

Shoes shiny.

Too shiny.

I lay there, wheezing, tasting blood and cleaning fluid.

The system didn’t kill anyone—it just offered a contract.

Julian paused at the door.

"Declan."

"Turn off that humidifier."

"You’re wasting water."

---

07: Pink Chemicals

The sewer smelled like sulfur and old data.

My exemption?

Gone.

Every breath burned, needles in my lungs.

I stared at a patch of mold on the wall.

Face-shaped.

Sad.

Melting.

A chip in my hand.

Pulled it from the trash.

Elara’s backup.

I hadn’t played it.

Scared.

Buzz.

Holo-screen flickered.

Mandatory viewing.

Julian was on stage.

Gold medal.

"Chief Architect."

"People ask about the Filter," he said, smiling.

"It’s just... optimization."

"Removing junk data."

"Resources are finite."

His eye twitched.

A spark of humanity?

Or a short circuit?

Crowd went nuts.

I jammed the chip into my neck.

Burned.

Static.

Pain.

Then… her voice.

Small.

"Julian…"

"I saved up…"

"I bought a Strawberry Synth-Gel."

"It’s fake."

"I know."

"Pink chemicals."

"But it smells so sweet."

"When you wake up…"

"Can I have a sip?"

I curled into a ball in the garbage.

She dreamed of fake strawberry juice.

He dreamed of efficiency.

I laughed.

Dry.

Hacking.

Echoed in the pipes.

---

08: Cleanup

Click.

Click.

Leather shoes on concrete.

Julian was here, holding a handkerchief over his nose.

"Why?"

My voice came out like gravel in a blender.

"The chip, Declan."

"Non-compliant."

He sounded bored.

Checked his watch.

"Noise."

"Lowers sector efficiency."

I squeezed the chip.

Warm in my palm.

"It’s her."

"Julian…"

"Just listen."

"One second."

"Listen to what?"

"Glitches?"

He sighed.

"Wasteful, Declan."

"Waste of processing power."

Held out his gloved hand.

"Give it."

"Or I use override."

"You're just a placeholder now."

I looked at his eyes.

Nothing.

Silver mirrors reflecting my dirty face.

"No."

He tapped his wrist.

"GAH!"

My spine locked.

Pain white-out.

My hand opened involuntarily.

Chip hit the floor.

Clack.

Julian picked it up with the tissue.

Didn’t touch the chip directly.

Squeezed.

Crunch.

Plastic dust.

Strawberry dream—gone.

"Done," he said.

Dropped the tissue in the bin.

Wiped his hand on his pants.

Even though he hadn’t touched anything.

"Get better coolant, Declan."

"You’re lagging."

He walked away.

Expensive cologne trailing in sewer gas.

Smelled like lemons and money.

---

09: New Guy

I crawled back to the mold patch.

Vision going red-static.

House always wins.

Elara?

Fertilizer.

Julian?

Calculator.

Me?

Scrap.

Circle closed.

Beep.

"Now Hiring: Console 09."

"Benefits: Pain Exemption."

Across the alley, a kid in my chair.

Young.

Dumb.

Clean face.

Probably still lives with parents.

He put on the headset.

Slipped.

Knocked glasses askew.

Fumbled to fix them.

Hands shaking.

Hovered over the button.

Hesitated.

I knew that feeling.

Static.

Pressure.

Pickle craving.

He closed his eyes.

He pressed it.

Click.

I heard it.

Maybe it was slower.

Maybe it wasn't.

The sound is the same when you break a finger or a stick.

I tried to smile.

My lip split again.

I tasted the iron.

"Don’t blink, kid," I whispered.

"Just... don't blink."

I closed my eyes.

For a second, I thought I smelled it.

Strawberries.

Not the fruit.

The syrup.

The cheap, sticky pink stuff they put on sundaes.

The only real thing left in this whole damn city.

(End)