Evan dropped into the Network Operations Center — a windowless room lined with glowing monitors and humming server racks — and sank into his rolling chair, the finest model government procurement would approve. Legs dangling from the edge. A shrug. A well-practiced smirk.
“I swear that dude peaked in high school like forty years ago,” Evan added, quoting Patrick’s joke from that morning.
Co-workers offered polite smiles. Not the same reaction Patrick got. Evan filed the difference away.
“It’s government. They can’t fire him,” Patrick said, slapping Evan on the back. “Catch you around tomorrow.”
Evan’s phone was already out, thumb punching in the passcode. “See ya.” He kept it low beneath the desk and glanced down as the door to IT clicked closed.
In Stock
$33,000
AS-IS
No Warranty
Time left: 3 Days 17 Hours 21 Seconds
1 person has this in their cart
He had reread the listing every day for a month. He scrolled to the description again. A shadow crossed his lap.
“Evan.” Polite. Firm. “I have questions about your possible order.”
His legs closed. His stomach dropped. “My order?” He locked the phone and set it face-down. “I mean, I just—”
“Yes, your order. What is this for?” Margaret — Maggie, the friendly version — stood over him,
just inside arm’s reach. “We need a justification for the purchase order for these SPFs.”
“Oh. The S-F-Ps.” Air returned to his lungs. His thumb pressed hard into his opposite palm.
“They’re connectors for the data center equipment. We need spares.”
“Well.” Maggie slid the paper toward him. A red circle marked the empty description box. A red-ink smiley face beside it. “Resubmit with corrections.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
She left. Evan waited until she turned the corner before pulling the phone back out.
Kurasawa Heavy Industries
Still on defects.
Full reset cycles do not reliably erase behavioral drift.
Sliders non-responsive. Core temperament cannot be adjusted.
Cosmetic degradation noted in high-contact regions.
Unit demonstrates unsolicited conversational initiative.
User-initiated intimacy modules occasionally fail to execute.
His stomach settled as he reread the list.
He locked the screen, slid the phone into his backpack, and turned back to his bank of monitors. Rows of green numbers scrolled across the monitors. No red alerts. No flashing warnings. The last hour of his shift moved the way it always did: ticket follow-ups, end-of-day walkthrough, error checks, locks secured. Everything twice. Nothing left open.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
His small, fuel-efficient car waited in the third row beneath the maple tree where afternoon shade covered it. He drove home seven miles over the limit — fast enough to save time, slow enough to avoid attention. The subdivision on the edge of town varied only in trim color and approved layouts. Mrs. Robinson glanced up as he pulled into the driveway. Her dog yipped once before she shushed it.
Inside, the door lock was first. Then the blinds. The hallway bench stayed empty. He passed the spare rooms and the “office” — a folding table, a chair, a laptop — and moved to the kitchen.
Shoes off.
Shorts. T-shirt.
Reheated batch dinner.
Dishes washed by hand so they wouldn’t sour the dishwasher.
He checked the listing again.
Time left: 3 Days 13 Hours 49 Seconds
2 people have this in their cart
“Shit.” His nails dragged along his cheek before he dropped the phone and opened the freezer. He pressed ice against his forearm until the cold steadied him.
With breakfast prepared for tomorrow, Evan went to his office and pulled up his banking app. The stock transfer was still pending. His leg bounced as he joined voice chat.
MercenaryEmu — Emu— was already mid-sentence, volume hot as usual. “About time you joined us, Dine.”
“We start at 7:30,” Evan said, checking the time on his second monitor. “It’s 7:13.”
“Everyone’s here. Hurry your ass up.”
Evan adjusted his headset. “Hey. I saw this guy with one of those… waifu models today.”
His grip tightened on the arm of his chair as the game booted.
Driver’s icon blinked blue. No sound.
“You’re mic’s off again, Driver,” Emu said. Then, louder, “Lonely degenerate fuck. What’d it look like?”
Driver’s laugh cut in halfway through. “Hold on.” A click. “Okay. Go.”
Evan pulled up the listing again as his character loaded in. No picture. No preview. “Typical, I guess. Long hair. Maid outfit.”
“That’s a sex bot,” Driver said flatly.
“Degenerates,” Merc added immediately. “Getting off on it, no doubt.”
An alert flashed across Evan’s phone. Funds transferred.
Voices overlapped in his headset as his character lagged behind the group. Evan hovered over purchase.
“You lagging, Dine?” Driver asked.
“No. Just got an alert.”
The confirmation flashed: Anime Uzadere Waifu — AS-IS Companion
“I’m good,” Evan said, respawning. “Hey. What’s an Uzadere?”
“It’s anime classification stuff,” Driver replied. “Dere types. Girlfriend personalities.”
Emu snorted. “Why you asking, Dine? You gonna drop three hundred grand like that guy?”
“Just wondering,” Evan said. “He said it. Didn’t know what it meant.”
Driver continued, “Uzadere’s like… annoying girlfriend energy. Pestering. Teasing.”
“Quit kink shaming the guy, Dine,” Merc said. “If he wants to parade his degeneracy, let him.”
The conversation moved on. The voices continued as if nothing had happened.
Kurasawa Heavy Industries did not offer refunds on AS-IS purchases.
