Less than machine

Chapter 1: Just another Tuesday

The alarm buzzed, dragging him from sleep as bright rays sliced through the room, the blinds snapping open at exactly 7:00 AM. He squinted at the familiar furniture and walls, blinking the grogginess away.

He checked his phone.

6:59 AM. Tuesday.

Pulling himself out of bed, he trudged toward the kitchen. The smell of corn soup and freshly baked bread—simple, comforting—wafted through the air, making his stomach growl. He sat at the table, savoring the warmth of the soup and the crispness of the bread. As he ate, his mind drifted back to yesterday. The usual routine: rounds of maintenance checks, troubleshooting system issues—nothing out of the ordinary. But the long hours had left him dragging home well past 9:00 PM.

Once finished, he grabbed his keys and paused for a moment to pick up his thermos full of coffee.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he twisted the key in the ignition. The electric engine hummed to life.

"Wakey-wakey, rise and shine," he muttered with a tired chuckle, patting the dashboard. As he pulled out of the driveway, the smell of the coffee drifted up, and he took a sip, wincing as the hot liquid slightly scorched his tongue. Just a bit too hot.

He frowned, a thought niggling at the back of his mind. It's usually perfect.

—

Traffic greeted him as always—horns blaring, engines revving, cars jostling for position. With a sigh, he cranked up the music. His favorite song came on, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in it, humming along and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"3055, and we still have traffic jams," he muttered, shaking his head. It was absurd. In a world where drones zipped overhead and self-driving cars navigated with precision, traffic jams persisted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of worker drones at a nearby construction site, moving with uncanny precision, carrying massive steel beams and welding joints, faster than any human crew. Yet some still collided—probably due to human error.

Taking another sip from the thermos, this time more cautiously. His thoughts drifted to Ziggy, the family's domestic drone. Ziggy had made the coffee, just like the soup, and probably had dinner lined up already. He'd have to remember to tell it not to bother tonight. He could almost picture those digital eyes blinking in disappointment, like a puppy denied a treat. How did the little guy manage that expression? Twelve years, and he still hadn't figured it out.

A chuckle bubbled up as an old memory surfaced. Ziggy had once whipped up an entire Thanksgiving feast—in September. His kids had laughed until they were in tears, and he'd joined in, watching the little drone panic, unsure of what had gone wrong. It had hurried around the kitchen, trying to correct a non-existent mistake, while they could hardly catch their breath from laughing.

His mood turned a bit somber as more memories came up.

Ziggy had been his wife's idea. He'd never wanted a domestic drone. Didn't think they needed one. But she couldn't resist the goofy, endearing way it acted, insisting they bring the quirky little model home despite his protests. We'll grow attached, she'd said. And, sure enough, they all did—especially after she passed. When the house had felt quieter and emptier, Ziggy remained.

The clunky little robot became more than just an appliance. It was a connection to the life they had shared, a piece of her that lingered. He remembered friends suggesting he upgrade to a newer model—something sleeker, faster, more efficient—but none of those drones would ever be Ziggy. It wasn't just about functionality anymore. Ziggy had become part of their story, a reminder of the warmth she'd brought into their home. And in her absence, the robot stayed, a small constant in a world that had otherwise changed.

An ad blared through the speakers, snapping him from his thoughts.

"From seamless neural interfaces to cutting-edge prosthetics, we've got the perfect solution for every lifestyle. Need a memory boost? Enhanced reflexes? With Mechanicum cybernetics, the future is just one upgrade away."

Irritated, he turned the volume down. Mechanicum. Always pushing their upgrades. Sure, their quality was undeniable, but where did it end? Although, he had to admit, they'd lit a fire under the innovators at JCJenson.

He snorted. Innovation. In a world bursting with it, no one had figured out how to fix a traffic jam.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw his kids bickering over a gaming console.

"You're never gonna win," his son teased, holding the device just out of his sister's reach.

"Give it back!" his daughter snapped, frustration flaring in her blue eyes.

He chuckled. "Alright, enough. Take turns, and no fighting."

"Yeah, yeah, Dad," they muttered, swapping the console with exaggerated annoyance.

He smiled. Just another Tuesday. But something felt... off. The birds outside were migrating in strange, hurried patterns, darting through the sky as if they knew something he didn't. Dogs barked restlessly from inside cars, their owners oblivious to the anxiety pulsing through them. People seemed to be rushing everywhere, yet going nowhere at all.

But everything was normal, wasn't it? The sun was shining, the traffic was as maddening as ever, horns blaring and engines grumbling in the heat. In fact, it was better than normal with his kids in the backseat, their laughter filling the car, playful bickering over a game console.

And yet, an odd tension clung to the air. Something was wrong, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

As they neared the security checkpoint, a scanner bathed the car in green light, and a robotic voice chimed.

"ID verified. Welcome back, Senior Technician S6."

He nodded at the guard drone, easing the car forward. The weight of routine pressed down on him, heavier than usual. Everything was the same—but today, it grated.

Stepping out of the car, he squinted. The sunlight was harsh, casting sharp reflections off the metallic surfaces. It was almost too bright, too crisp. Shielding his eyes, he called to his kids.

"Stick close today, alright?" His voice sounded more urgent than he intended.

His son rolled his eyes. "Dad, we're not little kids anymore."

His daughter elbowed her brother, smirking. "Yeah, because you're so mature."

Suppressing a laugh, he swiped his ID at the entrance. The system beeped cheerfully.

"Welcome back, Senior Technician S6. Have a pleasant day."

The words grated. Everything was running smoothly—too smoothly. He hesitated at the threshold, the steady hum of machines filling the air. It all seemed fine, just like always.

But there was no real reason to feel anxious, and yet, the rhythm of the day—the routine—seemed almost... artificial.

Shaking off the feeling, he pushed through the doors. An old friend greeted him, but the moment felt hazy, as though his mind was only half-present.

It all seemed fine—just like always. Except... it wasn't. Every step felt heavier, every sound sharper. Something was wrong, even if he couldn't say what.