Ty, a shift manager with an alcoholic wife, creates a female replicant in a dystopia veering toward full mechanization. For Ty, the surreal drudgery of working in a retail environment is interrupted when robotic interfaces are installed at his job...
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His first day in training as a manager, Ty observed two things: the first being a robbery at his bank, and the second being the installation of a new interface at work.
The robbery in of itself had been alarming; armed with an AK-47, the robber shot the teller in the arm. Even after being shot, the teller repeated an odd phrase to the entirety of the bank: All will be well. The State Authority will arrive soon to resolve the matter. The robber laughed at the first announcement, becoming annoyed after the teller repeated the statement broken-record style.
Soothsayer that the teller was, a black vehicle with the State logo (a white star under-scored by two handguns) pulled up in front of the bank. The robber tried to run, but a bullet to the eye stopped any marathon he had planned.
Ty had witnessed several robberies, but it was the first time he'd been in such close proximity. Never before had he lain with his cheek pressed against a cold marble floor, waiting for an armed maniac to leave so he could breathe again. A woman next to him had sobbed quietly. He remembered her tears pooling near her cheek, and his irrational urge to shush her.
Stop being emotional; you're alive.
His usual response to trauma was to categorize, wrap it, and shelve it for another day. The "another" day hardly ever came, but he was okay with that. Shelving helped him survive. Before he returned to work, he made sure he had taped his shaking to a minimum.
~*~
Breezing into Good Time, Ty's eyes were drawn to a chrome pole erected in the first aisle. It was more like a bean-pole bot, complete with a clear interface screen atop its shining apex. When he stepped closer to inspect it, the screen lit up in recognition.
"How may I aid you, citizen?" A cheery female voice intoned.
"What's this?" He directed his question to the nearest manager, Wallace Williamson.
Wallace beamed. "Isn't it cool? We finally have an interface in our store." Wallace noticed Ty's clammy forehead and shaking hands. "What's wrong with you?"
Any leftover fear from the robbery leaked out from him, replaced with fear of the machine.
[Who would do everything a store then?]
[Machines.]
"Nothing. I'm okay."
Wallace had been at the brunt of four robberies in the last two months, and he never shook like Ty. At least, not that anyone ever saw.
"You don't look okay. You look like shit," Wallace said.
He mopped at his beaded brow, fixing a stock smile on his face. Luckily, an approaching customer saved him from responding. He cared about Wallace's opinion, and looking like a scared little bitch was something he wished to avoid.
