CITY BAR — THE CITY
FOUR DAYS LATER — 14 JANUARY 2036
Rosa García kept coming back for more—once, twice, a handful of times. She didn’t like it; she didn’t like it at all. It was distracting. It was taking time away from focusing on her ultimate goal: to find one of the creators of Down Below and avenge her sister's death. But the guy was addictive, and she didn’t understand why she was getting so caught up with a bot. The Underling was moody and unreasonably solemn. He seemed to harbor a grudge toward her. Not in bed, never in bed. The cognitive dissonance kept her on her toes.
For some reason, she cared about his feelings. Why? She didn’t know what was true and what was not, and then she remembered none of it was real. The bot had been designed to earn her empathy, and it was excelling in its mission. Compared to other Underlings, he felt like an upgraded version. He appeared to be less stereotypical and more wholesome. While other characters served a particular purpose and only had a depth to them in matters related to that goal, he felt boundless and free from scripted content. What a trip!
Down Below delivered hyper realistic and deeply personalized experiences, but she hadn’t signed up for any. Her associate had tampered with her digital identity, adding an exorbitant amount of fake data to stop the simulation from pulling her strings and manipulating her emotions. Still, the cagey Underling pressed all her buttons, even the ones she didn’t know she had.
A couple fought loudly by the entrance of the bar. A digital husband told his human wife it was over. Her betrayal had caused irreparable damage. He was moving to another continent and taking the dog with him. Faced with the consequences of her thoughtless actions, the wife crumpled at the loss of the one she loved—a prediction that could still be avoided in the real world. This was her moment, the experience she was there to attain. The contrast provided as a service that would put her itch for an extramarital adventure into perspective and stop her infidelity Up Above before it started.
As Rosa watched the crumbling marriage play out, she pondered her own complicated entanglements. She would have loved to confront the woman and call her a fool, but Down Below's rules wouldn't allow it. Here, you could observe but never interact with another human traveler. The experiences unfolded organically, ensuring they remained apart.
She rolled her eyes, dismissing the fake benefits of the platform. The woman was having sex with other people; so what? There was nothing wrong with it. Marriage was just a safety net for feeble and dependent people—cowardly humans trading off freedom and self-determination for a mediocre life filled with compromises and disappointment.
Maybe, in rare exceptions, the love was genuine and the bond worth the trouble, but it made people vulnerable, and that was unacceptable. Inevitably, they would deal with the pain of loss. Someone somewhere would leave or die, and to have the real thing taken away was unbearable.
Rosa spotted him, towering above the crowd. Tall, lean, and beautiful, he wore a simple white T-shirt and jeans, his wild black waves carelessly tied back. His pale skin and classic lines reminded her of an ancient Greek marble statue, perhaps the Motya Charioteer she had seen as a teenager. He was too perfect, an avatar that could never exist in the real world. Rosa’s perfect bait. The algorithm knew too much; she was sure of it.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed another Underling, one that was almost as striking as the Motya. It was an androgynous-looking woman sporting a luxurious black mohawk tipped in silver. The expressionless creature always made her feel on edge. The hawkish Underling stood in the bar’s corner, motionless. Her crisp white pantsuit glowed in the moody light of the room, and her eyes were always locked on him, or sometimes, Rosa.
That otherworldly digital character had been the reason Rosa had summoned the Motya to her on the first day they met. She had stayed away from him because his wrists made her sick to her stomach. She wanted nothing to do with him, but then she saw her competition, and an Olympic athlete never rejects a good challenge.
Initially, Rosa had avoided him and walked past him on the way to the bar. Then she saw the woman move toward him, looking like she was ready to take him for herself. The Underling had cocked her head and stared at Rosa, raising an eyebrow—the only expression Rosa had ever seen on her face. It was a dare; she was sure of it. Ultra-competitive by nature, Rosa didn’t think twice, and with one single hand gesture, he was hers. And now, five days later, she couldn’t get enough of him. An unexpected and riveting addiction.
He found her, and she walked toward him. A hint of tears emerged in his eyes beneath his judgmental brow—a twinkle of sorrow sometimes turned to ice in bursts of deep, bitter anger. A second later, the frost was gone. No words or actions were needed; it was fueled from the inside out. He was a bot, just a bot designed to get under her skin. I might as well enjoy a good fuck.
“Five ‘dates’ in a week,” she said with a pinch of sarcasm, her fingers gesturing the air quotes. “I may have to bend the knee and pull out a ring.”
“You really ought to tell me your name.” His voice was deep and measured, every word deployed with precision. A staccato lent a musical flavor to his lilt. He spoke plainly in an accent not-quite-American and not-quite-British that sounded unpretentiously posh. She wasn’t sure why the platform had matched her with such an affluent-sounding bot. Perhaps the fake data was working after all.
Rosa looked at the design engraved in her leather wrap bracelet, and then she replied to his smooth jazz with a punch of grunge. “Call me Thorn.”
He rolled his eyes. “Thorn? Charming. I guess I was right—a prick.”
She was amused at his attempts to deliver harsh barbs. He was too cute to be cruel. Despite his truthful resentment, his mocking and masculine tone, he expressed his words without commitment, and their sharpness bothered him more than it did her.
“Too many corny words, pet. You’ll spoil it for me.” A pinch of a smile touched his lips. “Your place?” she said with renewed conviction.
“How does it feel to be on top of the food chain, prick?”
He always avoided her eyes at all costs. When his gaze finally landed on hers, he looked straight into her soul. The softness beneath his eyes contradicted his judgmental words. Absentmindedly, he moved a wayward lock of hair away from her eyes, and his touch was light and tender. He caught himself, pulling his hand away.
“Ravenous,” she barked.
Rosa pulled him toward her, stood on the tips of her toes, and bit his neck. He winced, wrapped his fingers around hers, and led her out of the bar.
As they walked outside, Rosa flinched at the deafening roar of the hellish place—the sirens, the drilling, the screaming, and the howling—an echo of the chaos that had once existed in her own world. He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it, and she shook it off. She didn’t need a pretty bot’s reassurance.
Then something changed; he closed his eyes, his jaw tightened, and he chewed on his lower lip. His hand briefly clenched into a fist before he opened it to stretch his fingers. Ahead of them, an Underling boy lay on the ground, curled upon himself as a traveler in a dark blue military uniform kicked him in the head. The high rank naval officer—chest adorned with too much gold—held an M16 in his hand. Using it as a baton, he repeatedly slammed it into the boy’s back. The boy screamed, cried, and begged for mercy, but no one came to his rescue. The travelers walked past, ignoring the commotion, and the Underlings glanced passively from the corner of their dull eyes. Maybe there was a flicker of sadness in their gaze, or perhaps she was projecting her own emotions onto these mindless bots. Rosa reached down into the side pocket of her pants and gripped her gun as her companion jumped into action.
The Motya pushed his shoulder into the traveler’s shoulder, making the soldier stumble and fall. He kneeled by the inert boy, carefully lifting the young bot’s broken body and tucking the boy’s head into his shoulder.
His hand gently cupped the young man’s neck and face. “Augusto, you’re going to be okay. I promise you.” His voice quivered as he kissed the boy’s bloodied hair.
The officer stood up, screaming from the top of his lungs, spit and foam hanging from the corners of his twisted mouth. “Fucker.” He jumped on the Motya from behind, kicking him in the back before pulling up his weapon, ready to fire. “He killed my son! That bastard got drunk and drove his car into my boy.”
As Rosa moved to intervene, a large group of Underlings rushed past her, queuing loosely to get into the bar. She sighed. The platform wouldn’t allow her to interfere with the other traveler’s experience. Fearing for her foolish bot, she attempted to dodge the crowd to keep an eye on what was going on.
With the rifle’s muzzle pressed to the back of his neck, the Motya got up, holding the boy in his arms. He called out to another Underling—the bar’s bouncer. The silverback gorilla-looking bot took the boy and walked inside, ignoring the traveler who kept screaming all sorts of nonsense as he tried to get past the Motya to go after the boy. “My boy’s body crushed, unrecognizable. That’s what I’ll do to him. Crush his skull and his face. All of it.”
The red-faced soldier released the weapon’s safety and aimed as the Motya turned around and stepped forward, closing the gap between the rifle and his forehead.
Rosa cringed at the bot’s idiotic move. Down Below had been designed so pain and death were as sharp and definitive for the Underlings as they were in the real world. Again, she attempted to push through the crowd of bots, growing increasingly frustrated with each failed attempt.
“Richard, what are you doing?” The Motya raised his right hand and placed it open on the nape of the traveler’s neck. “It won’t bring him back. Nothing will.”
The traveler recoiled and hit the bot’s face with the rifle’s butt. “Touch me again, and I’ll fucking kill ya.”
Hurt, the Underling stumbled, closing his eyes and cleaning the blood dripping off his brow. Then the idiot stepped forward, closer to the officer, and looked him in the eyes.
Rosa held her breath. What are you doing, you suicidal loon?
The bot's eyes brimmed with compassion as he spoke. “It was an accident, Richard. None of this will bring Chris back. You don't need to murder an innocent boy to learn this lesson.”
The man's jaw trembled as his eyes glimmered. The Motya gently disarmed him, pulling the weapon from his hands. “Go home, Richard. Go home.”
The man collapsed to his knees, body shaking as he buried his face in his hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he sobbed pitifully, like a lost child. The bot embraced him, holding him for a moment. Then, it sent him on his way.
Rosa's jaw dropped. What was this? An obvious manipulation to draw her into the simulation? She shook it off.
The traveler left, and the Motya returned to her side, his eyes sharp. She took his hand. Then, remembering it was part of the platform's manipulation, she pulled it away as he flagged a car.
“I’ll come back another time,” she said, feeling awkward.
“Stay.” His voice was quiet.
He's just a bot, she reminded herself, waiting for the car.
The foul air reeked of rotten eggs and bitter almonds, a stench that emanated from the industrial chimneys looming nearby, hidden by pollution. All around them echoed the intense rumble of diesel engines and the slap of pistons.
On the way to his place, the bot was silent, half his face black and blue. He massaged his thigh absentmindedly, trembling. Rosa reached out to stop the movement, squeezing his hand. He kissed her.
The first day they met, she had refused his kiss. She wanted to keep some part of herself grounded in reality and to expose him for what he was—a thing to be used and discarded. But every time she had denied him her lips, he would stop, and he would look at her tenderly, withholding the thrill of his touch. She would feel his entire body aching for her, but he’d remain motionless, begging for a kiss with his eyes. Soon enough, she’d surrender, reaching for his mouth, biting his lips, and succumbing to his programmed enchantment. And that’s when sex with a bot turned into something else—something deeper—a truth she chose to ignore. She stuck to a simpler explanation: the thing was addictive—like a drug—and she came back often to get her fix.
By the time they arrived to his place, she was lost in him, fearing for her sanity. Rosa eagerly explored every part of the Underling's body, deliberately avoiding his wrists. Those were the areas engineered to trigger her—covered in scars, veins, and despair. She wondered how the designers had uncovered a past she’d worked hard to erase from the world’s Ledger.
Despite her unease, she was reassured by the Underling's visible emotional response—the urgency in his breath, the need in his eyes, and the gentleness of his hands, all contradicted the harshness of his words. A bot, he—it’s just a bot, she reminded herself, her feelings at odds with her logic.
In bed, their shields were gone, and somehow, he understood her. No amount of desire could tame the storm raging inside her. He was designed to serve her, and serve her he did. The Underling tried to smooth her anger the best he could, a fleeting moment of heaven experienced in the depths of hell. He waited for her, teasing and pacing their combined pleasure, carefully guiding her toward shared ecstasy. He thrived in his urgent generosity, and in the craft of deeply understanding a human being’s body. To keep some grasp on reality while he moved inside her was an impossible feat. Overcome by the culmination of so much desire, she crashed in his bed—exhaustion defeating her steely determination to get away before things got complicated.
Waking up cradled in his arms was enough of a shock to her defenses. The scarred wrists in front of her face brought instant fire to her dynamite. She drove her elbow backward until it crashed into his face. The Underling rolled away from her in pain as she jumped out of bed to pick up her clothes. He recovered and got up as she continued to erupt in an uncontrolled raging panic.
“Bloody manipulative thing!” she screamed, and then she threw up, her body shaking and convulsing. “How did you get access to my data?” She pulled up her trousers and tucked in her double tank top. Then she reached down into the side pocket of her pants, looking for her gun. She’d put a bullet between his eyes, if it helped her repress her memories.
“Are you okay?” Tender and unguarded, his tone shifted from its usual cold mockery. He stayed away from her. The confusion in his eyes reminded her the thing was a digital puppet. The master who attempted to pull her strings was elsewhere. These toys had no clue they were part of a game. For them, there was only one broken and dirty world. He put his jeans on, eyes begging for an explanation. “I’m sorry. What did I do? Slow down your breathing, Thorn; there’s no reason to panic.”
Her heart and lungs were outpacing each other with no finish line in sight. Tears flooded her eyes; no fear, just anger that she had let the creature see her weakness. She pulled her hand out of the pocket without revealing the threat to his digital life. For a moment, she thought she saw her body change. Her fingers became longer, and the skin in her hands and arms turned into a deeper, darker shade. She closed her eyes and shook her head, and as she looked at her hands again, everything was back to normal. Weird. Some glitch.
“Listen, I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.” He held his hands up, palms toward her.
No, your code doesn’t let you. She took a deep breath and sat down on the bed, wiping away the sourness in her mouth on his expensive sheets.
“I’ll get you some water.”
She watched him leave the room, her eyes tracing the perfect lines of his shoulders and his bruised back. A drug. He’s just a drug.
By the time the Motya returned, she was dressed. He kept his distance, placing the water on the bedside table and then retreating toward the window. Her hungry gaze traveled up his naked torso toward the soft pale skin of his facial features. A large bruise branded his left temple and eyebrow where her elbow had hit, doubling down on his previous injury—the black and blue, now black and purple.
“Dammit! I’m sorry.” She pressed her lips together, realizing she was apologizing to a digital character. What’s wrong with me?
He dismissed her concern with a slight smile still filled with worry. Sitting on the ledge of the window, he pointed to the glass.
She glanced at the bedside table. Beside the glass of water, she found two books: Le Petit Prince and A Monster Calls.
“You read old kids’ books?” Her interest was fueled by a mix of guilt and curiosity. She picked up the glass, took a sip, and then traced its circular rim with her fingers. “A bit too old, don’t you think?”
He shot a defensive glance at her from behind a curtain of dark, wavy hair. “They tell you everything you need to know.”
“To eat, screw, and sleep?” She raised her brow, a weak attempt to play innocent.
“That what’s essential is invisible to the eye.” His eyes were still set on her. “That stories are important if they carry the truth.”
“Cute. A gloomy guy, with scars on his wrists, quoting children’s books.” She stopped and grinned, finishing with obvious sarcasm. “Makes sense.”
His face flushed, and then he scowled. “That you don’t write your life with words but with actions.”
“True, nothing like a good fuck.” She stared at him, and her eyes narrowed as she licked her lips for effect.
He puzzled her. His words carried too much hope and idealism for someone projecting deep anger and despair. She shook her head, remembering he wasn’t real. “What’s your name? What do you do?” She tested, and he swayed, biting his lip as if contemplating sharing a most personal secret. “It’s just a name. Not asking you to share your private key. Who are you?”
He fiddled with a small, round medal he carried on a chain around his neck. “Perhaps it’s best we st—” A deep sigh followed a long pause. “Follow me, prick. I’ll show you.” His right hand reached toward her, but his body stayed put. She stood up and walked to him. Instead of holding his hand, she pulled him to her and kissed his bruised eye. His hands moved back, a thoughtful attempt to reassure her of her safety. The poor toy failed to realize he was the more vulnerable of the two.
Her eyes caught the glimmer of his medal. On its surface, an engraved image of Jesus. “You’re Christian?”
He shook his head, placing his hand over the medal, blushing, and backing away from her.
“Do you believe in that bull? A guy crucified to save our souls?” She rolled her eyes.
“It’s not a good story.”
“Fiction, for sure.”
He smiled, looking amused. As his eyes sparkled, Rosa’s skin tingled. She looked away when she caught herself fluttering her eyelashes at him. Frack, he’s not even my type; way too sensitive and gloomy.
“What about you? Do you have faith?”
“Strength is my religion,” she said, standing taller.
“A flaky coat of paint. Prickly.”
“What?”
He raised a brow. “I’ll show you. If you come with me.”
“Show me what?”
“Paint.”
Confused, she doubled down, suspecting he was trying to change the subject. “Why do you wear Christ around your neck?”
“It means something else…something different.”
“Is this why you act all long-suffering and grim?”
“Maybe it’s rubbing off on me. I have the bad habit of falling for thorny, painful things.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Come. I’m taking you on an art tour.” He reached out again, and this time, she held his hand and followed him.