Dolores

The first stop was the bank. To be honest, she had no idea which bank Archie used, but figured that if he worked for Solstice QuankBank, then he likely had an account there. She stepped into the lobby of the bank. Plants lined the room, sitting next to desks and helping give hints as to where people were supposed to form a line to see the next available teller. Some bankers in suits sat at desks, staring at screens, while others were showing their screens to the people sitting there, showing them the details of some banking arrangement, loans, mortgages, even high-yield accounts.

Dolores got into the main queue. An array of windows, each with a teller behind it, sat at the end of the line. Dolores had never been to prison, but had seen a few prison dramas (and even a prison comedy), and in a way, the row of windows reminded her of the place where prisoners can talk through the glass to their loved ones or lawyers. She allowed herself a brief smile as she thought of it, envisioning the tellers as hardened criminals, while she, some big city lawyer, was there to tell them the update on their case. “The appeal process is going smoothly,” she said in her head. “As long as we don't get Judge Wilkins, we should be golden.” She wondered, briefly, in the midst of her daydream, how hard it was to be a lawyer. It was a lot of rules memorization, she figured, but if she could understand the nuances of all the latest diets, exercises, and fashion trends, she was sure that she had what it took to be a lawyer. She made a note to look into that when she was done here at the bank. Her note app made her watch another ad before it would save.

Finally, it was her turn. She stepped up to the next open window. Behind was a face on a screen. It wasn't a human face. More like two dots and a line representing the mouth. It was an AI.

“Welcome to Solstice QuantBank,” it said, its voice a little lispy. “How may I help you today?”

“I'd like to check on the status of my account,” she said. “There have been some problems with it since this morning.”

“Of course,” said the bot. “And what was the account number?”

She had no idea what the account number was. “Can you look it up by last name or something? My husband usually handles this sort of thing, but he's, well, he's missing right now, and I'm trying to figure out what’s going on.” She took a breath.

“Of course,” said the bot. “I'm sorry to hear about your troubles. Let's see what we can do to help today. What was your last name?”

“Tuttle,” she said.

“Two t's?” said the bot.

“Three,” she said. “First one, then two later on.”

“Of course,” said the bot. Her last name flickered across the screen that was also his face. “And first name on the account?”

“Dolores,” she said. “Or possibly, Archie. Archibald.” His full name sounded weird coming from her mouth. Not even in anger or sarcasm did she ever use his full name. He was always Archie, Archie, Archie.

The bot did something that didn't show up on his screen. “Hmm,” it said. Then it did some more things. “Hmm,” it said again.

“Everything all right?” she said.

“I'm not finding you as an account holder. But I am finding Archibald. But also, this account is currently locked. I'm going to have to elevate this.”

Dolores nodded. The bot's face display gave a concerned and concentrated look, which was impressive, considering it was just a pixelated drawing of two eyes and a mouth. When it was done, it looked at her. “Someone will be with you shortly,” it said. “Please have a seat on the couch over there.”

“Thank you,” she said. She looked over and saw the couch. Nearby was a cooler of bottles of water and a pod-based coffee maker. She went over to the area, surrounded by more plants. After perusing the selection of flavors, she picked a coffee pod and put it in the machine. After reheating the water reservoir and placing a cup under the output, it steamed away, making her drink. It secured a lid to the top before pushing it out far enough for her to take it. She did, then took a seat on the couch.

She thought about looking up the thing about being a lawyer, but the ads were just too much. She looked over instead at a nearby television. The news anchor Magda Mitra was standing outside a convenience store with its windows smashed. The chiron said “BREAKING: GEARHEADS GO BERZERK.”

“Just an hour ago, a group of rogue ‘gearheads’ has gone on the attack,” she said. Police tape surrounded the convenience store. “Police are unsure what caused it, but the people on the street have their own theories.” The video feed cut from Magda to a pre-recorded interview with a street punk. He had a wild orange-red mohawk and wore an eyepatch over one of his eyes. The screen said, “WILLY D. LOCAL” “I was just there, buying my nixs,” he said. “And then a group of gearheads walks in and starts trashing the place. Shanks tried to stop them, but they threw him like he was a hollystick. They found what they were looking for, then left.” Cut to KORVIS SHANKS, OWNER in a hospital bed. He looked a bit like a homeless Odin with dreadlocks. “I'm not sure what they were after,” he said. “But I'm glad I've got insurance.” Back to WILLY D. “They were saying something about Agent Trees or something.”

Back to Magda. “Security footage shows the attack,” she said, then her voice over the black and white grainy footage of a group of gearheads coming into the store and smashing their way through. Magda went on, narrating it and saying something about if you have any information, call the police or something, but Dolores didn't hear a word. Her attention was fixated on the security camera footage. One of the gearheads had a certain way he held himself. Though his clothes were torn and ragged, she recognized the pattern on the coat. And though his head was covered by a strange helmet with wires and antennas jutting out of it, the way he walked, the way he moved, the way he threw a display of chips across the room like it was nothing, there was something familiar. She leaned forward, studying the screen. Something glinted on his hand as it caught the light just right. A ring. Dolores stared, unbelieving. “Archie?” she said.

Memories flooded back to her. It was late, and they were on a date in the arts district. Dolores wore his leather jacket, because she had been too stubborn to bring a coat of her own because she didn't want to have to lug a bulky thing around. Their breath mingled in the night air as they walked toward the curb. Archie was fiddling with his phone, trying to hail a ride, but the reception was bad. He looked over at a coffee shop across the street. “I'm going to see if I can get on their wifi,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

He crossed the empty street, looking both ways for cars that never came. Then, the size of a doll from where Dolores waited, he stepped into the coffee shop. She bundled the coat around herself, staring up at the neon moon. She had gone from Italy to this without a second thought. It was like there was no such thing as a bad idea with Archie. He wasn't all for showy things, so they'd had a small wedding at the courthouse. She was all the razzle dazzle he needed, and he promised that if she wanted something bigger, he'd give it to her. She had forgotten all about it, but discovered that she did have an extroverted side that he didn't share. He's gotten her all the equipment to be an influencer, and she spent her time when he was busy at work trying out the new and latest fitness, health, beauty, and fashion trends all for her adoring fans. The numbers grew higher and higher each day, and even though there were a few naysayers, a few more black card swipes, and automated systems kept them at bay.

Something rustled behind her and she looked. It was a figure just outside the glow of the street lamp. It moved toward her. She tensed. She didn't feel like dealing with homeless people or Mithraists or anything else right now, especially while Archie was across the street buying a coffee or something just to be able to connect to the network and hail a ride. She reached into her purse and grabbed the first thing she could find. It was a Bubble Bauble, a floating camera she used sometimes when she was out and wanted to let the world know. She tossed it in the air, where it whirred to life. “I'm filming this,” she said to the figure, her voice shaky. It was a lie, as there wasn't enough of a signal to broadcast, and the Bubble Bauble didn't have enough memory for more than a few seconds of storage. “Don't try anything funny, and you won't have police hunting you down like an animal.” She cringed. Did she really just say that?

Then she heard another sound, and another, and another. A whole group of figures were in the peripherery of the streetlamp's glow. The figures lurched forward. They stepped into the light. They were terrifying. They had glazed-over eyes, moved with a sort of mechanical jerk, and had strange wires poking out of their heads. Gearheads. She had only heard about them before on the plane back with Archie. They rented out their brains as biological computational devices. Most of the time, they just stood around as if in a daze. They weren't supposed to walk around. They weren't supposed to be coming toward her.

They surrounded her. She backed up against the streetlamp, hoping in some futile way that the glow would banish these real-life nightmares. It reminded her of a zombie movie, but she couldn't exactly recall which one. One of them reached its hand out toward her. She winced, trying to make herself small. Where was Archie when she needed him?

A paper cup of coffee flew through the air. It struck the closest gearhead and exploded, sending a shower of steaming liquid everywhere. Dolores only felt sprinkles dust her cheek, but saw that Archie's jacket had taken most of the damage headed her way. The coffee explosion sent the first gearhead staggering back.

Someone grabbed her hand. She looked, saw Archie, and followed him as they went across the street. The Bubble Bauble bobbed after her. Before the rogue gearheads could figure out what went on, a cab wheeled up to the curb and Archie opened the door for Dolores. “Let's go home,” he said once he was inside and the door was shut and locked. The cab tutted away, leaving confused and disoriented gearheads behind.

Dolores looked at the coat. It had a stain from the coffee that Archie had thrown. “Oh,” she said. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I ruined your coat.”

Archie smiled. “I was the one who threw the coffee,” he said. “Besides, I can always buy a new one.” He handed her a paper cup. “I bought two,” he said. “I threw mine, so this one is yours.”

She took it. The rich aroma of coffee and cocoa and milk with just a hint of toffee swirled out from the lip of the cup. With hands still shaking, she took a sip. It was still warm, and it helped melt away the fear of what had just happened. She leaned against Archie, and he put his arm around her, ignoring the spilled coffee on the coat. “My hero,” she said. She handed him the cup. “Share with me, since you sacrificed your own.” He took the cup, took a sip, then handed it back to her.

“You have the rest,” he said. “I'm not a fan of toffee.”

Back at home, even though she was buzzed on the caffeine of a late-night mocha, she still was light on her feet. Archie practically carried her.

“We'll send the coat to dry cleaning, and if that doesn't get the stain out, we'll just donate it, and you can help me pick out a new one.” He smiled. “Especially since you'll be wearing it almost as much as me.”

That night, once safe in home, nestled in her cozy sheets, the caffeine finally kicked in. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, while Archie slept silently beside her. Her mind raced as she tried to find sleep, planning out a video that she would post about this incident. She should have taken pictures.

“Mrs. Tuttle?” said a voice. She came forward several years into the present. A banker in a suit was standing there. “Boxter said that you were having trouble accessing your account. Let's see what we can do.”

She looked up at the banker. He looked nothing like Archie. She nodded and followed him to his desk.