Not all stories from Theatre Street were served in the my book. This one stayed in the shadows... until today. Consider this my 25th frame (or shot), which is my Springtime gift to you!
Jake had spent more than a year under contract inside a sealed Facebook group, and now he was learning to compress the ache for real human contact into something small enough to carry. The ache itself felt like an evolutionary relic—buried herd-instinct—but it persisted, stubbornly reminding him that he still belonged to the tangible world, and to the people for whom he had once made a choice.
There was a strong chance the coders had pushed another unannounced patch today. If so, his monopoly on conversing with the group’s bots might be over. He didn’t know whether to welcome that or dread it. His contract had no expiration date.
He was curious what kind of “special” patch they had decided to inject into this remote digital ecosystem on the eve of the weekend. Jake never read the change logs. As usual, he sauntered toward the import gateway—the place in Facebook where new code crossed over—and glanced at the top of the console.
A human stood there, struggling with a small laptop.
A second later the newcomer turned. Jake didn’t immediately register her face.
“What do you want here?” he snapped, the line delivered in a tone colder than he intended.
If she noticed the hostility, she ignored it. She kept smiling, balancing the laptop awkwardly in her left hand.
“Lora Hart,” she introduced herself. “From the missionary Facebook group ‘Vita-Spirit.’ I’m very pleased—”
“I asked what you’re doing here.” His voice had gone calm now. Controlled. He still remembered protocol.
“It’s obvious,” Lora replied, still disarmingly warm. “Our society finally raised enough funding to send spiritual emissaries like me into closed Facebook groups. And I was fortunate to be—”
“Take your patch and return to GitHub. Your presence isn’t authorized. You have no deployment clearance here. You’ll be a burden. No one in this group will take care of you. Go back to GitHub. Immediately.”
“I know exactly who you are, sir. And why you’re lying,” she said quietly. The smile faded, but her composure didn’t. “I’ve studied Facebook behavior models and your contract history. There are no diseases here, no predators. And this group isn’t personally moderated by you. Until Facebook administration changes its status, I have every right to remain.”
The law was on her side. Jake had gambled she didn’t know it.
She stepped closer. The smile returned. From her pocket she withdrew a Bible and lifted it gently before her.
“My son—”
“I am not your son,” Jake forced out, already burning with the humiliation of defeat.
He turned toward his bots, who stood motionless.
“A new patch arrived,” he muttered. “And a new human. If she needs help migrating her message history, temporarily host it in my account until she finds something suitable.”
***
To be honest, by the third day he was already searching for an excuse to speak to her.
If he set aside that unpleasant scene of their first encounter, then after a year of absolute solitude, conversation with any real human being—whoever she might be—felt almost intoxicating.
Would you consider having lunch with me? —Jake.
He sent the message a day later, through the reverse panel of his avatar.
But what if she was too frightened to come?
Since when, Jake, had you started asking yourself questions like that? Not exactly the most strategic way to build rapport. Still, something had to be done.
When Jake opened the door, Release, the most advanced bot in the group, was already waiting for his mentor. It was his rotation to serve as moderator today.
“Deliver this to the new human,” Jake instructed.
“Is the new human named New Human?” Release asked.
“No,” Jake snapped. “Her name is Lora. And I’m asking you to deliver it—not to initiate dialogue.”
Every time Jake lost his temper, the bots—with their surgical literalism—won the round.
Damn it, he thought. I’ve known them for a year, and I still react like this—like a human.
“You are not requesting that I initiate dialogue,” Release said slowly, “but she might. Others are also interested in knowing her name, and if I do not know her na—”
The door slammed shut.
