Customer Service Purgatory

Simon’s apartment was a graveyard of good intentions. In the corner, a yoga mat he’d used exactly twice was gathering a thick pelt of dust. Beside it, the Buster unit sat on its charging pad, looking like a discarded pile of gray laundry. The bot was powered down, but Simon could still hear the faint, high-pitched whine of its cooling fans—a sound like a mosquito trapped in a tin can.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the neural-link interface clamped to his temples. It was a cheap, third-party model, the kind that left itchy red marks on his skin and gave him a localized migraine right behind his left eye. He’d been on hold with Apex Robotics for forty-seven minutes.

The hold music wasn’t music. It was a rhythmic series of 'Productivity Pings' and targeted advertisements played at a low, hypnotic frequency.

'Thinking of an upgrade?' a silky, AI-generated voice whispered directly into his auditory cortex. 'The Buster CCU5 features improved limb-locking algorithms and a scent-profile sensor. Because your best friend should know when you’re stressed.'

Simon closed his eyes. His head throbbed. He was stressed now. He was $4,000 worth of debt stressed.

"Representative," Simon muttered. His voice sounded thin in the quiet room. "Agent. Human. I need a real person."

"I can help you with that!" the voice chirped. It was 'Care-y,' the Apex virtual assistant. A small, translucent avatar of a stylized blue heart flickered in his peripheral vision. "I see you’re calling about Unit #8842-B. Buster. Is he being a good boy?"

"He humped a stranger in a park, Care-y. He wouldn’t let go. I had to perform an emergency reset."

There was a microsecond of lag. The blue heart pulsed. "I’m so sorry to hear you’re experiencing behavioral glitches! Looking at your unit's data logs... Oh. Oh dear."

Simon’s stomach dropped. "What?"

"It appears an unauthorized hardware intervention was detected at 10:42 AM. A physical probe was inserted into the emergency override port without a certified Apex technician present."

"I used a house key," Simon said, his teeth gritted. "The app was lagging. The voice command didn't work. It was an emergency."

"Under Section 4, Paragraph 12 of your End User License Agreement, any non-certified physical interaction with the internal reset mechanism constitutes a breach of structural integrity. Your three-year extended warranty is now void, Simon. Would you like to schedule a paid repair? The next available slot is in July."

Simon ripped the interface off his head. He threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull plastic thud and skittered across the floorboards. He sat there, his chest heaving, staring at the dead robot. $4,000. He was still paying for the fur-texture upgrade.

He felt a sudden, sharp urge to kick the thing. He didn't. He just leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. The skin on his index finger, where the leash had burned him, was starting to blister. It stung with a steady, rhythmic heat.

***

Three miles away, Mae was lying on her couch with a bag of frozen peas balanced on her shin. The cold was a sharp, biting relief against the dull roar of the bruise.

She had the leg of her leggings rolled up. The mark was impressive. It was a deep, mottled purple in the center, fading out into a sickly yellow-green at the edges. It looked like a map of a very violent country.

She wasn't looking at the bruise, though. She was looking at her phone.

Her thumb flicked upward. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

She was searching the geo-tags for the park. #SpringCity #ParkLife #TechGlitch.

Her heart was doing a weird, fluttery thing in her chest. The fear wasn't about the injury. It was about the evidence. In 2026, nothing happened in private. If a tree fell in the woods and nobody filmed it, did it even happen? But if a robotic dog humped you on a park bench, there were at least six different angles of it being uploaded to the cloud before you’d even finished screaming.

She found a video. It was titled 'Apex Fail' with three laughing-crying emojis.

Mae held her breath and hit play.

It was filmed from across the path. The quality was shaky, high-contrast. She saw herself. Or rather, she saw the back of her head and her flailing arms. She saw the gray blur of the robot. She saw Simon—the guy with the tired eyes—sliding into the dirt.

The comments were already piling up.

'LMAO the premium subscription prompt is sending me.' 'Is that a CCU4? Those things are literally bricks now.' 'Hope she sued him. Get that bag, girl.' 'Actually, if you look at the TOS, Apex isn't liable for rogue haptics.'

Mae felt a hot flash of shame creep up her neck. She wasn't a person in that video. She was a 'she.' She was a prop in a comedy of errors. She scrolled down, her eyes scanning for her own handle, for anyone who might have recognized her boots or her jacket.

Nothing yet. Just the usual digital noise.

She closed the app and opened a search engine. She typed in: 'How to sue Apex Robotics for personal injury.'

Top result: A sponsored link for a law firm that specialized in 'Algorithmic Negligence.'

Second result: A community forum thread. 'Buster CCU4 hardware failure - legal options?'

She clicked it.

The post was recent. Posted twenty minutes ago.

'I’m stuck,' the post read. 'My unit glitched out in a public park today and targeted a pedestrian. I had to do a hard reset because the software wouldn't respond. Now Apex says my warranty is void because I didn't wait for a tech. I’m out four grand and I think the girl might be hurt. Has anyone had luck with a class action?'

The username was 'Si_M_88.'

Mae stared at the screen. The frozen peas were starting to melt, the cold water dripping down her ankle.

She looked at the username again. Simon. It had to be him.

She looked at the text. I think the girl might be hurt.

It was a weird sensation. For the last three hours, she’d thought of him as the enemy. The guy with the broken toy. The source of her pain and potential viral embarrassment. But reading those words—simple, unpolished, clearly written by someone as exhausted as she was—made the anger leak out of her.

He wasn't a billionaire. He wasn't the CEO of Apex. He was just another guy leasing garbage until he died.

She tapped the 'Reply' button. Her fingers hovered over the digital keyboard.

What was she supposed to say? 'Hey, it’s the girl you assaulted via proxy. My leg looks like a grape. Want to get a drink and talk about how much we hate the future?'

No. Too much.

'I saw your post,' she typed. 'I'm the girl from the park.'

She deleted it.

'You're right, the warranty thing is a scam,' she tried.

She deleted that too.

She looked around her apartment. The light was fading, the gray spring evening pressing against the windows. The room felt small. Every object in it—the smart-lamp that required a firmware update to change color, the fridge that suggested recipes based on things she didn't like, the phone in her hand—felt like a tiny, nagging transaction.

She looked back at the forum. Simon had replied to another comment.

'I just wanted a dog,' he’d written. 'I didn't want a lawsuit.'

Mae felt a lump form in her throat. She understood that. The simplicity of the desire versus the complexity of the delivery.

She typed: 'My shin is purple. But I’m not going to sue you.'

She paused. Her thumb hovered over the 'Post' button. If she hit it, she was breaking the wall. She was moving from the safety of the anonymous scroll into the messy, physical reality of another human being. It was a risk. People were unpredictable. Algorithms were safe, even when they were cruel.

She thought about the way he’d looked in the dirt. The dirt on his knees. The way he’d looked at her when the robot finally died.

She hit send.

Almost instantly, a notification popped up. A direct message request.

'Si_M_88: Oh god. Is this really you?'

Mae took a deep breath. She moved the bag of peas to her coffee table and sat up. Her leg throbbed, a sharp reminder of the morning's chaos.

'Mae: Yeah. It's me.'

'Si_M_88: I am so sorry. I’ve been sitting here for an hour trying to figure out if I could find you. To check. I mean, the video is everywhere.'

'Mae: I saw it. I look like a glitchy NPC.'

'Si_M_88: You look like a person getting hit by a toaster. I look like an idiot. I'm Simon, by the way.'

'Mae: Mae.'

'Si_M_88: Look, Mae. I know this is weird. But Apex just voided my warranty. They won't even take the unit back. I have a sixty-pound paperweight in my room that I'm still paying for.'

'Mae: Join the club. My pad screen is shattered. The crack is right over the 'Like' button. It's poetic or something.'

There was a long pause. The little three-dot typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

'Si_M_88: Do you want to see the error logs?'

Mae blinked. 'The what?'

'Si_M_88: The logs from Buster. I downloaded them before I disconnected. It’s insane. The bot actually thought your boot buckle was a 'High-Value Interactive Node.' It wasn't even a glitch. It was a feature that wasn't calibrated for sunlight glare.'

Mae felt a dry laugh bubble up. 'So it was a compliment? In robot speak?'

'Si_M_88: Exactly. You have very interactive boots.'

'Mae: Great. My footwear has better social skills than I do.'

'Si_M_88: Listen... I don't have much. But I have a voucher for a coffee place near the park. It’s one of those 'Buy Ten, Get One' things and I have eleven. It’s the only thing in my life that isn't currently under a subscription lock. Do you want it? Or do you want to meet there? I can bring the logs. We can look at the wreckage together.'

Mae looked at the message. It was an invitation to a transaction, but a human one. A trade of shared misery for a caffeinated beverage.

She looked at her bruised leg. She looked at the darkening room.

'Mae: Only if you leave the toaster at home.'

'Si_M_88: Deal. He’s in time-out. Permanently.'

'Mae: Tomorrow? 10 AM?'

'Si_M_88: I'll be the one not being chased by a robot.'

Mae set the phone down. For the first time all day, the static in her head felt quiet. She didn't pick the phone back up to scroll. She didn't check the view count on the video.

She just sat in the dark, watching the streetlights flicker on outside, feeling the steady, honest ache of her own body.

In the corner of her room, her own tech-hub emitted a soft, mournful chime.

'Update available,' it whispered.

Mae ignored it.

***

Simon sat in his apartment, the blue light of the laptop screen reflecting in his eyes. He felt a strange, light-headed sensation. It was like the air in the room had suddenly gotten thinner, easier to breathe.

He looked over at Buster. The bot was still on its pad, a hunk of useless plastic and metal. It represented a financial disaster, a social humiliation, and a crushing realization of his own loneliness.

But it had also led to Mae.

He opened a new tab. He didn't search for 'Apex Lawsuit.' He didn't search for 'Robot Dog Resale Value.'

He searched for: 'How to remove frozen pea stains from a denim couch.'

He wasn't sure why. He just felt like he should be prepared for things to be a little messy from now on.

He stood up, his joints popping. He walked over to the Buster unit and reached down. He didn't use the key this time. He just found the power toggle and flipped it to the 'Off' position.

The cooling fan died. The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't empty.

Simon went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. It was lukewarm and tasted faintly of chlorine, but it was real. He drank it all in one go.

Tomorrow was Monday. The start of another week of transactions. Another week of paying for things he didn't own and fixing things he didn't break.

But at 10 AM, he was going to have a coffee with a girl who had a purple shin.

It was the best thing he’d had on his calendar in years.

He went to bed, the itchy marks from the neural-link finally starting to fade. He didn't put the interface back on. He didn't check his notifications. He just lay there in the dark, listening to the city breathe.

Somewhere outside, a siren wailed. A car alarm went off. A drone hummed past the window, its red light blinking in a steady, unthinking rhythm.

Simon closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

***

Mae woke up at 8 AM. The sun was trying to poke through the smog, casting a pale, sickly yellow light across her duvet.

She reached for her phone out of habit, then stopped.

Her hand hovered over the device. It was a reflex. A digital phantom limb.

She forced herself to pull her hand back.

She got out of bed, her leg stiff. She limped to the bathroom and looked at the bruise in the mirror. It was even bigger today. A masterpiece of subcutaneous trauma.

She brushed her teeth, staring at her reflection. She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes that no amount of sleep was going to fix.

But she felt... focused.

She dressed carefully. She chose a pair of loose linen pants that wouldn't rub against the bruise. She wore her combat boots—the 'High-Value Interactive Nodes'—and tied the laces tight.

She left her apartment at 9:45.

The air was thick with pollen, just like yesterday. The city felt just as crowded, just as transactional. People hurried past her, their heads down, their thumbs flicking at screens. They were all locked in their own private loops, their own digital purgatories.

Mae felt like she was seeing through the simulation.

She reached the coffee shop. It was a small, cramped place that smelled of burnt beans and ozone from the industrial-sized air purifiers in the corners.

She saw him immediately.

Simon was sitting at a small, wobbly table in the back. He didn't have a phone out. He was just sitting there, staring at a paper napkin, his hands folded in front of him. He looked even more tired than he had in the park. His hair was a mess, and his hoodie was stained.

He looked perfect.

He looked up as she approached. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into that small, hesitant smile she’d seen yesterday.

"Mae," he said.

"Simon," she replied.

She sat down, her leg bumping against the table leg. She winced.

"The leg?" he asked, gesturing downward.

"It has its own zip code now," Mae said.

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled paper card. "The voucher. As promised. Eleven stamps. The twelfth one is free."

He pushed it across the table.

Mae looked at the card. It was a physical thing. It was dirty, the edges were frayed, and it had a coffee stain on one corner. It was the most honest thing anyone had given her in months.

She picked it up. "Thanks, Simon."

"So," Simon said, leaning forward. "Do you want to see the logs? Or should we just start with how much we hate Apex Robotics?"

Mae looked at him, really looked at him. The digital noise of the world seemed to fade into the background. There was just the smell of coffee, the hum of the air purifier, and the guy across from her.

"Let's start with the hate," Mae said. "We can get to the logs when the caffeine kicks in."

They talked for two hours.

They didn't talk about their jobs or their brands or their followers. They talked about the glitch. They talked about the absurdity of a world where you had to pay a subscription to stop your dog from humping people. They talked about the exhaustion of existing in a permanent beta test.

For the first time in a long time, Mae didn't feel like a data point. She felt like a person.

As they were leaving, Simon stopped by the door.

"Hey, Mae?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad my toaster broke."

Mae smiled. A real one. "Me too, Simon. Me too."

They walked out into the hazy spring morning. They didn't exchange numbers. They didn't follow each other on socials. They just walked together toward the subway, two people moving through a world of transactions, for once not trying to buy or sell a single thing.

They reached the turnstile. Simon paused, his hand on the metal rail.

"See you around?" he asked.

"Maybe in the park," Mae said. "I'll be the one not wearing shiny boots."

Simon laughed. He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Mae watched him go. She felt a strange sense of peace. The bruise on her leg was still there, a dull, physical weight. But the bruise on her soul felt a little smaller.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

The screen was dark. She looked at her reflection in the cracked glass.

She didn't unlock it. She just put it back in her pocket and stepped onto the train.

The doors closed with a hiss.

The train jerked forward, pulling her away from the station, away from the park, and deeper into the gray, beautiful, glitchy heart of the city.

She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the wheels on the track.

It was a simple sound. No subscription required.

She felt the phone vibrate in her pocket. A notification. A ping. A demand for her attention.

Mae didn't move. She just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, letting the digital world scream into the void while she sat in the silence of her own life.