The Glitch in the Carol

On a frigid Christmas Eve, Jay and Marie navigate the neon-scarred streets, their banter a thin shield against the city's relentless grind and the ghosts of Christmases past.

"Still think it's stupid?" Marie's voice, a low thrum against the hum of the apartment's ancient heating unit, cut through the quiet. Her finger traced condensation on the synth-window, leaving a temporary smear in the grime. Outside, a holographic Santa, missing an arm, flickered erratically on the side of the OmniCorp tower, blasting distorted festive jingles into the frigid air.

Jay grunted, pushing a stray strand of black hair from his eyes. He was hunched over a lukewarm mug of re-hydrated coffee, the kind that tasted vaguely of burnt plastic and desperation. "Stupid? It’s a corporate-mandated joy-fest designed to make us feel inadequate for not buying more junk. What part of that isn't stupid?" He took a noisy slurp, the ceramic mug scraping his teeth.

Marie scoffed, a quick, sharp sound. "So, no carols, then? No bad holographic sweaters? No… 'peace on earth and goodwill to all men'?" Her tone was a mockery, but there was an underlying tremor, a familiar ghost of something she couldn't quite articulate.

"Peace on earth," Jay echoed, looking out at the endless sprawl of grey and muted neon. A low-flying cargo drone, its lights blinking red and green, lumbered past their window, shaking the apartment’s flimsy frame. "Sure. Just after OmniCorp buys out the last independent data farm and the Reclaimers give up their fight for actual oxygen." He picked at a loose thread on his worn-out jacket sleeve, a habit he'd developed over the years. His knees, slightly knobbly, were tucked close to his chest.

"You're a real festive spirit, you are." Marie turned from the window, leaning back against the cold glass. She crossed her arms, a thin synth-silk scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. "At least the heat's mostly working. Last year, the pipes burst. Remember that? Had to sleep wrapped in every piece of fabric we owned, shivering like a couple of stray dogs."

"Fond memories," Jay said, a corner of his mouth twitching. "Almost as good as the year before, when the building’s power grid shorted out and we ate lukewarm protein paste by glow-stick. Real traditional." He remembered the smell of burnt wiring, the creeping damp that had never quite left the walls after the incident. A moth, drawn by the dim light of their single lamp, bumped clumsily against the shade.

Marie laughed, a genuine, brittle sound that quickly faded. "Yeah, well. At least we had each other for comic relief, I suppose." She walked over, nudging his boot with hers. The worn leather scraped against the cheap synth-rug. "So, what's the plan for our grand Christmas Eve? Stare at the wall? Try to hack into OmniCorp's holiday bonus database?"

"Tempting," Jay admitted, letting a small, mirthless smile touch his lips. "But I doubt they keep that on an open network. Probably encrypted behind enough firewalls to burn out a dozen of our best ‘tools’." He tapped his temple, a gesture to the cheap neural interface he'd had installed years ago. It often gave him mild headaches on damp days like today, a dull pressure behind his eyes.

A soft chime startled them both. Jay blinked. It wasn't the usual notification tone from their comms. This was a private, encrypted ping, the kind only a very specific contact used. His smile vanished.

"What's that?" Marie asked, her voice dropping. She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He felt the slight warmth of her fingers through the fabric.

Jay's brow furrowed. He accessed his comms. A single, pixelated image appeared on his retinal display – a schematic of an old data chip, barely legible, overlaid with a single, blinking red dot. Below it, a terse message: 'Holly. Drop-off. Midnight. Block 12, Level 3. Standard rates. Don't be late.'

"Holly?" Marie snorted. "Subtle."

"It's from Silas," Jay murmured, referring to their occasional, shady employer. "Sounds like a standard data transfer. Probably something some mid-level corp drone wants off the books before the annual audit." He rubbed his jaw, a slight rasp of stubble against his palm. "Midnight on Christmas Eve. Classic Silas."

"So, much for staring at the wall," Marie said, a hint of resignation in her tone. "Another thrilling festive adventure. You grab the burner chip, I'll see if I can find a spare battery for the scanner. Mine’s almost dead. It’s been flickering all afternoon, the charge indicator jumping like a scared rabbit."

Jay nodded, pushing himself up from the chair with a creak of old joints. His back always hurt a bit on these colder days. "Right. And try not to get shanked by any rogue robotic carolers on the way."

"You first," she shot back, already rummaging through a cluttered drawer. He heard the clatter of metal and plastic.

---

### The Obsidian River

The ferrocrete streets of Block 7 were slick and reflective, mirroring the distorted neon signs that pulsed above. Red, green, and electric blue light bled into the grey slush that accumulated in the grates, a perpetual winter grime. Jay pulled his jacket tighter, the synthetic fabric doing little against the biting wind that whipped down the narrow canyon between tower blocks. He could taste the metallic tang of manufactured air, always present, always clinging.

Marie walked slightly ahead, her smaller frame weaving through the sparse late-night crowd. Most citizens were huddled indoors, participating in their own brand of synthetic holiday cheer, or simply trying to stay warm. The few out here were shadows – vendors hawking dubious synth-toys from glowing carts, late-shift workers with the weary slump of the permanently exploited, and the occasional street dealer, their faces obscured by low hoods and augmented shadows.

"Think anyone actually *likes* Christmas anymore?" Marie asked, not turning her head. Her breath plumed white in the frigid air.

"Probably the guys selling 'holiday cheer' stim-patches," Jay replied, adjusting his comm-link. He could feel the cold seeping through his boots, the damp chill already settling deep in his bones. The sound of his own heavy footsteps echoed briefly before being swallowed by the city's ceaseless hum.

They passed a massive holo-billboard displaying a smiling corporate family in pristine white, sipping what looked like spiced synth-wine. Their smiles were too wide, too perfect, their teeth gleaming with an unnatural brightness. Jay felt a familiar knot of disgust tighten in his gut. A faint, almost imperceptible static shimmered around the edges of the image, betraying the sheer processing power it demanded.

"Remember that year, Mom tried to make actual gingerbread?" Marie reminisced, a softer note in her voice. "Pre-Collapse, of course. The apartment smelled incredible. It was probably just a cheap mix, but it felt… real." She paused by a street vendor selling glowing noodles, the scent of artificial garlic and something vaguely meat-like wafting towards them. Her stomach gave a small, traitorous rumble.

Jay remembered. The small, cramped kitchen, the faint warmth from the old oven, the slightly burnt edges of the gingerbread men. It was one of the few untainted memories from before. "She used too much ginger. Tasted like regret and desperation." He knew he sounded harsh, but it was his way of protecting himself from the ache of nostalgia. The memory, a delicate thing, felt fragile in the harsh city air. He shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of the burner chip he carried.

"You always were a critic," Marie said, a faint smile playing on her lips. She bought a small cup of synth-tea from a drone-vendor, the cup warm in her gloved hands. "But you ate it all anyway."

"It was sustenance," Jay countered, though he knew it was a lie. He'd eaten it because it felt like hope, like a connection to something better. He had liked the taste, honestly. But admitting that now felt too vulnerable.

They reached Block 12, a sector known for its illicit data-brokers and underground clinics. The buildings here were even more dilapidated, their lower levels draped in heavy tarpaulins and glowing with the harsh, bare light of exposed wiring. The air grew heavier, thick with the smell of cheap bio-solvents and something metallic, like burnt circuitry.

Level 3 was a labyrinth of darkened corridors and flickering service lights. The destination was a small, unmarked data-exchange booth tucked between a noodle stall and a grimy 'cyber-enhancement' clinic. A lone figure, bundled in a thick, hooded parka, stood waiting.

"Silas?" Marie murmured, her hand instinctively going to the small stun-prod she kept holstered at her hip.

The figure turned, pulling back their hood just enough to reveal a gaunt, angular face, pale in the dim light. Not Silas. A proxy. Always a proxy. "You have it?" the figure's voice was a low rasp, amplified by some cheap vocal modulator. They didn't look much older than Jay, maybe early twenties, their eyes dull and distant, probably running on caffeine and stims.

Jay pulled out the burner chip. He held it between his thumb and forefinger. "You got the creds?"

The proxy produced a small, data-encrypted token. Jay took it, slotted it into his comm-port, and quickly ran a scan. The numbers flickered, then settled. Correct. He tossed the burner chip to the proxy, who caught it with surprising dexterity.

"Happy holidays," the proxy rasped, before melting back into the shadows of the corridor.

"Right back at you, Ebenezer," Marie muttered under her breath, a faint smirk touching her lips.

Jay felt a familiar flatness. The job was done. Quick, clean, utterly devoid of any festive cheer. The creds were good, enough for a few weeks' rent and some decent synth-food, maybe even a new thermal lining for his jacket. It should have felt like a win.

As they walked back through the flickering alleys, the artificial snow, a cheap chemical spray from the upper levels, began to fall. It landed on his jacket, melting instantly into cold, wet streaks. The flakes were too perfect, too uniform, lacking the messy individuality of real snow.

"What do you want to do with the creds?" Marie asked, her voice softer now, less brittle. "Maybe we could splurge. Get some actual protein cubes instead of paste."

Jay didn't answer immediately. He watched a single, perfectly formed synth-snowflake melt on the back of his gloved hand. The neon haze of the city lights reflected in the tiny drop of water before it was absorbed into the fabric. He thought of his mother's slightly burnt gingerbread, of the pre-Collapse quiet, of a time when snow meant silence, not just another layer of city grime. He wondered if those memories were just another form of corporate propaganda, selling him on a past that never really existed, a manufactured longing.

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, the cred-token cool against his palm. The distant, distorted carols from the OmniCorp tower seemed to mock him, or perhaps, simply to exist, indifferent to his cynicism.

"Just… get us something warm," Jay finally said, his voice quiet, almost lost in the city's endless hum. "Something that feels warm."