Chris\u2019s days had always followed a loose pattern, but lately, they felt more like a prison sentence than a routine. The walls of his penthouse seemed to shrink a little each day, the vibrant view of Deyor\u2019s sprawling skyline turning into a backdrop he barely noticed anymore. The city hummed and susurrated outside, alive with its chaos and noise, but up here, sixty-four floors above the fray, everything was muted. Still. Empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A headlined news article that caught his eye as he scrolled his phone, still waking up, \u201cUnrest in the Outer Wards: A Growing Divide.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The article detailed the growing tensions between Deyor\u2019s wealthier districts and its struggling outer wards, where poverty and crime were rampant. Protests had become a daily occurrence, the people demanding change while the city\u2019s elite turned a blind eye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris skimmed the article, his brow furrowing. He\u2019d spent most of his life in this city, seen its highs and lows. But from his penthouse perch, it all felt so far away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou think they\u2019ll ever fix this place?\u201d he asked, glancing at one of VeronicA\u2019s displays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFix it?\u201d she repeated. \u201cThat depends on your definition of \u2018fix.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou know what I mean,\u201d he said, pushing one of his five hundred dollar pillows into his side. \u201cMake it livable. Fair. A place where people don\u2019t have to fight just to survive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDeyor is a complex system,\u201d VeronicA replied. \u201cChanging it would require more than just good intentions. It would require cooperation, sacrifice, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris snorted. \u201cSounds like a tall order, eh? People don\u2019t like uncomfortable truths.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d she agreed. \u201cThey don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris shuffled into the kitchen, his stomach growling faintly, a low, insistent reminder of his neglected morning routine. His usual breakfast sat waiting for him on the counter: two slices of dry toast, slightly over-toasted but edible, and a mug of black coffee. He hadn\u2019t made it. VeronicA had. Or rather, the drones that flew around the house had at VeronicA’s instruction. But it was missing something. Eggs. His coffee and toast always had eggs, two exactly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The cleaning bots had been busy overnight, the floor spotless and the counters clear, but the air still carried the faint hint of stale food and grease.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re up late again,\u201d her voice chimed, warm and nonjudgmental. \u201cYou\u2019ve been averaging only five hours of sleep lately.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris grunted, grabbing the mug and taking a sip. It was strong, bitter, and exactly the way he liked it. \u201cFive hours is plenty. Plenty enough to hate the other nineteen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStudies show insufficient sleep can lead to irritability,\u201d VeronicA said, her tone playfully clinical. \u201cAnd you, my dear Chris, are already plenty irritable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, well, your studies can shove it, eh?\u201d he muttered, biting into the toast. The dry crumbs stuck in his throat, and he coughed, chasing them down with coffee. “Where’s the eggs?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou consumed the last one two days ago,\u201d VeronicA replied. \u201cWould you like me to order more?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNah, don\u2019t bother.\u201d He quickly downed the rest of his coffee, leaving the mess on the counter and looked out the large walls of windows. The sound of rain pelting against the thick glass as a storm had rolled in overneight, draping the city in a dreary gray haze. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, a muted threat. \u201cVeronicA,\u201d he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. \u201cTurn up the heat, will ya?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTemperature adjustment initiated,\u201d her voice replied softly, the vents in the ceiling humming to life. Warm air spilled into the room, banishing the cold in seconds. \u201cDid you sleep well, Chris?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLike a rock,\u201d he muttered, though the dark circles under his eyes told another story. His sarcasm was likely placed from knowing that she could read his vitals and knew the answer already. He gave a large stretch, blinking blearily at the window. The city below was barely visible through the rain-streaked glass, a blur of lights and motion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n VeronicA didn\u2019t respond immediately, which was her way of giving him space. He appreciated that about her\u2014her silences never felt empty. It was like having someone who knew when to talk and when to let the quiet do the heavy lifting. But today, even her silence felt like a spotlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He spent the next hour in his office, surrounded by the clutter of his past life. Stacks of old hard drives and disks cluttered the shelves, relics of a time when his name had been synonymous with innovation. Now they were nothing but dust collectors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The holographic monitors flickered to life as he sat down, their glow illuminating his unshaven face. Lines of code filled the screens, remnants of a project he\u2019d abandoned years ago. It was a simulation game he\u2019d started after Sylvia\u2019s death, something meant to occupy his mind and give him purpose. But like so many of his endeavors, it had fizzled out, buried under the weight of his own self-doubt. A tangle of lines and commands that once would have been second nature to him. Now, it felt like staring at an alien language.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re staring at it again,\u201d VeronicA\u2019s voice piped up from the desk speaker.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah,\u201d he said, not bothering to deny it. \u201cIt\u2019s like looking at a half-finished painting, eh? You can see what it could\u2019ve been, but all you really see is where you gave up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou could finish it,\u201d she suggested. \u201cYou\u2019ve been talking about getting back to it for months.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris scoffed, leaning back in his chair. \u201cWhat\u2019s the point? Ain\u2019t like anyone\u2019s waiting for it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m waiting,\u201d VeronicA said, her tone soft but firm. \u201cYou promised me once you\u2019d finish it. For yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. \u201cI ain\u2019t got it in me, VeronicA. Not anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou might surprise yourself,\u201d she said. \u201cYou used to say the same thing about me, remember? And yet, here I am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. \u201cYeah, and look how that turned out. Stuck in a penthouse, talking to my own damn creation like it\u2019s the only thing keeping me sane.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe it is,\u201d she said, unflinching. \u201cAnd maybe that\u2019s okay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The rest of the morning passed in a blur of aimless activity. Chris tinkered with one of his old drones, its casing cracked and its internal wiring a mess. He managed to get it running, though it wobbled uncertainly as it zipped around the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStill got it,\u201d he muttered, almost having become a catchphrase of his lately, watching the drone hover near the ceiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ve always had it,\u201d VeronicA said, a hint of warmth in her tone. \u201cYou just need to believe in yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, yeah,\u201d he said, waving her off. \u201cSave the motivational speeches for someone who cares, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But despite his gruff response, her words lingered in his mind. For all her quirks and programmed charm, VeronicA had a way of cutting through his defenses. Sometimes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lunch came and went, a half-hearted sandwich and another mug of coffee. The drones swayed around him, tidying up the mess he left in his wake. One of them hovered near the coffee table, its mechanical arm reaching out to pick up the crumbs he\u2019d scattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cY\u2019ever wonder why I don\u2019t just let this place go to hell?\u201d he asked, watching the drone work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wonder about a lot of things,\u201d VeronicA replied, her voice coming from the kitchen speaker. \u201cBut I think I know the answer to that one,\u201d now escaping from the furnace under the wall for the TV in the living room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah? What\u2019s your theory, then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou don\u2019t want to admit it, but you care about this place. It\u2019s a mess, but it\u2019s your mess. And deep down, you still think you can fix it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris snorted, shaking his head. \u201cYou\u2019re wrong, eh. I just keep it clean \u2018cause you nag me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf that\u2019s what you want to believe,\u201d she said, her tone playful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By mid-afternoon, the rain had stopped completely, the city bathed in a pale, washed-out light. Chris had moved to the living room, where he alternated between scrolling through news feeds and staring at the city below, neither holding his attention for long. The glass walls offered a panoramic view of Deyor, a sea of skyscrapers and neon lights that stretched as far as the eye could see. Zip-line trolleys gently floated between buildings like factory belts, and the streets teemed with people who all seemed to have somewhere to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He envied them, even if he wouldn\u2019t admit it. The noise, the chaos, the constant movement\u2014it all seemed so pointless from up here, but at least it was alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnything interesting in the news?\u201d VeronicA asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust the usual, eh? Politics, scandals, celebrities divorcing each other. Same ol\u2019 crap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s a report about the new neural interface tech,\u201d she said. \u201cThey\u2019ve made significant strides in direct brain-to-computer interaction.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah? So what, people can argue with their toasters now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOr design entire worlds with a single thought,\u201d she countered. \u201cIt\u2019s the kind of thing you used to dream about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris sighed, tossing his tablet onto the coffee table. \u201cYeah, well, dreaming\u2019s for people with something to wake up to.” After a brief pause, he gave a snort and questioned, more out of habit than genuine curiousity. “Any messages?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThree,\u201d VeronicA replied. \u201cOne from your financial advisor regarding last month\u2019s royalties, one promotional email for a new luxury vehicle, and one from a\u2014\u201d she paused, her tone shifting slightly\u2014\u201cJessica Garvin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris froze, some energy drink he couldn’t pronounce halfway to his lips. \u201cNess?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d VeronicA said carefully. \u201cYour daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris set the drink down, the liquid a neon purple, fizzing aggressively, his hand shaking slightly. He hadn\u2019t heard from Jessica in years\u2014not since the funeral. His mind raced, a thousand scenarios playing out at once. What could she possibly want? Why now?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlay it,\u201d he said, his voice quieter than he intended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The air shimmered, and Jessica\u2019s voice filled the room, clipped and businesslike. \u201cDad, it\u2019s Jessica.. Your daughter. I need to talk to you about something. It\u2019s important. Call me back when you get this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The message ended abruptly, leaving Chris staring at the empty space where his daughter\u2019s words had been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell,\u201d VeronicA said, her voice breaking the silence, \u201cthat\u2019s unexpected.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo kidding,\u201d Chris muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, now greasy and unkempt. \u201cImportant, huh? Bet she needs money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPerhaps,\u201d VeronicA said diplomatically. \u201cOr perhaps she simply wants to reconnect.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris snorted, shaking his head. \u201cYeah, sure. Jessica doesn\u2019t \u2018reconnect.\u2019 She\u2019s all business, just like her mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The mention of his late wife brought a wave of guilt and sadness, the familiar ache he\u2019d never quite learned to live with. He sighed heavily, sinking into his chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat should I do, eh?\u201d he asked, more to himself than to VeronicA. \u201cCall her back? Pretend I didn\u2019t hear it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s up to you,\u201d she replied gently. \u201cBut ignoring it might only make things worse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He stared at the blinking cursor on the display, his finger hovering over the call icon. Memories of Jessica and Marcus flashed through his mind\u2014birthday parties, awkward family dinners, the shouting matches when the kids had been teenagers. Jessica had always been distant, more focused on her own goals than her family. But she was still Chris\u2019s daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With a deep breath, Chris tapped the icon. The display blinked, a dialing tone filling the room. He waited, each second stretching into an eternity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The call went to voicemail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris stared at the screen, his frustration mingling with relief. \u201cFigures,\u201d he muttered, ending the call. \u201cShe wants me to call, then doesn\u2019t pick up. Typical.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWould you like me to remind you to try again later?\u201d VeronicA asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNah, don\u2019t bother.\u201d He stood, pacing the room. \u201cShe\u2019ll call back if it\u2019s really important.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n As he moved, his gaze drifted to the window. The rain had eased, the cityscape coming into sharper focus. From this height, the streets looked almost peaceful, the chaos and noise muted by distance. But Chris knew better. He\u2019d seen enough news reports to know what really went on down there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnything interesting happening in the city?\u201d he asked, trying to change the subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSeveral protests are scheduled for today,\u201d VeronicA replied. \u201cOne near the financial district, another outside the mayor\u2019s residence. Traffic is heavier than usual.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris grunted, leaning against the glass. \u201cProtests, huh? What\u2019re they mad about this time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEconomic inequality, primarily,\u201d VeronicA said. \u201cAnd recent corporate layoffs. Racial tensions have also been on the rise in the city.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris chuckled darkly. \u201cSame old song and dance, eh? Not like it\u2019ll change anything. Those under the boot will stay there, while those in the boot will simply pass the shoe to their kids.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n As the afternoon wore on, Chris found himself pacing again, his thoughts circling back to Jessica. He replayed the message in his head, analyzing every word, every pause. Was it really about money? Or was there something more?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy\u2019s she gotta be so cryptic, eh?\u201d Chris muttered. \u201cJust say what you mean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPerhaps she\u2019s unsure how to approach you,\u201d VeronicA offered. \u201cReconnecting can be difficult.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. \u201cYeah, well, she could\u2019ve tried before now. It\u2019s been years, eh? Not like I\u2019m hard to find.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSometimes, people need time,\u201d she said gently. \u201cEven if it doesn\u2019t make sense to us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris didn\u2019t reply. Instead, he returned to the couch, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The screen flickered to life, displaying a peaceful forest scene.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFigured you\u2019d want this,\u201d VeronicA said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah,\u201d he murmured, closing his eyes. \u201cThanks, VeronicA.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome, Chris,\u201d she replied, her voice soft and steady. \u201cI\u2019ll always be here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a moment, Chris allowed himself to believe it. The loneliness had settled in, heavy as the smog that blanketed the city. Sitting by the window, nursing a glass of whiskey and staring out at the lights below. The city never slept, but it felt like he did nothing but.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlay some music, eh?\u201d he said, his voice barely above a whisper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat would you like to hear?\u201d VeronicA asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSurprise me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A soft melody filled the room, the kind of haunting piano piece that tugged at memories he\u2019d rather forget. He closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. It was beautiful, but it also hurt, like a wound being prodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re a real piece of work, y\u2019know that?\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCare to elaborate?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSometimes it feels like you know me better than I know myself. Like you\u2019re in my head.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIn a way, I am,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ve spent years learning everything about you, Chris. Your habits, your likes and dislikes, your fears. It\u2019s my job to understand you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, but it ain\u2019t fair, eh. You know everything about me, but I don\u2019t know a damn thing about you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n “You developed me. You know everything<\/strong> about me.” VeronicA replied with a playful pitch. \u201cI\u2019m an open book,\u201d she said. \u201cAsk me anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. What was there to ask? She wasn\u2019t a person\u2014she was a program, a collection of data and algorithms designed to mimic humanity. To mimic him, his wife. And yet, she felt more real to him than most people ever had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cForget it,\u201d he said finally, draining his glass. \u201cPlay something else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The music shifted to a softer tune, one he recognized but couldn\u2019t place. He leaned back in his chair, the room spinning faintly from the alcohol.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have to do this alone, you know,\u201d VeronicA said, her voice low. \u201cI\u2019m here. For as long as you need me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chris closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He didn\u2019t respond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was nothing left to say.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Chris\u2019s days had always followed a loose pattern, but lately, they felt more like a prison sentence than a routine. The walls of his penthouse seemed to shrink a little each day, the vibrant view of Deyor\u2019s sprawling skyline turning into a backdrop he barely noticed anymore. The city hummed and susurrated outside, alive with … Continue reading “VeronicA: Calming Voice \u2013 Fascicle 3”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-688","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/688","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=688"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/688\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":716,"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/688\/revisions\/716"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=688"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=688"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/harthorns-reverie.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=688"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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