Glitches by Arvee Fantilagan

Kawawa looked down as soon as she saw the man across the corridor.

“It’s just a glitch,” she chanted to herself the advisory from earlier. “Just a glitch.”

She knew that if they were functioning properly, her augmented corneas would be labeling this man as her neighbor, in his 50s, a security guard leaving for his night shift.

Or if it was someone else, with the man’s face mangled to unrecognizable proportions, she would at least be informed if he had any criminal record. If his temperature readings suggested any hints of malice. And if necessary, the reason she upgraded in the first place, she’d find her escape routes highlighted while her line of sight was live-streamed directly to the authorities.

“It’s just a glitch.”

Right now though, all Kawawa could see was the man’s head twisted upside down—his eyes on his chin, a coral of gray hair wriggling out of his jaws, and the mouth on his forehead grinning wider and wider as he shambled closer.

Her keys jangled in panic against the keyhole she couldn’t find.

“Just a glitch.”

At least that’s what she understood from the notification that first showed up on the bus. The reason why her grocery list, her live route map, and the baby goat video in her peripheries blurred into pixels, and why all the male passengers suddenly contorted their necks toward her, veiny eyes bulging out in lust.

She almost screamed right then and there.

“Just a glitch.”

One of the few words in that grainy advisory that she was able to catch:

“outage”

“We apologize”

“glitches”

“intestines”

“working hard”

“decapitated”

“premium”

“Pray.”

“Pray.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pray.”

“Miss?”

Unlike her eyes, Kawawa’s ears were still completely organic. She’d been holding off for the same holiday promo that allowed her to purchase optical augments for half the price. But some advanced hearing would’ve been a big help right now, if only to pick out suspicious sounds like zippers being slid open, or sensitive ones like deepening, aroused breaths.

“Are you alright, miss?”

Their untampered anatomy, however, was most likely what allowed her ears to catch a milder impression of her neighbor—polite, harmless, sympathetic. The same impression she’d had of him in the last few years they’d been passing each other.

She was still too wary of just about any stranger, but at least he didn’t seem like the scum that forced her to get security upgrades long ago. Nor was he like most passersby who would just ignore a traumatized woman in the midst of a breakdown.

“I’m fine…”

She tried her best to avert her eyes from the man and the large sinkhole eating his face. From its cavernous center, a serpentine tongue crawled out, moist and reaching for her.

Kawawa grimaced.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, thank you.”

Then she nearly jumped when the man leaned over and vomited a mass of wriggling worms on her palm.

“You dropped these,” he said.

The worms morphed back into her keys upon touching her skin.

Relief embraced Kawawa, then gratitude. She didn’t even notice she’d dropped them. She turned to her neighbor to thank him, only to pull back gasping now that his head was completely gone.

It’s just a—

“Oh, are your eyes glitching, miss?” squelched the man’s open neck. “I did see on the news that there was an outage today! They said two million subscribers were affected!”

She nodded. She shivered.

“They really pile on the pressure after the first year, right? I remember how annoyed I was when that first happened.”

She didn’t respond. If only losing her augments could also feel like just simple annoyance.

“But damn, they made sure to get me addicted in no time. Before I knew it, I was already caving in and signing up for their premium!”

At the mention of the word, glimpses of a new notification flashed around her.

“dedicated servers”

“Premium”

“glitch-free”

“technicians on standby”

“24/7”

“affordable”

Just a few of the pop-up ads in the corners of her eyes that she’d been ignoring for months now.

“Are you serious?” a croak came out of her throat, a sign it was begging for its own add-ons. “Is that even legal?”

Above the man’s empty collar, his toothy lips smiled at her.

“Oh I know. And they are getting sued left and right for it, too, but so far all they've gotten are just fines and stern words!”

Kawawa thought of something drastic but found it hard, even embarrassing, to say it out loud. She also did not dare look down; she knew it wasn’t really there, a blurry pixelated hand wrapped around her throat.

“What if…” she was choking on her words. “What if I don’t subscribe to their premium?”

The disembodied lips sneered. Mockery, her augments noted, with 80% certainty.

“Oh sure, you could just wait until they patch out the bugs. I also wanted to, believe me. Those extra fees can pile up! But after three days of seeing nothing but ghouls, I realized I was just too much of a wuss. Plus I’m a security guard. Just imagine how hard it was to do my job when everyone at work looked like a horror show!”

The man laughed heartily. He sounded nice enough. It would have been so easy to laugh along with someone so genuine—were it an easier time.

“Then guess what: the week after I got premium, they suddenly announced they’d fixed what was wrong with the basic! The bastards!”

The headless set of clothes groaned standing back up. “Oh well, I’m sorry, miss, but I really gotta go now.”

Kawawa nodded and watched her decapitated neighbor waddle down the corridor. There was still only empty space above his neck—except for his floating smile.

“Hang in there, miss!”

Her eyes’ lipreading function, however, transcribed a different message: “Hope you subscribe soon!”

Anger bubbled in Kawawa’s chest. Spite. A simmering frustration that made her pull up the contract from her optical archives so she could glare at it to pieces—and effectively terminate this goddamned service. Then later, once she’d calmed down enough, she would research if there was any new reliable startup which could operate her augments instead.

If she was lucky, her vision could get cleared up by next week. It shouldn’t be so bad.

The optical contract unfurled, and its opening text ran across her line of sight:

“This agreement is made as of JULY 6, 2035 between THE SUICIDE CULT and THE CLIENT to be DISEMBOWELED in her sleep by A HOME INVADER—”

The pounding in her chest proved too much. She blinked away the document in terror.

Exhausted, her eyes settled on her keys. Even just this morning, her enhancements still labeled which of these were for her apartment, her office, and her cabinets. It was incredibly useful.

Now, all she could see were hairy centipedes scurrying on her palm.

Just one more week, she gnashed. Then afterwards, all this insanity would be cleared from her sight, replaced anew by baby goat videos and her favorite dramas, while keeping her alert of anyone suspicious at all times.

Just one more week.

She opened her eyes and saw a veiny male genitalia sticking out of her front door, throbbing and fully erect, its mouth wide open hungering for one of her keys.

Vomit crawled up her throat.

One more week of this?

She looked away gritting her teeth, and with her weak unenhanced voice, she whispered: “I would like to subscribe for the premium.”

END

Arvee Fantilagan

Arvee Fantilagan grew up in the Philippines, lives in Japan, and has more of his works at https://sites.google.com/view/arveef. He hopes to write a better bio someday. Instagram: @rvfantilagan