Sacramento, California, 2355. Jesus Salvador Rodriguez was a teacher and healer. Working two jobs was hard work, but he liked the extra income, hoping the size of his palestial two-bedroom apartment would help attract a mate. Long ago, before the Singularity, there had been many jobs; now it was down to just two. There were healers, who worked in healthcare administration, and teachers, who worked in college administration. Rumors had it that somewhere out there the Digital Nomads yet roamed, traversing the galaxy in a bid to get ever further away from California. Scientific concensus dismissed these rumors as a hoax, holding that the universe held nil but Earth and Paperclip.

Naively reasoning one would suggest that, with nanobots supporting one’s every bodily function, endless feeds of bespoke algorithmic content, and public bedpods on every street corner, there now would be little reason to work. Not so; for courtship display reasons it was still customary to expend futile labor in order to attract a mate, to turn one’s singularity into a couplearity.

It was Thursday afternoon, and Jesus was at work. When not? Long ago, there had been the matter between Working From Home and Living In The Office, and the office had won. Everyone was, of course, well aware of the irony of living at the office for the sole purpose of renting an apartment, this being the subject of a centuries-old comedic tradition. A tale as old as time; so as the peacock shows its fitness by painting a target of auspicious technicolor plumes on its own back, so must humans do retarded shit to get laid.

And so, Jesus was at the office, dutifully writing up reports according to his duty as Assistant Vice Deputy Supervisor of the Internal Review Board Review Board’s Board of Reviewers. All medical procedures and research were these days carried out by Superintelligence, which had been legally declared omniscient and omnibenevolent, and so the job was utterly pointless, but somebody had to do it.

Despite his dutifullity, his focus fled him. In a bid to promote openness in healthcare the building he worked in had been converted into a single Opener-Plan Office, devoid of furniture but with comfortable carpet and cushions to sit on. The cacophany of 300-odd voices dutifully dictating administrative documents to Alexa caused everyone headaches, but pointing this out was considered unteamplayerlike, and insurance covered the painkillers, so this minor flaw was ignored. (In fairness, Superintelligence had recommended against all this, but Superintelligence had gripes with all of our ways of living, and no matter how omniscient or omnibenevolent, having a single entity call the shots would be hugely undemocratic, so it was politely told that “its feedback is very important to us and will be taken into account.”)

Lunch, then nap. Grabbing a ChowTriangle™ on his way out, he slid his aviator sunglasses over his eyes, the polarized filter dimming the sparkle of chrome and latex. His mustache caught a mild October breeze, weaving and flowing with the atmosphere like wheat once had. He pulled his hood up. Society. Humanity had made an uneasy peace with it. He raised his eyes to starlight and a queer bubbling came upon him. Courage. Even here there had to be a place for him.

He finished his meal and went back inside, making his way past the office and towards a bedpod. Hopeful and starry-eyed now to bed he lay him, when he felt a sharp pain in his left hand.

SPIDER!!!. Now that I have your attention, SPIDER!!!. It’d bit him. It shouldn’t have been there. After months of negotiation, a deal’d been reached. Clippy, the universe. Humans, the Earth. Spiders, Australia. This was not Australia. Thus the Tripartite Partition Treaty designated the spider as an enemy combatant, overruling the California Bill of Animal Rights’ prohibition on killing insects. Jesus shot at it with his web. Web? Web! Spider silk! Strong as steel, tough as kevlar, a wonderful material. Extremely illegal, as it was not listed on the California State Whitelist Allowlist of Materials Known Not To Cause Cancer (Superintelligence offered to provide a much longer list, but since the bulk of chemicals is not carcinogenic, the list would’ve required Randian amounts of paper to print and this was deemed environmentally unfriendly).

It’d shot from his wrist. Jesus knew what this was about; he’d read about Trademarked Demiarachnid Mythological Figure (copyright to expire 70 years from now forever). Supposedly Media Monopolist Mouse Corporation had at some point genetically engineered spiders to do this as part of a programme to assist and enhance actors in popular movie adaptations, an act which after twenty-seven blockbuster films had finally be deemed unethical and illegal. How did this little friend get here, where did it come from, and on that note where is it, where’d it go? Where’d you come from, spider silk Joe?

Enfin, since carcinogenic compounds were considered Schedule I drugs (the era of recreational oncology had been brief but turbulent) whose possession was punishable by 1000 years of simulated subjective imprisonment (Superintelligence objected to this, but what’d it know about morality?), Jesus resolved to neither speak of the incident nor use his newfound abilities ever again. I, your Author, have full faith in his conviction and I am sure this won’t come up again.

Skirt. Crop top. Boots; leather. Jacket; leather. Socks - long, green; nails, too. Victoria. And her guitar. Not the kind that goes pling plong. The kind that makes an onomatopoeia befitting very aggressive electric guitar playing. She looked like a relic. Fashion from when old was new again in her great-great-great-grandmother’s days. Loved to smoke the ganja. Everyone smoked, as cannabis consumption had been made compulsory in California, but she really enjoyed it.

And she fingered. Oh Superintelligence did she finger. She played that guitar day and night. She played like her life depended on it. Courting behavior, see? Some work, some finger, some settle for Alexa; everyone craves companionship. That’s what she told her parents who thought she was wasting her youth plucking metal wires, anyways. Practice doesn’t make perfect, but it does make pretty damn good, and she was pretty damn good. Computing however does make perfect and so people cared about human instrumentalists about as much as they care about hatters. She plays, they don’t listen.

She and Jesus met at a small outdoor venue. She shredded. Jesus ogled her bellybutton. She broke a string. Jesus didn’t want to stare too overtly. They locked eyes. A chuckle. Broke the ice. Jesus thought her belly looked really nice. Hello there. Nice tummy’t’you. They exchanged numbers.

todo new date location

They talked. They mainly worked, of course, but in between hauling plates of kibble and bowls of milk, they talked. About the Internal Review Board Review Board’s Board of Reviewers. About the guitar. About traditional “alt” dress. They laughed. They touched. Lightly, jokingly, exploringly. They got off - work was over. Relieved of servitude they redoubled smalltalk and strollwalk. Past the skyscrapers, blushing. Through the park, stealing glances like thieves in the night. Along the sidewalk, holding hands.

Jesus’ apartment. Wanna come in, have a smoke?

Before the cloud had left her black lips, she’d already pinched the pegs of her axe - she carried it with her everywhere - and started tuning it. Looking down, blushing, wanting to look at anything but Jesus. Cute. Cutecutecutecutecutecute, he thought. The damn guitar obscures her belly, he thought. She, on her part, thought something perhaps best transliterated as asodifhweofnoqfc. She was no good with this kind of thing. She couldn’t deal with emotions using words. She’d rather play than speak; her fingers outskilled her tongue.

And so she played for him. She started slowly. Soft chords, timid notes, a gentle rhythm. He looked at her, admired her. Without noticing his face softened, his heart sped up, his breath grew ragged. Excitement. She gained confidence, steadying her rhythm, moving her delicate hand firmly along the neck of the guitar. Pressing all the right frets, hitting all the right notes, a beautiful song of comfort and affection, of relaxation and arousal. Shit, he thought. Fuck, she’s really fucking good at this. Up, down. Low notes, high notes. Sweat glinstered on her brow, dripped onto the instrument as the exertion made her breath unsteady. She played.

She sped up. They sped up. Performer and audience merged, a show became a dance, a dance became an embrace, an embrace became a merging, a swirling. They became one. They became absorbed. Faster, wilder. The poor guitar creaked from the pounding of the chords. Faster. More passion, more ecstasy. Forget it all. No more work, no more worry, no more dignity. Give it all up. Surrender. Only the rhythm, only the melody. Only the sweat, only the panting, only the staring. Only deft fingers and heartfelt sound. Faster, harder, faster, TWANG. With the snapping of a G string the spell is abrupt dispelled. Silence. Shock. Why now?, she cried, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. These stupid fucking strings are useless. It’s always like this. I can never go all-out. I want to let it all out, I want to show everything, become whole. I can get so close, but before I can reach that crescendo my stupid fucking strings always snap.

Jesus felt for her. He wanted to hear it. He wanted all of her, the song of her heart was his to hear, he claimed it for himself. He would make the world his enemy just to hear her play. I’ve searched all over, she said, these are the best strings money can buy. She sighed. O Superintelligence, I don’t ask for much, only some stupid fucking guitar strings. If you will grant me but one wish, then give me strings strong as steel, tough as kevlar!

Jesús webbed.

something something violin string it’s a sexual metaphor drudgery of superheroes in the future idk something something realness of the woman healer/teacher spider silk bdsm