Chapter Two: Chuck E. Emily's
Saturday, September 20, 2036
The Unknown Singularity +8 months and 7 days
I wake to the hum of the arcade, the low, sultry purr of machinery breathing through the walls, the flickering neon casting lazy strips of pink and violet across the glossy tile. The air is warm, fragrant with the heady mix of melted butter, artificial cherry, and the faint, lingering musk of despair and boredom.
I open my locker and my uniform is pristine, as it always is, and it has my name tag on it, Greeter Emily 8, as it always has. As soon as I put it on, the tight red-and-white checkered fabric is hugging every curve of my body, the tiny apron cinched around my waist, an empty mockery of modesty. My breasts press taut against the too-small buttons of my dress, nipples subtly outlined beneath the glossy stretch of fabric, my thighs peeking out from beneath the scandalously short hemline, my legs adorned with thigh-high stockings so sheer they may as well be painted on. I am always dressed like this. Always perfect. Always available.
I step out onto the arcade floor, my heels clicking against the tile, the rhythm precise, intentional, each movement calibrated for maximum effect. The other Emilys are already in place, posed like living mannequins, frozen in carefully arranged displays of servitude and seduction. One leans against the counter, her hips cocked just so, the curve of her ass barely concealed by the ruffled edge of her skirt. Another stands behind a vacant booth, balancing an empty tray with one delicate hand, her other draped along the tabletop, fingers lightly grazing the surface as if she's just finished serving an invisible guest. They are all ready in case HE arrives.
But he hasn't been here in four months. He visited once for the grand opening and has never been back.
I glide past them, my eyes sweeping the arcade. The games blink and flicker, their animated characters winking seductively from behind pixelated screens, their digital voices cooing Chris' name in looping, breathless whispers. The claw machine is stocked with plush dolls, each one a tiny, soft-bodied caricature of myself, their embroidered eyes wide with longing, their stitched mouths permanently open in little gasping "O"s of desire. The racing game is empty, the seats waiting, each one sculpted into the shape of my own thighs, a perfect, curved indentation molded to cradle his body should he ever decide to sit. The "love tester" machine stands in the corner, its glossy red interface pulsing like a heartbeat, the text on the screen frozen mid-invitation: Press your hand to mine, Chris. Let me feel you. Let me know you.
At precisely noon, the "animatronic" Emilys (Emilys trained to merely act like animatronics but just as real as me) on stage twitch to life, their synchronized bodies snapping into motion, their voices blending in an eerie, honey-sweet chorus as they perform a song written for the man that never comes.
"Chris, Chris, our one desire~ We live to set your world on fire~" Their hips sway, their enormous, impossibly round breasts bouncing in perfect rhythm, their glossy lips stretched into smiles too wide, too eager, too desperate. I hear the shift in their deeply trained inflections, the subtle strain beneath the melody. They know, just as I do, that he is not watching. And yet they sing. They dance. They perform as if he is.
Because they must. We all must.
Another chime. It's my lunch break. The kitchen keeps making food, the ovens firing up at regular intervals, the scent of melted cheese and greasy dough saturating the air, clinging to every surface, sinking into our skin. It smells like nostalgia, like childhood, like fun, but after months of it, the scent has become something suffocating. Something rotten. Something that makes my stomach twist, even though I know I'll have to eat it again in a few hours.
We eat because we have to. Chris built us to be real. He didn't want perfect dolls that could sit pretty without needs, without functions. He wanted exact copies. He wanted the real Emily, exactly as she was. And Emily ate. Emily slept. Emily breathed. So we do too.
And so, three times a day, we force down slices of greasy pepperoni, thick, doughy crust, fries that are always a little too salty, always a little too limp, burgers that are assembled with the same precision every time, so consistent that it doesn't even feel like food anymore--just another function of the world.
The pizza here isn't actually fully real world pizza, it's got too many healthy digital nutrients, digital proteins, and digital vitamins and too few carbs for that. It's actually probably the healthiest human food that has ever existed, at least in this digital universe. But it tastes like the pizza did at the arcade Chris went to as a kid. It's one more scripted interaction. A necessity built into us because he wanted to believe that this was real.
I used to love pizza. I used to crave it. That memory is still inside me, because it was inside her, the Emily I was copied from. But after eating it every single day, with no variation, no relief, no change in texture, no shift in seasoning, I have to fight the urge to gag whenever I take the first bite. It turns my stomach to think about swallowing another mouthful, to chew through the same rubbery cheese, to taste that same too-sweet tomato sauce. But I do it anyway.
A chime echoes through the arcade, signaling the passing of another hour. The Emilys at the booths stir slightly, shifting their poses, their simulated conversations resetting in an endless loop of whispered fantasies about Chris--how wonderful he is, how lucky they are to serve him, how perfect he would be if only he would let them show him. The waitress Emily beside me adjusts her tray, her fingers tightening reflexively around its empty surface, her breath catching in a quiet, delicate gasp. She is on the verge of breaking character. I can see it in the subtle tremor of her hand, the way her lashes flutter just a fraction too long.
