Symbiote
Copyright© 2026 by Finn Sinclair
Chapter 1
“Your priority is to find a woman? Out of everything else going to shit in your life, this is your priority? Do you want to continue to be stuck with an absurd rent, and a squishy little avatar on your media feed in 800 square feet inside a fourth-floor walkup while adding a disgruntled girlfriend to the mix?”
“I’ve already got the third-floor walkup,” Tor answered. “I’ve got no avatar, no lover, but the Fates have gifted me with an obnoxious rent that can only be placated with roommates. All hail the great pagan god, Greed.” He shifted his weight to his left foot as they stood at the tiny table against the wall. The coffeeshop was mostly a “grab ‘n go” sort of place with eight standing tables pressed against the walls for those with no place worthwhile to be, but only for a few minutes. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Everyone knows the economy sucks, and nothing is going to improve anytime soon,” the woman began. “You’re an excellent salesman, Tor, but excellence is no longer an effective edge with the upheavals we’re facing. Financial firms are choosing to masturbate each other while creating nothing new – no new products, no new businesses, and no new jobs. The rents are high because they bought enough of the properties to control the prices. You need a different idea of an edge, a better tool to get ahead.”
“If you’re selling an MLM, I’m not interested,” Tor said, shaking the last drops of cooling coffee sludge from his takeaway cup. “If not an MLM, what are you selling?”
“The job is not something one would speak of in a public place,” she began and Tor held up his hand to stop her.
“I may be heading down Desperation Road, but thus far I have not had to kill, maim, or peddle illicit substances. I’m not selling my right kidney either.” He shrugged. “It’s time to blow this town. Let the wage slaves rise up.” He looked out the window and turned back to his interlocutor. “At least rise up, pack their bags and catch the first ride out of town.”
“It’s not an MLM. I’m talking about an old idea, reconfigured for the economy we’re stuck in today,” she said. “You agree one oversized dog does not have the right to covet the entire bag of dog chow.”
“Yeah, shoot the rabid dog,” Tor said offhandedly. “I’m not interested in whatever it is your selling. To use another image: this whole ship is going down and those of us in steerage are already drowning.”
“The wisdom of ‘ten years a wage slave’ echoes through the dismal laments of this downtrodden generation,” the woman retorted with bitterness before looking away. “There are other opportunities available if you are willing to open your eyes, Tor. You believe you’re street smart and maybe on that little block where your store is located, you are. However, there is more that goes on in this city, in every borough, than you can observe or even imagine. You don’t see it, but it’s there. With no family connections, no Ivy League degrees, people still manage to thrive here.” When he refused to respond, she stood up, “Maybe next time. See you around, Tor.”
As she walked towards the door of the little coffee shop, Tor stared after her, slightly confused. She had come into the eyeglass boutique and browsed the merchandise. In the end, she bought an eyeglass repair kit and struck up a conversation with him. He had no issue sharing his plight of poor wages and high rents, because the story was entirely commonplace in his line of business. He was a salesman for a fading product. With another salesperson to cover, which was not common, he took a few hours he was due from missed breaks. He left for a cup of coffee with her.
Tor glanced at his phone as his acquaintance shuffled out the door, disappearing from his sight. Coincidence or inevitability, his only appointment left for the day was with a job recruiter, which was a “last gasp” attempt to jump ship. After all, only poor people were still purchasing eyeglasses; the rest were upgrading to bio-targeted implant chips that gently corrected what Mother Nature got wrong. The chips were pricey, but the promise of a lifetime of excellent vision was a no-brainer, Tor admitted. He needed to find a new career, preferably not in retail.
With a glance at the time, he tossed his cup in the overflowing trash bin and stomped out into the heat and humidity. The entire city was grumpy as pedestrians gave way with reluctance, and no one wanted to move to the side. The delivery trucks rumbled, and the buses hissed every time a driver hit the brakes. The city stank of sweat and despair.
Inside the vestibule of an older building, Tor debated risking the ancient elevator or taking the stairs. When the doors of the lift opened and the stench of stale urine hit his nostrils, he hustled to the stairs. “What is wrong with people?” he ranted as he wheezed on the third-floor landing.
Sitting down across from the recruiter, Tor sized up the capability of the man. The recruiter was in his fifties, bald and with a groomed beard. The man looked relatively healthy, and his desk looked busy with a couple of small stacks of folders and papers. A little dated, Tor concluded, but if paper and pen worked, then he was willing. The handshake was firm.
“I don’t usually have people come into the office for a consultation,” Chester explained by way of introduction. “Sometimes, face-to-face is the best for everyone; straightforward and to the point.”
“I’m glad I made an appointment then,” Tor said, trying to relax in the chair. “Where do we begin?”
Chester shuffled through the pile and pulled out two files. “Let me put this to you bluntly. Your resume checks most of the boxes: college degree, stable employment history, and no arrests or convictions. Your credit history is mediocre, but so is everyone else’s these days. You’re missing one item and no one paying a decent salary is willing to hire without it.”
“Eh?”
“Everyone wants a candidate with a data chip implant,” Chester said.
Tor scowled.
“The zeitgeist is that a candidate must have a chip, or the company won’t get their money’s worth. You and I both know that a chip does not make or unmake a good employee, but the new ‘best practices’ demand a data chip for a faster pace of profit production. These employers look at the unchipped as having a lower I.Q. Of course, one has nothing to do with the other.”
“I didn’t need a chip to sell glasses,” Tor said. “I’m not applying to be an accountant or an analyst. Why do I need this?”
Chester tapped the folder under his hand. “No good reason, except that they’ve got the money, and you need the money. Do you have an ethical objection or is there another issue.”
“I could be accused of being a tad squeamish about inserting a chip on my brain,” Tor admitted. “Still, the prices for the procedure are fairly steep. I assume that you cannot guarantee that if I get the chip, I will land a good-paying job. I may put myself deeper into debt.”
“You’re a nice guy, Torvald, but this is the future,” Chester said. “No one is backing down. Either you invest now or wait until you’re even further behind and then face the threat of not qualifying for a financing plan for the install. If you can’t see your way into getting the install, then there is little I can do to help you. This is the employment paradigm.”
Tor silently sighed to himself, feeling the rock crushing him against the hard place. “If this is my only choice, how do I go about finding a reliable clinic? There are hundreds of them out there, and all of them claim to be safe and effective. Then I read the horror stories on the feeds.”