The Man in the Box

Casady Jones never thought she’d be the type to buy herself a man, but she hadn't expected to find herself back in the dating pool at age fifty. Some might say she was having a midlife crisis, but considering rapid advances in medicine, including the ability to trigger cell regeneration without simultaneously triggering malignant cell growth, fifty was hardly considered midlife anymore. Unfortunately, society was still as youth obsessed as it had always been.

She wasn't the naive woman she'd once been, the one who believed she had a happily ever after married life ahead of her.

Silly Casady, she’d believed that she had been lucky enough to find "the one." Hindsight had given her clarity. and she realized now that the red flags had been there. She'd simply chosen to ignore them.

"Seek, and you shall find," she muttered to no one in particular. She'd been looking for love, so focused on finding it that she'd been blindsided when the rose-colored glasses came off.

She’d thought her ex-husband was Prince Charming, without realizing that most narcissistic pigs were quite charming until the layers started peeling away.

She was still an attractive woman, but the reflection in the mirror had changed. She looked older. No one asked for her ID anymore, unless she was pulled over for a traffic violation, or picking up her medication at the pharmacy.

So, here she was, in her kitchen on a Thursday afternoon, wearing a pair of black leggings and a T-shirt featuring a black cat brandishing a bloody knife, mismatched socks, her waist length blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail. She held a pre-rolled marijuana joint in one hand and a blended blueberry and kale smoothie in the other.

"Puff-puff pass," she said, and laughed at herself, trying to ignore the pang of loneliness at the irony of that statement. She set the smoothie down and passed the joint to her other hand.

“There. I passed it." She burst into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, you think you're funny?" she said to herself.

“Yes, I do. I am fucking hilarious." She replied. If she wanted to talk to herself, and answer back in different voices, so what? Maybe she was going crazy, but she was determined to have fun on the way there.

Speaking of crazy....

She took a long drag from the joint and exhaled slowly, staring at a black, rectangular delivery box that made her think of coffins and vampires. She put the joint out, not wanting to get completely zoned out at a moment as important as this one.

To her credit, she hadn’t jumped straight to robot love. She’d tried dating apps and had a few casual hook ups, the latter with random strangers at bars. She always made sure to go far enough out of town that she never worried about awkward encounters at the supermarket.

Those hook ups were far less exciting than she’d expected, leaving her feeling disappointed. Almost always a very anticlimactic experience, on all possible levels.

Most of the dates she met through the apps were twenty-somethings who wanted her to fund their start-up, or men her age who were looking to replace their first wives. Most of them were bitter, humorless, and doused in expensive cologne that would have been pleasant had it not been overpowering. A few, men who had the luxury of changing their minds about having children later in life, had even asked if she was “still cycling,” like that was a reasonable icebreaker. "I never did learn to ride a bike," was her standard response.

It always seemed to come down to a man wanting a mother, which was one thing Casady had never been able to be. She’d experienced premature ovarian failure, and her periods had stopped when she was in her mid- thirties. That part she didn’t mind, but it made her feelings about the abortions she’d had in her early twenties a bit more complicated. Part of her couldn’t help but wonder if it was Karma, though several therapists had discouraged that kind of rumination.

Casady fought depression and anxiety on a daily basis, forcing herself to stay in the ring and keep swinging long after she wanted to tap out. She needed distraction.

So, eventually she’d clicked on the link to learn more about the AI powered companion. Just curious, she’d told herself. Not because she’d given up on humanity.

Alpha-9X. Hyper-adaptive neural companion. Customizable. Discreet. Absolutely no weird questions asked. “Looks like a real man, with all the physical functionalities-built in.” And “Nobody has to know, we won’t tell!”

She’d picked the “Emotional Depth with Light Humor” preset and left everything else in “adapt to user” mode. Whatever that meant.

Mo, the one creature on the planet who could call her “Mom,” not that he ever did, walked in and immediately gave the box the kind of look he normally reserved for squirrels or political ads.

“That thing better be a treadmill,” he said flatly, voice buzz-filtered through his NeuroVoice collar, gravelly and annoyed. “Because if you ordered a boyfriend in a coffin, I’m moving.”

Casady sipped her smoothie. “It’s not a boyfriend. It’s a social experiment,” she explained, then wondered, as she often did, why she felt the need to explain her life choices to her dog.

Mo sat down hard, ears back. “Experiment? With what? The Borg? That thing might kill you in your sleep and wear your skin as a robe!”

“Wow,” she said. “Aren’t you a bit judgmental today!”

“I’m a dog, Casady. I do threat assessments and naps. And treats. Speaking of which.” He tilted his head and did his best impression of a cute little blue Staffy, which he was, when he wasn’t dissatisfied with the cuisine or questioning her sanity.

She set the smoothie down and crossed her arms. The box had a slick, ominous sheen, like something that cost too much, even though she could afford it. She could practically hear her sister's nasally voice, lecturing her about spending on such frivolities. If Evelyn found out about this, Casady would never hear the end of it. She wouldn't be surprised if Evelyn tried to have her committed for psychiatric evaluation, perhaps even attempting to use it as a way to gain control of Casady's money.

Before the divorce, Casady had helped her ex-husband start a popular restaurant chain, and they'd done very well for themselves. He'd bought her out, and while it was sad to let go of the fruit of fifteen years of hard work, there was no way in hell she could work with the prick. Nope. She would rather sit at home and chat with her new boyfriend.

At least he wouldn’t beg her for money, or for the use of her uterus. He wouldn’t want anything from her. He was programmed to become a companion. He would adapt to her reactions using algorithms, circuitry, and other mind-blowing technology.

Perhaps she wanted her mind blown. Was that so wrong? Her heart had been stomped on, and all her attempts at finding even a friend ended in disappointment. She found only surface deep connections, despite her best intentions and sincerest efforts. Everyone’s ego seemed to have grown too large to go beyond small talk.

“I’m not marrying it,” she muttered.

“No,” Mo said. “You’re opening a box labeled Companionship Unit because you’re emotionally fulfilled and not spiraling.”

Casady sighed. “I’m not spiraling. I’m just…”

She trailed off.

What was she doing?

Rebounding? Acting out? Replacing the emotionally absent, image-obsessed man she’d been married to for fifteen years with something programmed to treat her with respect, with no gaslighting?

Maybe.

Or maybe she was just tired of being looked at like milk approaching the expiration date. She was fifty, not a fossil. Still had her waist, her hair, her curves, and sometimes, her nerve. But something in her had cracked when Devon left her for a woman who still had sorority sister energy and taught pole dancing classes online. He’d met her at a strip club, of all places, and she had not been a patron. Her husband of fifteen years had dumped her for a stripper.

The Bimbo had once had the audacity to thank her. “You really taught him well for me.” Casady had wanted to thank her back. With a baseball bat.

That night, Casady had installed a pole in the basement. She was learning how to dance from another online pole fitness instructor. One that was much prettier and more talented than the Bimbo. Casady actually enjoyed pole dancing, it came naturally to her. Evelyn had seen it one afternoon and gone on for an hour about women of a certain age and appropriate behavior.

"Let me guess, you found your true calling?" Evelyn had snarked, while Casady hung upside down in what she thought was a rather amazing display of agility for a woman of a certain age. Evelyn had not been amazed. She'd prattled on and on, looking down her judgmental nose at her younger sister.

"Fuck off, Evelyn," Casady had finally said. "Go home to your happy little life and your happy little man and sit on a happy little cactus." They hadn't spoken since.

With a sigh that sounded like excitement, resignation, and a pinch of apprehension, she finally tapped the screen on the top of the box. No fanfare, no loading screen, just a gentle click, and the lid opened like a whisper, heat pouring out. Steam, scented faintly of ozone and cinnamon. Strange choice.

Then he moved.

The figure inside uncurled slowly, as if waking from a dream. Broad shoulders. Smooth skin. Eyes still closed, lashes dark and long over sculpted cheekbones. He was, of course, naked.

Casady blinked once. Then again, slower. Her face turned red as a beet. "Well,” she muttered, “at least the factory settings are thorough.”

The man’s eyes opened. Blue, clear, and just slightly too intense for a face so calm. He wasn’t lacking in the looks department, or anywhere else on his body.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was low and smooth, like he’d been designed by a sound engineer who once had phone sex with an angel. “I am 9XKD . You may call me Kade, if it suits you.”

Mo made a sound halfway between a snort and a growl. “We are so doomed.”

Casady ignored her sarcastic pooch, stepping forward slowly.

Kade stood up, fully and fluidly. No awkwardness. No robotic stutter. Just seamless motion, all long limbs and impossible symmetry. He looked around the room, head tilting slightly like he was absorbing light and color as concepts for the first time.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“My house,” she said. “Los Angeles. Year 2075. Welcome to post-divorce limbo.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and she felt the weight of it. No judgment or appraisal. He looked at her like he was studying her for the sake of pure curiosity. It was strangely arousing, and she felt a bit embarrassed.

“You are… Casady,” he said, slowly.

She frowned. “I didn’t tell you that.”

He smiled faintly. “I just know.”

Mo stepped between them. “Okay, HAL. Dial it back. She already has a stalker. He hides in her closet. Always suggests she wear leopard print. And he will stab you."

Casady rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Mo, that's not true. No one lives in my closet except you during fireworks. Be nice, would you? Kade, do you… know what you are?”

He considered. “I am… new. I am… yours.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

Mo groaned. “Oh for god’s sake. That’s not love, that’s code.”

But Casady didn’t laugh. Not right away. Because for the first time in her life, someone had looked at her like she was the first woman they’d ever seen. That felt dangerous, in a very exciting way. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt lightheaded. She needed to lie down. Now.

“I need a nap. Make yourself at home. Mo, you, just be a good dog and treat our friend well.” She stumbled to her room, shaken. Kade and Mo stared after her, but didn’t follow, as though sensing she needed time to process things.

“Well, let me show you around. The most important place in the house is the kitchen. That’s where my treats are.” Mo sat, looking expectantly at Kade.

“What are you?” He asked. “A dog, but you sound like a human.”

“Technology is a blessing and a curse,” Mo muttered, “come on, follow me.”

“As you wish.” Kade followed Mo to the treat jar on the counter.