Chapter Text
The bright morning light seeps into your bedroom through your curtain, signaling your body to wake up. Normally, you’d log into work right about now, messing with frustrating clients with endless complaints and sometimes giving them a refund in exchange for falling for your rage bait. This morning, however, and every morning for the past few weeks, have been much less structured as a result of Valdivian replacing your new job with artificial intelligence. You’ve lost the structure in your day-to-day life (and more importantly, are unemployed), but in turn, you’ve gained a pair of glasses that have made your days much more interesting.
Getting out of bed, you check your phone to receive a message on Thiscord from the hacker tinfoilhat, the one who sent you the Dateviators.
Tinfoilhat - “Hello, any second now you will receive a delivery via drone to your front door. Follow the instructions attached to the package, then get back to me for further information.”
“Again? What could they possibly be sending now?” You sigh. You’re getting tired of all this secrecy surrounding this person. Then again, their Dateviators have kept you from spiraling back into a numbing loneliness, so you slide into your slippers and make your way over to the front door in curiosity.
You carry the package into your office and plop the box down onto the desk. Upon opening the package, you’re greeted with a brand new, sleek black laptop covered in bubble wrap and Styrofoam. At the bottom of the box, you find a small paper notecard with numbered instructions hand-written in black ink. Curiosity immediately takes over you as you gloss over the short list of instructions.
1. Boot up the laptop, the password is ******
2. Open the chat room that is already pre-installed for you
You follow what is written and open up a primitive-looking program. You’re greeted with a threaded message system reminiscent of any generic 2000s chat site, the familiar username tinfoilhat is displayed at the top of the screen. A message pops up in real time as if they somehow sensed you opening the program.
Tinfoilhat - “So, it’s been a few weeks now since I sent you those Dateviators. I assume you’ve already gotten close to several objects in your home already.”
You - “Yeah I have. Let’s get to the chase, what’s the deal with this laptop anyway?” You ask.
Tinfoilhat - “Right to the point, alright. It’s too dangerous to keep talking on Thiscord, I suspect some of the higher-ups at Valdivian already are suspicious of me. That is why from now on, all of our conversations will be through the computer I sent. There’s also one other program installed on this laptop. It’s a spreadsheet. I need you to keep a log of everything you talk to with your five charges every day and enter short summaries of your interactions.”
You - “And why the hell should I? I’m out of a job now and you’re throwing tasks at me, I don’t even know who you are.”
You type furiously at them, venom seeping from your words. You’re not particularly happy to keep entertaining this hacker's plans, especially when they are so vague.
Tinfoilhat - “I can’t tell you everything, I’m sorry. But I’ll tell you this: if you go along with what I said, I can secure you a job. A really cushy one.”
Now we’re talking.
You - “Okay…so I just need to keep a short log of my conversations, got it.”
Tinfoilhat - “That’s right. Thanks for your help, I’ll be in contact with you again shortly.”
Shutting the laptop, there’s still some lingering frustration in you, mostly from the abruptness of the new situation you’ve been thrust into, but with the promise of a job on the horizon, you swiftly pocket it. This new task seems easy enough; you have already been talking to the objects in your house daily. Besides, you really needed a job and money. You could not live off of snack foods for your meals anymore, and your emergency savings account was dwindling by the day.
Your gaze falls onto your desktop computer, next to the messy stack of packing peanuts and bubble wrap strewn across the desk. “I should talk to Mac today” you decided. You’ve been going around your house meeting new objects and helping them with their issues these past few days. But in doing so, you acknowledge that you haven’t given your favorite desktop enough attention—with the Dateviators on at least. You still average 11.4 hours on Mac daily without them.
You turn on Mac and aim your Dateviators at them, building up a charge.
“You’re back!” they beam.