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Eyebrow

Had to race out at lunch to get to my new dentist, given that the old one went wholly private and wanted to charge extortionate rates for not being part of the damn state healthcare regime. This involved a dental x-ray, my first in a while, for which I had to remove both my eyebrow bars.

I've never taken them out before.

It's a very weird feeling. Had a hell of a time getting them back in, had to wait till I returned home and could spend too long fighting the damn things. Needless to say they ain't coming out again any time soon.

While they were out, this came to me. I'm in a write-y mood but I can't find any direction. I have no idea where I was going with this, just some near-future ramblings. I really need a bloody story to write. Come on, brain... just a little more....

The office is dead air for radio traffic. Nothing but a light thread of low-bandwidth GPRS all bottled up with walled gardens and spam to the point where bad old WAP would be faster. No all-pervading wi-fi hit, no Bluetooth song from the myriad gadgets all around. The bare minimum connectivity.

Rather more worryingly, my face is screaming. Medical appointment, I had to strip out the gadgets in my eyebrow, a pair of tiny processor nodes that give biofeedback to any of my systems that ask. But now, nothing. No biofeedback, interfacing with the world entirely the old fashioned way. A clicky old keyboard that sings alien insect love songs with every row of spreadsheet data. Eye-burning CRT that'd cost more to dispose of than the flatscreen TFT replacements. Mouse. Old phone with buttons, no voice dialling. And the bastard thing won't stop ringing. Every time someone else complaining. "Why didn't you catch this? Why didn't you trap that?" I bite back the urge to respond with a salute to sex and travel. I didn't catch anything because the software here is shit. The inputs are shit and occasionally I miss things because I'm thinking five hundred moves further down the line. Somewhere between brain and mouth this becomes a vague apology with no actual admission of guilt. I hang up and pray for five o'clock.

My phone pings. Prayers answered, I rush to get changed, out of the noose and RFID tie-pin that lets the bosses measure how long I spend having a shit each day. Out of the stupid pressed trousers and shirt, into leathers, a new set with neon aerogel armour plates. The shirt's got thermopigments to hide the logo, which always helps. And once the bustle dies down and I can get a mirror to myself I plug my face back in.

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