Lonni clamped a damp paper towel over the biostamp on her forearm in attempt to sharpen the connectivity. Her epidermal electronics had been acting up lately. “Roman,” she addressed the mirror while rubbing her eyes. Her voice bounced off the sterile surfaces of the empty staff washroom. The echo emphasized the quietness of the practice facility. Losing her train of thought, she glanced at the time stamp in the periphery of her vision—6:16am. Campbell had forced her off schedule.
A voice vibrated inside her head. “Instructions, Miss Fasano?”
Her mind jolted back on track. “Order three VZ-7 epidermals from Plastronics: one configured for my cellular provider and one for your own network. I need the third formatted for .ezx but blank.”
“Standard delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Done. They’ll arrive by 5pm this afternoon.” The voice faded instantly.
Lonni had come to think of Roman as a programmed extension of herself. Better and more intimate than any lover, he always knew what she was thinking. He never asked stupid questions, and he always brought out the best in her. Thank you. She subvocalized the word. Politeness was unnecessary when interacting with Roman, the artificial neural network of her own creation. Yet, his was one of the few interactions with which she genuinely meant it.
Lonni splashed water in her face and studied what she saw in the polished metal mirror. She mussed with the knotted mane of mahogany-colored hair spilling over her collar and flowing midway down her back. She cursed her father for the Italian genes that expressed themselves in the form of her wiry hair and prominent nose. She cursed herself for insisting on wearing her hair long.
She gave up and pulled a hair tie off her wrist.
A blue light flashed in her periphery, revealing Roman’s morning cue of articles and information he’d curated for her overnight. She focused on the light until the cue expanded across her her entire field of view. She scrolled quickly through the material, noting Roman had procured another of the classic movie poster she’d been hunting—Casablanca. She allowed herself a tiny thrill of anticipation over the poster, before stopping on an article that seemed out of place. Roman had highlighted a section:
In a sad twist of events, the unanimously anticipated first overall pick of the draft, CK Campbell, was seriously injured during the incident. It is believed he suffered the injury while rescuing others from a collapsed section of Radio City Hall. A member of the Indianapolis Colts staff, who wished to remain anonymous, claimed Campbell had pulled him out from under a mangled table when a second collapse separated the two. Campbell was admitted to New York Presbyterian Hospital yesterday evening with visible burns and lesions covering his famous right arm and shoulder. Nothing official on his condition has been released.
The clipping had come from a sixteen-month-old article entitled, National Football League on Verge of Collapse After Draft Day Violence. How odd. This sort of fluff was highly irregular, but Roman had never wasted her time with trivial information. She opened her mouth to question her personal ANN. No words came. Instead, she dismissed the cue. She couldn’t currently expend another ounce of thought on CK Campbell.
Her daily diagnostic of the neural network powering the virtual matrix for the league’s newest expansion team, the San Antonio Aztec’s, had already been delayed seventeen minutes by said backup quarterback. If she hurried, she could complete the tests before any of the coaching staff or players arrived—except for the ever-annoying Campbell of course. She’d take up her complaint with Mr. Guerrero afterwards.
While buttoning the top button on her blouse, she kicked open the washroom door with her bare foot. She wasn’t sure where she’d taken off her shoes from the night before. Good thing she’d stashed extra outfits all over the facility like a squirrel buries nuts.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
