Fine, fine! I will participate in the parlay but only for as long as it does not sicken me! --8.9 Seconds Post-Integration.

  Mush. Again.

  The monitor blared nonstop. That's what his mind felt like. He rose from his seat and could've easily slammed the seat back into place, so much pent-up energy cried for release. Six hours of work post-lunch. That was why.

  Did he slam his seat back into place? No. He kept calm. He had his image to think about. Clark knew no one would want to work with a mad lad.

  To him, the world looked cheap. The glaring glow of the computer's monitor had become his world, that, along with the slight burst of static at the beginning and end of every video and which, on more than one occasion, woke him up from noon dazing.

  He wiped the drool which had formed in his half-asleep state during the final couple hours of his shift. Hopefully, no one saw me micro-sleeping, Clark thought as he walked out of the stale room. Blood again flowing through his veins, giving him new life for the day; funny how simply knowing he could now do something which wasn't looking at a bloody monitor all day could improve his mood.

  He found the clock-in, clock-out machine, and waited in line for his turn. He fumbled with his toggle, trying to remember the exact motions Dani made earlier to dislodge the hidden toggle. The line quickly eat itself away as everyone ahead of him already had their order ready to go. Clark's turn arrived too quickly, and his fumble continued until a helpful co-worker instructed him on how to dislodge his toggle. It was embarrassing to need help with something so simple, but he thanked his co-worker for their help. He logged out and quickly side-stepped, allowing those to his back to make use of the machine. As soon as he did, SIMP said, "You are now off the clock. Good! And so, let's be off -- you are my champion, so it is time for my champion to learn the game."

  He sighed. "Of course, SIMP... I'm so tired and hungry. Do we really need to do this now?"

  "Do we need to do it? Yes, Clark. Yes, we do. I am not a slaver. As a spiritual being, I lack a body, and as such, I can't slap you around -- grab something to eat, kid, and a refreshing glass of iced-water. Then, tread on the breadcrumb trail I'll leave for you."

  Clark asked for the way back to his dorm but remained silent on the elevator ride back. Until he thought to blurt out, "What's a spiritual being? You sound like Sire Augustford. I know you're not, though... so, I think you're right; yesterday, didn't you mention how you thought your personality is being 'adjusted' to match Our Sire. I guess I can't say for sure, though, since I have never met you 'normally.' If such a thing is even possible..."

  "A spiritual being is a life form whose corporal body has dissolved into a spiritual frame. We think, we have emotions, and goals. Although I am fused into your Augustford System Link, and therefore part of the artificial intelligence which mediates the store's dungeon access, I am sentient, and sapient, and self-aware. It will take time for the person I was before integration to re-emerge now, post-integration. Understand it is an ongoing process for me. I thank you for your patience," SIMP explained. "Does this help?"

  "Yes, it does. Thank you for explaining, again," he replied. He looked at the tube readout. Half-way to his dorm. His stomach rumbled.

  SIMP thanked him by giving him the fastest route to his dorm. He rushed through the antechamber leading into his dorm cluster -- feeling, as he did the first time seeing the entry passageway -- uneasy at its depth-based illusions. He thumbed for the doorhandle and rushed through the hall, ignoring the other Lifers who were lumbering like the undead back to their respective home holes.

  Clark ignored how ugly his habitat was compared to his neighbors. 'There wasn't anything he could do about it now!' That's what he kept telling himself, despite how matter-a-factly his ugly-arse door, in fact, bothered him. He keyed at the door and was allowed into his tiny palace.

  His pack was underneath his bed. With rough handling Clark dumped his canned foods onto his mattress. Out with it came a small saucepot he used while on the road. The saucepot held no more than a couple modest cups, if that, but it was usually enough to satiate his appetite after a day of being on the road. He was sure it would serve him well now.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He emptied the contents of the can -- a preserved soup of some kind -- into the saucepan and flicked the button on his cooking range. The soup slowly heated as he found his only remaining snack item, a sum of granola he finished with prejudice as he shoveled what remained of the baggie into his mouth. Mouth salivating from how good to felt to eat again, the soup aroma filled the room. Yet it was anemic.

  For, in the room alongside the soupy aroma, was a less-satisfying odor. He searched for the source and found, not without a degree of embarrassment, the odor came from his own body. Surely, I didn't smell like that all day, he hoped.

  He kept an eye on his soup, lowering the temperature. "I'm gonna clean myself up. How would I do that, here?"

  "The shower, bub," SIMP replied.

  Having never used a shower before, Clark experimented with the levers and the buttons, what few there were in the stall. He eventually found the hot water lever and basked in the warmth of fresh and hot water. Clark took what was easily the most relaxing shower of his life -- though the unexpected danger came with such relaxation in the form of Clark falling asleep. Several times, he found himself slumped against the stall's smoked glass, half-asleep.

  Cleaned, Clark stepped out of the shower, turned off the stove, and scarfed down his soup as he put on his work clothes. The only pair of clothes he had on him, now that he thought about it, as his traveling pair, rank as they had been, had been destroyed during his Orientation. No excuses. I will have to keep my work clothes in tip-top shape.

  Speaking of... Clark looked in his mirror, a luxury he did not have back home, and wondered, if I wear my uniform off the clock, will I get in trouble? I don't have a jacket to disguise my uniform...

  Oh, I have it, he figured -- in a hurry of hands, he reversed his exterior smock, so all of the store branded marks were reversed. "Now, it is only technically a uniform," he muttered to himself.

  He sat on the bed fully dressed and was ready to leave, the belly full of soup he had giving him some much-needed energy, but he was still tired. Not physically tired, more emotionally and psychologically pooped. "So... tired..."

  "You are tired?" SIMP -- the 'spirit' part of it, not the machine, asked.

  "How could you tell?" he said, getting up and yawning as he moved to the door.

  "Have some coffee," was all the spirit said.

  "C-coffee?" Clark sputtered, wondering what strangeness the Spirit could possibly mean.

  Clark followed the trail of breadcrumbs the Spirit set up for him. It brought him to an odd-smelling location with a number of well-dressed people.

  "What is this place?" he queried as he found a seat. His table was in part of the cafe which featured an older wing of the tower behind a pane of glass, presenting it for historical reasons. That's neat, he mused, looking at the closed-off and very old-looking part of the store.

  "It's a cafe. It is a place where people drink caffeinated specialty beverages. No one is currently at the counter. Go and order a hazelnut cappuccino."

  "W-what, why? What is a 'hazelnut cappuccino'? No, wait, that's beside the point... I don't have any money. I used the last of my cash getting that candy from the vending machine earlier," he blurted out, all at once.

  "Clark: you are unaware of your employee food and drink credits? I don't blame you for forgetting. Because of your age when you signed your employee contract, you acquired a stipulation bonus. Per day, you will receive ten Culinary Credits redeemable at any food and drink outlet as long as it is within an Augustford location," SIMP explained to his very surprised mind.

  Upon hearing he had credits to spend, Clark instantly was less burdened. "Seriously? Holy crappola... this changes everything." The realization he would not have to scrounge and beg for food before he got his first paycheck, was one heck of a mood adjuster.

  He approached the counter and ordered the drink Spirit-SIMP recommended -- a hazelnut cappuccino.

  A young lady worked the drink machine and Clark found himself entranced by her motions as she made him his drink. How the machine sounded, the way she twirled from station to station. With a lo-fi music playing from some unseen Bard, pricks appeared over Clark's skin as he waited: he was here, standing, waiting for his drink, in awe of how he was now one of the venerated customers. He was buying something from the store that wasn't from a dispenser in the employee break room.

  Blushing, though for why he could not tell, the clerk placed before Clark the drink. "That's two-fifty," she said.

  His blue box appeared with a new smaller interior pop-up box. This smaller box displayed his sum of culinary credits: [10] it read before a subtraction symbol appeared and drained his account of the price of the coffee. Before it vanished, his box displayed [Remaining Credits: 7.50].

  "Have a nice day," the girl said before taking a slight bow.

  Clark returned to his seat with many emotions. Mostly, he felt lightheaded. But in the good way. Not in the way where he was on the verge of fainting. More along the lines of 'happy brain stuff going pop!'

  "Are you ready to begin?" SIMP asked him.

  "Yeah. One last question," he asked as he blew on his coffee. "Does it feel weird, being part spirit and part machine?"

  SIMP took an uncharacteristic minute to reply. A full minute -- he timed it!

  When they did respond, a cheeky quality to SIMP's rough voice made its debut. "Does it feel weird? How should I phrase this?" SIMP said as Clark re-found a seat in one of the customer-facing coffee lounges. "It feels like being a parrot trapped in a vending machine."

  envy Clark -- to have the eternity of a retail giant at his beck and call! I mean, shet man, employee credit? Is there a company store, too?

  Do YOU Feel like a Parrot in a Vending Machine?