Writing contest: Can You See the Future? -- "Forked Hard by the CFS"

Below is my entry for the Hardfork Series' writing contest, Can You See the Future? And remember, the deadline isn't until Nov. 30, so there's plenty of time to enter and support this new series!

"Forked Hard by the CFS"

Each night, my mom walks home from work, blinking her way down the street. She thinks she's documenting sidewalk hazards.

I tell her, “Ma, you don't have to blink. The oculars from ONE stream everything you see in real time.” Doesn't matter. She blinks the old series of singles and doubles anyway, then listens for the mental shutter click.

She swears to god she hears it.

“Ma, damn it. Why do you buy into all this?” But it's no use.

“You know why, love. I make a good hobby income from One Nation Earth.” She faithfully uploads her stream for a few ONEDay coins that she trades on the Craft Exchange for Stytch. Which, of course, is the only token the sewing ministry accepts for recreational yarn.

But their wide array of overly specific altcoins is really just a trading mirage, designed to let people like Ma think she's making choices.

She still works at the CFS in janitorial management, a complete joke. Ma used to manage something--a fleet of cleaning bots--but not anymore. Those bots were outlawed by the ONE three years ago, after the riots the Coalition for Human Employment Rights funded. Now she's back to scrubbing the floors, herself. At least she got a pair of management level knee-pads.

Dad thinks she's as daft as I do, but he's no better. He allows the full uplink complement to sit there in his brain, undisrupted, for an hourly hit of digital dopamine. Sold his soul for a fourth of a cent per hour. They've enrolled him in a study that I think is linking his neuroreceptors to our household node. And now he just sits.

I keep my dark web disruptors hidden from my parents' streaming eyeballs, but someday, at just the right time, I'm gonna try to disrupt my dad's link. Just haven't quite figured out the how or the when. A few things to work out yet.

In the meantime, I argue and fight and try to get through to him. “Don't you see, dad? The ONE is debasing your dope. With every new hit, your return is diminished.” But he doesn't care. As long as the fix arrives every hour, he doesn't bother to question his marginal utility. Won't question it or quantify it.

“Mom is going to need your help, this week, Russell. She's chosen a rather hefty work schedule--”

“She didn't choose anything, dad. Mom got forked by the CFS, and forked hard.”

“Russell! Watch your language.”

“Why bother, dad?” I ask, leaving the room. “I'm sure the ONE will watch my language for me.”