Nothing Personal

The dreaded weightlessness of an almost empty milk carton means several things—most pressing: how will Hugo eat a bowl of cereal the way he enjoys it? Not moist—drenched. Like a storage tank exploded somewhere in Iowa and the fallout flooded a town of unsuspecting farmers.

It also means Allison never stopped for milk like she promised.

On cue, Hugo’s stomach rumbles. Not actually a rumble—more like a buzz. A gentle reminder, as his coworkers might say when Hugo is late to send a data read. So he dumps the carton, coaxing out the last drops, simultaneously initiating an imaginary argument with Allison—one he’d prefer to have in person, only Allison's still asleep. A tactic she employs when avoiding something.

In this case, it’s not the lack of milk.

Hugo begrudgingly shovels a spoonful into his mouth. So bland, so sharp. He could add water but won't. If it’s more palatable, he might lose his edge.

“Hey.”

Allison's voice shocks him like an electrical charge—so intense Hugo almost drops the bowl.

Subtly gathering himself, he turns to face her.

Looking him up and down, Allison cocks an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not smiling,” Hugo says—clearly smiling.

She rolls her eyes and flops onto the couch. “We need to talk.”

“We absolutely do.”

The finger twirling her hair stops mid-spiral, eyes sharpening. Maybe the candor of his response caught her off-guard, but something’s loose inside him today. An error in his code, so to speak. Normally, he lets things slide, ebbing with the flow. Today, he can’t.

“Wanna go first?” She asks.

A calculated move–let Hugo dig himself a hole–even if he did nothing wrong. Allison was the one who begged him to leave work early to meet at some uptown bistro–a place she deemed a, ‘must try’, ‘can’t miss experience’, even, potentially, a ‘revelation’.

Allison actually used the phrase, “The food is supposed to be orgasmic.”

Of course, Hugo found this hard to comprehend. How could a slab of beef be so good, so savory, a person mistakes it for the consummation of love?

Regardless, Hugo agreed, lied to his boss about a dermatologist appointment, then headed uptown. Thirty minutes in and no Allison, he figured the subways were running slow. At forty, he started to worry. Nearly an hour after they were supposed to meet, she finally texted:

Stuck at work. Eat without me.

He went home and ate nothing.

A long sigh, followed by Allison clearing her throat.

Still smiling, Hugo says, “My night was pretty uneventful.”

Allison nods slowly and bites her lip, a tic Hugo’s become very fond of. So fond of, he thinks about reaching into his chest and ripping out his heart and slamming it onto the table. A tribute to the frustration he’s been bottling up as of late.

Except Allison saves him the trouble and rips it out for him.

“I’m seeing someone else.”

A drone starts to fill Hugo’s ears. It sounds like the moan of a skyscraper adjusting to heavy wind.

This is just a bad dream.

When words finally do escape Hugo’s lips, they sound like those of a stranger. “You’re doing what?”

Allison’s eyes drop to the floor. “It just happened.”

The silence gives Hugo the perfect opportunity to say something that cuts deep, through skin, bone—maybe even nicks an artery. But when he scans the toolshed inside his head, it’s empty. No pegboard lined with jagged retorts. No neatly hung wrenches of wit or hammers of sarcasm. Just a single flickering bulb, dancing to the reverberation of Allison’s confession.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” is the best he can do.

Allison starts to cry.

To occupy his hands, Hugo dumps out the cereal and washes the bowl. Three pumps from the soap dispenser—bubbles foaming uncontrollably.

“Why'd you do it?” he mumbles, mid-rinse.

For a second, it seems like Hugo might get his wish–Allison starts gulping air, then exhaling long and slow, like she’s cooling soup. A performance meant to showcase emotional control. Usually culminating with her storming into the bedroom before more shots are fired.

Hugo watches her routine, wondering if she ever cared about him at all.

He shuts off the water and frowns. “Who is it?”

“You don’t know him.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me. You don’t.”

“So you know every single person I’ve ever met?”

Allison almost laughs. “Hugo… you don’t know that many people.”

And that’s what does it.

Cheat, fine. But attacking his shortcomings when it comes to socializing is somehow worse.

The bowl slips from his hands and shatters in the sink. They both jump.

Hugo carefully plucks jagged porcelain from the basin and tosses the pieces into the garbage.

“Be careful,” Allison says, eyes fixed on his hands.

One shard juts upward. He lifts it. Stares at the smooth finish against the rough mortar. Like a dagger.

Still on the couch, Allison inches away--slowly. Cognizant of being casual about it, for whatever reason.

Then Hugo sees it. His hand, squeezing the shard, pointing it right at her. A trickle of blood runs over his knuckles.

Like a switch flips, he drops it. The clang sounds like artillery fire.

Hugo mumbles, “I’m late for work.”

Allison, still inching away, wipes a tear and nods.

As the door closes, Hugo thinks he hears Allison say something about “it being broken,” which is applicable to many things that just took place.

But whatever is broken inside those four walls is no longer Hugo’s problem.

+++

There is a bigger problem awaiting him at work anyway.

The vibe doesn’t immediately register—Hugo’s too busy replaying Allison’s confession to notice the closed office doors, empty kitchenettes, furious typing.

The floor is a barren Serengeti—and Hugo's the one lonely gazelle too preoccupied to see the tall grass slowly parting.

The pounce is his phone ringing. Hugo nearly falls out of his chair.

He assumes it’s Allison—ready for round two. Except it isn’t. It’s Harriett. His boss’ boss.

Normally, if Harriett wants Hugo, a pseudo-supervisor will drag him to her office like a ventriloquist dummy.

Another ring—louder now, amplified by the vacuum.

Hugo takes a breath. Smooths his shirt. Reaches for the phone...And that’s when it hits.

A lack of chatter, laughter, people wandering. The only sound is the hurried whispers--coworkers quietly debating whose skull is headed for a spike.

Rattled but not broken, Hugo answers with a courteous, “Good morning, Harriett.”

Silence.

Too long.

Did she dial the wrong extension?

“GGGGGood morning, Hugo”—Harriett stutters, the g’s and o’s colliding into alphabet soup. There's a prolonged pause as she resets.

“Um, so, if you could—if you can—please come down to my office for a quick chat.”

The lack of specifics—what a “chat” could mean—nearly fries his core. Too many signals at once. None pointed.

“Of course…” Hugo replies, almost whispering. “I'll be right down.”

The walk across the annex feels endless. Until now, he never considered why he sat so far from his team.

A fringy contributor is easier to cut.

Harriett’s door is shut—naturally—and her assistant is gone. So he knocks.

A muffled, “Come in” finds a way through the fiberglass.

Two faces await inside: Harriett, obviously. But the second is unfamiliar. One of the many tall, handsome bees with toothy grins who accompany executives.

Harriet gestures to a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

So he does.

“I’m sure you’ve met Brian before, correct? Our group’s HR rep?”

Hugo nods, smiles. Brian reciprocates, only his smile is bigger, brighter.

“As you’ve probably heard,” Harriet says, clasping her hands, “DataTech is reallocating assets in order to better position our business for the future.”

Hugo nods as if this is an FYI.

Yes, of course. Good plan. Be proactive, not reactive—a fundamental principle of any successful business. See the forest through the trees.

Despite Hugo’s furious nodding, Harriet continues. “Unfortunately, we had to make some tough decisions. And—unfortunately—you'll no longer be continuing on with DataTech--effective today.”

The nodding stops just as the air in Hugo’s lungs disappears. His eyes fall to his shoes. Admonishing the soap-stained patent leather.

“This is a standard separation agreement,” Harriet says, gently tapping a stack of papers. “Please review it carefully. If you deem it necessary, have your lawyer look it over before–”

“My lawyer?”

His words are a hiss–the venom Hugo so desperately needed back at the apartment finally secretes. Self-pity collapses under rage, a stranger amongst Hugo’s routine emotions.

How many times in a day can a dog be kicked before it bites back?

Hugo opens his mouth to ask the question, but pauses when he sees two sets of eyes fixed on his hand. On his fingers curling around the scissors left near the edge of Harriett’s desk.

He freezes. Then smiles. Too eagerly.

The scissors clang back onto the desk.

Eyes back on the soap stains, Hugo mumbles, “So what now?”

Brian’s expression changes—an imitation of empathy replacing the hard plastic cheese. It’s time to level with this poor, jobless slob. Draw him close. Kiss his clammy forehead.

“You’ll have time to gather your things, then you’ll be required to turn over identified company property—phone, laptop, ID badge. Then someone from our transition team will see you out.”

And that’s it. The duo sits almost frozen as Hugo stands and leaves.

+++

Somewhere below the East River, the clickity-clack of the train lulls Hugo to sleep. Being able to shut down anywhere, at any time, is one of his many useless talents. Backseat, crowded bus—doesn’t matter.

But it’s a shallow sleep—the underground orchestra still audible. Brakes screeching, automated voice announcing stops, air compressing as the train surges between stations.

It’s also a good state for sensing when something’s off. But after a morning like this, it takes a blood-curdling scream to pull him fully out of it.

Eyes blinking against the soul-sucking halogens, Hugo scans the scene.

He doesn’t have to look far.

At the far end of the car, a disheveled man swings from the overhead rail. Beneath him, a family—mother, father, two small children—cowers on a bench.

For the everyday commuter, this is as exciting as a farmer spotting a coyote.

But it hits different today. Hugo, a man without a home, job, or country, riding the Q train to nowhere, has nothing to lose.

Or maybe he’s experienced enough bullying for one day.

Adrenaline percolating, Hugo stands. Before he can register it, he’s speed-walking toward the vagrant, silently scorning the man’s filthy clothes, hemp-rope hair, bare feet.

With a good enough jump, I could tackle him.

The thought simultaneously tanks his courage and spikes fear. Because Hugo isn’t that guy. Never was. But the broken loser visual is too strong. How many times can a person be kicked in one day before they kick back? Discarded by every institution that mattered less than twenty-four hours ago, fed up with the fatigue of fear and pacification, Hugo decides whatever happens will be worth it.

Hugo inches closer. The vagrant still doesn’t see him. Hugo clears his throat. Nothing—the man’s too busy shoving his bare foot into the father’s face. And laughing. A hoarse, phlegmy cackle.

“Hey, buddy, maybe cool it.”

The family turns to Hugo—but the vagrant’s still unaware.

“HEY, ASSHOLE.”

This time the vagrant hears him. Slowly, he turns.

At first, surprise, maybe even fear? But a smile snuffs out both. Teeth like raisins framed by flaking bark lips. The man’s bloodshot eyes widen—thunderheads gathering.

Then he screams—and lunges.

The family scatters, crouched low, the car door slamming shut just as the vagrant snatches Hugo’s collar.

Still screaming, inches away, the smell from his rotten lungs suffocates Hugo’s senses. The brakes shriek, sending both men tumbling—a pretzel twist of limbs—the vagrant on top.

A sandpaper hand clamps Hugo’s neck. Hugo claws at it, but the lights are already dimming. The vagrant’s other hand slips out of sight, reaching for something in his waistband.

Hugo’s ready to submit. Just let go. Will it be cold steel to his belly? A muzzle to the temple? He closes his eyes, life flashing by in a dull reel—mediocrity, apprehension, indifference—with one question repeating:

Did you really need to be the hero?

Again, that acidic burn of defiance. Throat swollen, eyes watering, Hugo bucks up and croaks, “Why can’t I be?”

With what little strength he has, he grabs the vagrant’s hidden hand and squeezes—wanting to pulverize bone, make someone else beg for clemency. Instead, the vagrant cackles again. Breath reeking of low tide and rot.

That’s enough.

A red shade drops. The roil of anger a full-blown calamity. Detached, Hugo watches as his thumb jams into the vagrant’s eye socket.

Blood. So much blood.

With his free hand, Hugo yanks the vagrant’s hidden arm one last time—and finally sees what he’s holding.

No blade. No gun.

A metallic sheet punched through with rows of zeroes and ones.

The halogens strobe as another presence settles in—less a sound than a mass. Heavy. Painful. Auras flash. The pain is agonizing.

Hugo tries to scream but his lungs are vacuum sealed.

The vagrant’s face evaporates into a billion pixels that fly through the now-missing roof. Before they’re gone, a voice barks:

“What a miserable way to fail.”

Words that echo forever, unmolested by the mass.

Then, like another switch is flipped, the pressure’s gone, and Hugo feels himself settle into a pool of warm liquid. Arms outstretched, bobbing and rolling with the ripples of water.

He wants to sit up but can’t. Tries to move his legs except they’re frozen.

Along the ceiling, a complex cabling system tucked into raceways lining the exposed trusses. One of the halogens flickers.

Then, a face.

Hugo’s insides constrict.

The vagrant—he’s back. Except, not really? Similar features, yes, but more polished. Neatly cropped beard, a swath of coiffed red hair.

“Made a go of it, lad. Can’t knock you for that,” the handsome twin says, scribbling something onto a clipboard.

Hugo tries to respond but only manages an offkey whine.

“Still after it, mate?” The man says with a laugh. “Save your strength. Unless you know something we don’t.”

From somewhere else in the room, another voice chimes in. Saintly, melodious.

“He’s defiant, Hooper, I’ll give you that.”

The vagrant – no, Hooper – furrows his brow. “Sure. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

The woman sucks her teeth. “The third trial broke him. Imagine what a fourth would look like?”

Hooper removes his glasses and frowns, enhancing the rivulets carved into his face. “Suppose we D-98 him? Chalk it up to critical malfunction? What’s the term Shumpert uses–cross-functional dissonance?”

The frustration lacquering Hooper’s words is hard to miss.

Hugo again tries to speak but this time spurts out a whistle, which only stops when the second face pops into view.

Allison.

Wait, Allison?

Allison’s twin smiles. Reaches down and touches his face. But, not with familiarity–a poke. Then a prod. Pushing hard near Hugo’s temple. The pain returns. A ball of fire that becomes unbearable.

This is Hell...I am in hell.

As soon as she removes her finger, so goes the pain.

“See that, David?”

Hooper peers over his glasses. “See what?”

“Watch.”

Again, she presses down. And again, fire and brimstone. A million bees stinging Hugo’s brain stem.

Hooper collapses back in his chair. Hands to his face, emitting something between a laugh and a moan. “The fucking core.”

“Mmm Hmm.”

“Can’t even blame the assembly for this gaff,” he whispers.

Shaking his head, Hooper swivels toward a monitor, clicks his mouse several times. “That’s it then. We can run a thousand sims and ultimately end up with the same outcome. Every. Single. Time.”

“Core process is core process.”

Hooper frowns at Allison.

She laughs. “You know what I mean.”

“Well then,” Hooper says, sliding down the chair. “Why waste any more time or money? DataTech’s wants this model out by second quarter. Can’t have one variant going postal after a few conflicts, can we?”

“I’m going to assume that’s rhetorical, David.”

Tossing the clipboard across the room, Hooper mutters, “Sixteen months down the tubes…How many for you? Fourteen? Twelve? Since last Christmas?”

Allison nods. Somberness clouding her eyes.

A crackle from the intercom interrupts. “David? Allison? If you’re interested, there's a cake on fourteen for Shumpert’s birthday. I think it’s from Delish.”

Hooper looks at Allison. Allison shrugs.

“I love their cakes,” Hooper whispers, grinning.

Allison nods. “So now...or after cake?”

A beat. Hooper bites his lip, nods. “Why wait?”

Allison reaches down again–this time, with both hands, a mother threatening to tickle a toddler into submission. Every instinct inside Hugo screams RUN! HIDE!

But obviously, he can’t.

Only this time, when Allison’s fingers press down in synchrony, there’s no pain. No fear either. Just subtle pressure on Hugo’s temples.

“Six, forty, nine. Ceasing XC-09, irreparable core malfunction.”

“Behavioral…”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Because I’m hungry. So let’s drop it down from three.”

The two share a glance. Allison giggles.

Hooper sighs. “We were so close, yeah?”

“Sure…but not really.”

Knowing she won't provide the sympathy he needs, Hooper shrugs it off. “Diagnostic run complete?”

Allison nods. “I love those cakes.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I hope Petra left some milk in the fridge.”

A laugh. A whir. A beep beep from the system signifying the shutdown is ready. Then two voices joining as one, an octave different, robotic in cadence.

“In...3-2-1…”