Savia dragged Lerrin across the fire escape, his legs rubbery. The colossal, shimmering countdown in the sky pulsed red, its digits already ticking down from 12:00:00. The synthetic drone still vibrated in the asphalt. “Twelve hours,” Savia muttered, her face grim beneath the flickering neon of the distant billboard towers. “Twelve hours until every mind in Breskad becomes a tethering point.” She hauled him over a low wall, vaulting down into an alley behind the hospice. Pungent woodsmoke and ozone hung in the dead space. Lerrin coughed, phlegm catching deep behind his ribs. “We have to stop it. We have to kill the tally.” He knew the penalty for dead feeds—the biological burn of his untreated cellular rot. “It’ll tear me apart, Savia. Worse than earlier.” “No kidding, Galt. Think they’ll give you a ‘Most Punished Streamer’ achievement?” Her voice was laced with sarcasm, but her grip on his arm was firm, almost protective. “We need to do the most mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly boring thing possible. Something that makes watching paint dry look like high drama.” They moved through the city’s shadowed underbelly, Lerrin leaning heavily on Savia. His skin felt paper-thin, his vision blurring at the edges. The tower beacons cast sickly orange squares across the wet pavement, every signpost ready to turn receiver. “The Archives,” he rasped, an idea sparking through the haze of his deterioration. “The Municipal Records Annex on Thallon Street. Miles of forgotten tax codes. Zoning ordinances. Inter-departmental memos on waste disposal regulations from the 2900s.” Savia squinted through the gloom, grinning without warmth. “Brilliant. Absolutely mind-numbing. If we can’t make them leave, we’ll make them wish they had.” Breaking into the Municipal Records Annex was less a daring heist and more a clumsy stumble through an abandoned service entrance. The hasp broke off with a quick twist of her pry tool. Rows of gray metal drawers stretched into the cavernous cellar beneath a ceiling of sweating ductwork, smelling of dry rot and mold. The amber luminescence hovering over his retinas carved a slit through the shadows. “Alright, Galt. Find the driest, most impenetrable tome you can. Make it sing,” Savia whispered, handing him a small, battered cam-rig. She moved ahead, navigating the labyrinth of forgotten data, her movements fluid despite the encroaching shadows. A night guard slumped over a humming CRT monitor. Savia gestured for Lerrin to stay low, then silently disabled the main circuit breaker. The fixture died, leaving only street lamp yellow angling through high frosted grates and the heads-up display floating before Lerrin. “Okay, now,” Savia urged, her voice low. “Before the backup generators kick in. Pick a drawer unit. Any stack.” Lerrin fumbled in the dark, his fingers brushing against cold steel. He pulled open a random drawer. Inside, neat rows of yellowed folders. He snatched one titled ‘Revised Sub-Sector 7B Water Main Infrastructure Cost Allocations, Q3-2947.’ Perfect. He switched on the cam-rig, the tiny lens a single, unblinking eye. “[Live Feed Initiated: 127,000 Concurrent Witnesses],” the System voice droned in his head. Lerrin's torso locked, agony spiking through his spinal canal. He clenched his molars, forcing saliva down a parched throat. This ran opposite to survival. He had to shed spectators. “Citizens of Breskad,” he began, his voice hoarse, attempting to inject a gravitas he didn’t feel into the mundane text. “You are tuned into… a special public service notice. Tonight, we delve into the thrilling world of… municipal infrastructure.” He cleared his throat, the sound scratchy. “*Section 4.1.7, Sub-Clause Beta: The allocation of overhead expenditures for the replacement of tertiary feeder lines within the Krevnik-Valla drainage basin, specifically concerning the 0.03% budgetary variance attributed to unforeseen geological shifts in the sub-strata composition near the Old Galtwick Siphoning Station…*” Savia, crouched behind a row of metal shelves, pressed a knuckles-first fist against her lip. The irony wasn’t lost on her. He kept going, his voice growing stronger, a strange rhythm emerging from the bureaucratic jargon. He paused to flip a page, his fingers surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his hands. He could feel the pain in his bones, a dull ache, but it was… static. Not worsening. “[Metrics Slumping. 119,000 Linked Observers.]” “[Metrics Slumping. 105,000 Linked Observers.]” Lerrin drew a fuller breath through his nostrils. It was working. The pain in his chest, though present, wasn’t escalating. He doubled down, choosing his words with surgical precision, drawing out every syllable of every obscure term. He found another folder: ‘By-Laws Pertaining to Public Park Bench Material Procurement, Phase IV, Item 6: Acceptable wood varnishes and anti-graffiti coatings.’ He launched into it with renewed vigor. “[Metrics Slumping. 87,000 Linked Observers.]” He gestured grandly at the ranks of iron lockers, mimicking an impassioned city clerk. He mimicked a severe-looking bureaucrat, then a bewildered citizen, all while rattling off regulations on optimal bolt sizes for playground equipment. The interface flared violet, its mechanical voice rising in pitch. “[Engagement Spike: Humor Tag Applied. New Category: Avant-Garde Performance Art. Trending Topic: Existential Bureaucracy Commentary.]” Lerrin froze, his mouth agape mid-sentence about the optimal grit for sidewalk abrasives. Savia stared across the iron shelf partition, jaw dropping. The numbers began to climb again, slowly at first, then with an alarming speed. “[Audience Stabilized. 150,000 Linked Observers.]” “[Traffic Surge: 200,000 Linked Observers.]” “[Spite Cohort Aggregated: 300,000 Linked Observers.]” Lerrin recoiled, letting the paper slips spill over his boots. “No. No, it can’t be. I was… I was trying to be boring!” “The feed doesn't care about your intentions, Galt,” Savia said, flat and quiet. “It cares about *engagement*. And it just decided that watching you slowly die while reading about park benches is the funniest damn thing it’s seen all week.” The air around them grew heavy, thick with an unseen pressure. The fluorescent emergency tubes hummed to life, washing the concrete floor in pallid yellow. A tar-like discharge leaked from beneath the bottom drawer he had rifled, creeping across the scuffed tiles. It pulsed faintly, like a sluggish, unseen heart. “[Mandatory Collaboration Initiative. Top Tier Streamer Detected. Prepare for Integration.]” The words boomed not just in Lerrin’s mind, but from the very structure of the building. A low groan vibrated through the floor. A crack appeared in the concrete lobby ceiling above them, widening with terrifying speed, dust and debris raining down. Then, with a sound like tearing flesh and splintering bone, a colossal, multi-limbed abomination, all glistening muscle and writhing tentacles, tore through the floorboards, its massive, unblinking eyes fixing on Lerrin.

Hate-Watching