Dating™: AmorTek Protocol

The Feminine Hivemind™ had spoken:

“Make him come to you,” said Cadet X44. 
Her ocular implant glinted as she referenced Tactic #7: You’re a Neutral Country Until He Sends a Diplomatic Car. 

“Stand him up,” said Cadet A12, a devout follower of The Gospel of Scarcity Illusion.
I scowled.exe 

[ERROR]: SOCIAL COMPLIANCE MODUAL CORRUPTED

In principle, I thought effort should be equal from both parties, but my feet itched to cross town lines so I was more willing to make my own moves. 

[LOGIC INPUT]: If we all commute 90 minutes to work, why is 18 suddenly “too far”?
[SOCIAL PROTOCOL OVERRIDE]: Because Love™ is a transactional hellscape, dummy. 



The Hivemind™ wasn’t wrong, exactly, it had data. 

The Cadets were High-Value Players, verified by their status, grace, enviable Bodies™, and ability to summon free drinks like witchy little drones.

Their doctrine was clear: A target’s worth = Genetic Rating x Social Capital ÷ Emotional Labour + Commute Time. 

The elevator chimed. 
A janitorial bot with Cadet R76’s old voice module rolled past.

“ERROR: Joy not founddddddddd,” it stuttered. 

I could comply with Hivemind™’ Social Code Section 14: Feigned Disinterest as Power Currency, but my OS™ flagged it as unnecessary. 
Still, I understood that under the surface of the Cadet’s demands was a test of loyalty guised as ‘Maintaining DefCon 3 Desirability at All Times’.


Re-opening his profile tab, my GutFeel™ 2.0 pinged a reminder: 
[TARGET ACQUIRED]: HOT SPECIMEN, GENETIC FLAG: GOOD NOSE

I’d un-installed Hivemind™’s Weakness Prevention Services. 
I didn’t consider myself ‘weak’ for starters and had no desire to rely on digital display reminders for next moves. 

No “DON’T TEXT FIRST” reminders or Cry Filters for strategic dewy eyes.

I truly trusted my GutFeel™ 2.0. 

It had proven to be the one system even AmorTek couldn’t patch. 

It was why I walked into every room like I’d already won and why I didn’t flinch when my neural Heads-Up-Display panel flashed:

[WARNING]: HEART RATE DEVIATION


Glitch?  Maybe. 

Weakness? Fuck no.

I also hadn’t invested 5.3 hours and $42 in product for my Human Disguise™ (soft skin protocol Steps 3-8, outfit from the ‘Casually Devastating’ pack) for nothing. 


The dating portion of my target’s profile had been a masterpiece of  'Low-Effort Dominance'. 

Photos: “I’m carved from stone but also approachable, like a museum you can lick!”

Bio: “Discretion required” + social media handle included!

Translation: “I’m minorly famous or possibly a scammer - either way, my lawyer said to say this."

He’d answered the prompts like he was doing us the favour, like he knew his handsomeness (tall + dark, if you will) did the heavy lifting, allowing for short, effortless replies. 

Cocky Energy, my Achilles’ heel. 

Well, only when valid. 

And for whatever reason, my GutFeel™ 2.0 insisted his was valid. 



Usually when I saw Social Media handles on profiles I ignored them, an Aquarius Mode™ instinct to be Anti, I’m sure. Occasionally, if someone really intrigued me, I’d skim their profile like a visitor flipping through a postcard rack. I'd scroll enough to catch the colours on the surface, never dug for exes or clues in the captions. My personal Moral Accord™ (v.3) strictly prohibited deep dives before meeting irl anyway. Violation resulted in excessive daydreaming and/or the unbearable weight of knowing someone’s stance on condiment hierarchy before hearing their voice. 
I’d always recognised there was something sacred about leaving room for discovery and letting a person unfold in real time, in real light. Being a Cadet had turned intimacy into a corporate buffet: take what you want (really: what AmorTek wants, within approved parameters), discard the rest. 
But I preferred the slow burn of a shared Hand-Rolled Joint™ and the build up of Held Eye Contact™, the way real truth unfurls like layers, not pixels.
I was only half cyborg, after all. 

There were earth chemicals left in me still, enough to crave the alchemy of human romance.

That silly little thing that supposedly made human experience worthwhile. 



When I’d anti-stalked this man’s social media page, one scroll confirmed: 

He’s a Person Who Gets Photographed Near Statues.

A man who understands his face and body are public utility. 

[ATTRACTION ALERT!] popped up in my HUD just thinking about it. 

[SYSTEM NOTE]: this unit rarely initiates swoon.exe

[SUGGESTED ACTION]: DON’T BE PETTY!



The Hivemind™’s strategy (“Starve the Beast until he transfers you Apology Roses™”) felt… counterintuitive.exe. 

Why weaponise indifference toward a man who’d already passed the “Occupation Verification” screening?
My HUD flashed again: CADET K233 TERMINATED for OXYTOCIN ABUSE


This made me pause.


I negotiated against my better judgment and, to appease my fellow Cadets, sent him a text: 

“Know any bars closer to me?”
Subtext: Prove you’ll tolerate my nonsense



He fired back 3 options in 12 seconds - a clear violation of The Hivemind™ Penal Code 12.B. 

The Hivemind™ cheered.raw: 

“VICTORY! HIS EAGERNESS HAS BEEN QUANTIFIED!” 



Cadet Y19 always preached Tactic#4: ‘Make Him Invest First’.

I did nothing once, seeing if I could get away with it. 

He didn’t.
Invest first, that is. 

The Hivemind™ post-mortem analysis? “INSUFFICIENT DATA”. 

Like I’d been the glitch in their perfect system.

I muted incoming Hivemind™ notifications. 

Taking their advice had cost me 4.7 weeks in Emotional Recalibration.

I was not doing that again.



What the Cadets didn’t know was that I’d already decided to meet at his first suggestion. 
The Map App™ reported it was fastest to get to, but that wasn’t why I’d chosen it. 
They’d argued he probably only picked spots near his place to streamline the bang. 
The cosmic joke? I’d already pre-gamed Enthusiastic Consent™. 
Glamour Magic™ was not real magic, but its effects might as well be, even I could admit that. 
And, I was the curator of my Human Disguise™ after all.
- Hair: ‘Effortless Chaos’
- Scent profile: ‘Mystery You Want to Solve’
- Lips: ‘Bite Me’ Red’
 It was a combo that catalysed a confidence so potent, it bordered on Main-Character Delusion. 
I was going to do this for the plot, regardless. 



Our meet-cute.exe went off with expected precision.

Lights dimmed on cue, lessor suitors parted like the Red Sea and there he stood: a man accustomed to his own gravitational pull. 
A man who’d spent years being looked at, and yet, I now gave him a reason to look back.

[SYSTEM NOTE]: Equal Playing Field Achieved



He was polished pedigree living like a stunt double - an actor’s poise and surgeon’s steadiness combined with rough hands, hooped ears and leather jacket. 
I was handcrafted soft curves and tech board build, ample bust visible under an oversized emerald green men's blazer.
Him: clean shaven. 
Me: a swirl of surviving chemicals raging against the machine. 

We volleyed stories like true sportsmen, each anecdote a calculated reveal. 
His voice dipped and leaned in when amused, a low hum that my HUD flagged as 
[FREQUENCY]: DANGEROUSLY CHARMING. 


He flexed his hand open and closed. 

I felt my heart rate sync with the rhythm.

I mirrored the movement back.

“You’re staring,” he said, taking a swig of his drink.

“You’re counting in your head,” I shot back. 
A smirk.
“Guilty. A Rehab habit, I burned my palms doing a movie.”
He opened them again as an offering.

I traced his lines with my finger.

[WARNING]: PROXIMITY ALERT
I ignored it.

His thumb grazed my wrist, a breach of the Hivemind™ Professional Distance Act. 

I should have pulled away but instead let my knees brush his, a silent counterstrike. 


The chemistry wasn’t fireworks, it was firmware updates, subtle until my system got the signal to reboot at higher frequencies. 


Then, the rascal’s gambit: “Come back to my place for the best Manhattan of your life. No moves, no murder, scout’s honour”. 

I initiated Hivemind™ Penal Code 6.C’s Self-Defense.exe. 

“I’ll come,” I said, “ But if you attempt either, the moves or the murder…I can handle myself”. 

His pupils dilated, sensing the shift in my energy.

“I believe that” he assured, voice thick with the thrill of a man who lived for high-stakes opportunities.



The drive to his place was short, a few blocks from the bar and across from the flickering neon sign of an infamous movie studio. The air between us sparked with unspent charge, like a touchscreen begging for contact. The Cadet’s previous warnings pinged in my periphery:

[ALERT]: HIGH FUCKBOI PROBABILITY
[REMINDER]: LEVERAGE REQUIRED FOR EARLY EXIT


He placed his left arm on my car’s center console, close enough that my olfactory sensors picked up notes of something thick and expensive mixed with the leather of his jacket. 
At stops, he leaned his whole body toward me, signalling where to turn next.

I wondered how his hands would feel tracing my collarbone. 

[SYSTEM OVERRIDE]: REBOOT

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“You’re distracting.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth. 

The traffic light above us buzzed, casting his face in red and shadow.
My HUD flickered:
[WARNING]: HEART RATE DEVIATION
[SUGGESTED ACTION]: RETREAT

I didn’t. 

He was close enough that I caught the heat of his breath, beer and mint, before a studio security drone blared overhead, spotlight slicing between us.
“Unauthorised loitering,” it voiced over a cheap speaker, “Be on your way.”

We backed off, laughing, the moment hanging like smoke, unfinished. 



His apartment passed inspection:

- Plants: suspiciously alive (basil by the kitchen sink)
- Lighting: dimmable and flattering
- Music: Latin complimented with Mezcal
- Decor: sentimental souvenirs from film shoots (think: Uzbek cat pillows)



We talked. 
Not the scripted Hivemind™ Target Engagement crap I was supposed to be running. 

Real words that didn’t rely on algorithms to matter.

We collaborated. 
His hands sketched ideas in the air between us.

At one point I Mused™ (patent #US6969.420: Inspiration Extraction Software) so hard he scribbled something down in his journal.

“That’s a deep one,” he admitted. 

The banter flirted with innuendo, but never breached Code Red: Horny Panic. 

Not because I didn’t want to, but because the talking was better.
We dissected the family topic like Archaeologists™ and skirted traumas with the grace of people who knew that sometimes scars still twinged. We went over personal beliefs and exchanged Accents (his French™ for my Southern Belle™) until his laugh rewired something in my chest. 

When he finally yawned a few hours later (Zoom meeting at dawn, allegedly), I demanded hydration like a diva exiting stage left. He handed me a reverse osmosis filtered biodegradable bottle to go, thumb lingering on mine, a deliberate breach of Non-Mission Completion Departure Protocol. 

As he walked me to my car, he hovered behind at a respectable British distance until the twirl. 



The Twirl (see: Rom-Com Tactics for Dummies, Ch. 5). 



Our faces found each other on rotation. 

His kiss was software patching a bug I didn’t know I had - a hotfix to my romantic cynicism. 

Sweet. Soft. 

A system notification flashed:
 REASSESSING DATA… EVIDENCE OF GENUINE INTEREST DETECTED 

I turned off my HUD.



Later, he’d call it “lovely”. 

The kiss. 

It’s rare but sometimes I gift myself to people in moments.
When the exchange of interest is mutual and pure and appreciative and fervent.
That’s what that kiss was.
X

I’ll call it Plot Twist™ because I even admitted I wanted another one. 
Who was I?

The last Cadet who’d dare to ask that question had been repurposed as a Voice Assistant™ in a budget smart fridge. 

I thought of the Hivemind™ floor’s janitorial bot, fitted with former Cadet R76’s voice module.

And poor Cadet K233.

And so many others. 



His “look forward to it” hangs between us now. 

Not a promise, not a plea, just a door left ajar. 

Forward, the only direction.


The next morning, my tracker buzzed with a Hivemind™ audit request.
I Ignored it, running a fingertip along my bottom lip, still humming with the memory of his. 

Cadet X44 materialised on my HUD, her silhouette blocking the light. 

“So,” she said, whisper sharp enough to flay synth-skin, “You saw him?”

Her tone suggested my answer had potentially the same weight as a war crime, but beneath the judgment was still pride. Like she’d trained a wolf to hunt only to learn it started a book club instead. 

“I did,” I said. 

Cadet A12 popped up on the opposite side of the screen, eyes glittering with predatory data collection. 

“And?”

I stood and walked us all over to room's only window.
The city below pulsed with targets, marks, Joes and Johns, each a mission waiting to be exploited. 

“And…he served me a lovely mezcal.”

Lovely - his word, now mine.
A tiny rebellion.
The silence between us crackled with static, like a frozen commerce screen.
Cadet X44’s pen snapped, “That’s it?”, an eyelid twitched.
Cadet A12’s smile curdled, “No leverage secured?”

“Plenty,” I assured, “But I’m repurposing assets.”

Translation: your algorithms can’t quantify my choices ladies.

“That’s not a KPI.”

Cadet X44 inhaled sharply, “He probably deployed Phase 1 Narcissist™ Love-Bombing™—”

“Or, maybe,” I interrupted, “We’re both just two characters enjoying each other as people. Chemically prone people…”
Silence again. 

The phrase ‘enjoying each other' hung in the air, unquantifiable by Hivemind™ standards. 
Somewhere, a server farm groaned in protest. 

Cadet A12’s manicured finger jabbed at me through the display screen, “You’ve been docked 21 Social Capital Points™ for Unsanctioned Optimism and Mission Drift.”

I turned from the window, done with the debriefing.
“Worth it,” I said, ready to welcome the consequences of being a glitch in a world that never seemed to learn from, but still continuously recycled its “defects”.

I stepped forward, the only direction that mattered. 

What a good day to crash the system.