Subscription Shoes
Man negotiates with shoe.
The shoelaces would not yield.
He stood over his shoes in the grey pre-dawn of his apartment and watched it smugly refuse to allow him to wear them. The lace had actuators that remained steadfastly closed. A small amber status light pulsed on the heel.
“Subscription lapsed,” the shoe, with the fancy new voice-mode, said.
It was meant to be warm, presumably engineered by matcha-sipping product managers in some dingy cyber basement.
“Please renew your Run Lite monthly subscription.” It chirped officiously.
The subscription for twenty dollars a month. Twenty fucking dollars.
He had paid it diligently for eighteen months. To be fair, in return, the shoes had been extraordinary. The AI-assisted midsole pressure mapping that contoured in real time to his running gait, a haptic buzz to encourage and assist, and a voice mode that basically now meant his shoe was his coach.
These shoes knew him better than most people. T
The shoelaces were now locked, however, and an amber light pulsed on the shoe. The voice said again, annoyingly calm: “Your subscription lapsed two days ago.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll renew it later today. Just let me run.”
Was he really negotiating with a shoe?
“I’m unable to.”
“I’ve paid regularly for eighteen months. One extra day is all I’m asking.”
The shoe pretended to process this. And then —
“Would you like me to read the relevant portion of the Terms and Conditions you agreed to at purchase?”
It sent him over the edge. He crouched, grabbed the laces, and tugged violently at them.
They did not move an inch.
He stood up and kicked the shoe. It slid sideways on the tile with a small, sad sound.
“Mishandling of equipment,” the shoe said from the floor, “may result in permanent account suspension.”
“Fuck you.”
No longer interested in talking to the shoe, he walked to the kitchen and pulled out a pair of scissors from the drawer. He started cutting through the mechanism that prevented the lace from opening.
“You’ll be permanently blocked from the Run Lite ecosystem,” the shoe squealed, volume rising, as if in alarm.
As he continued to cut through, it seemed to be in a mood to negotiate.
“I can offer you a reduced subscription price. Fifty percent off at ten dollars a month for a yearly plan.”
He cut through the lace. The actuators released. The shoe opened up in meek surrender.
He sat on the floor and put them on. The amber light turned a steady, unblinking dark red. He’d been excommunicated by the shoe.
“You are banned from Run Lite services,” the shoe said. “You’ll not receive dynamic tracking, run assist, or cushioning variance anymore.”
He tied the shorter laces and walked out of the apartment.
“I guess I’ll just run then,” he said.
[Inspired by the door scene in Philip.K.Dick’s Ubik.]
Could be Worse,
Tyag
This future is so eerily true and plausible
Not sure if you have read Cory Doctorow’s Radicalized - a collection of 4 short stories. The first story is that of fixing a broken toaster that may turn to be illegal through the way of immigration and capitalism
Hahaha, loved it!
Reads like a Black Mirror trailer ep. Only in that, the shoe probably has concealed blades that are deployed at the time of breach and saw the man's foot off at the ankle.