Temilade Oni wakes to the sounds of notifications rushing into her wristlet.

The chimes have been on the periphery of her dreams, barely interrupting. But now they’ve persisted long enough for her subconscious to take notice. And her brain has called the attention of her body, waking it to address the disturbance.

I thought I turned off this connection. She sits up and expands the display so that it fills the room.

It’s already morning, but she doesn’t want get out of bed. To do what, exactly? She’s been out of a job for six months now and her online business has not been worth the naira she spent setting it up. Her rent’s due date has been creeping closer, and she’s had half a mind to flee to her Subcity village.

She tries to remember what she was doing before she slept, but it takes more effort than necessary. Like there's a blockade in her memory. A barrier she can't go past.

She’s logging into her virtual Club now, trying to pinpoint the source of the notifications. It’s probably some clown trying to sell her properties worth millions for a very affordable fee. Or those new job information packages she subscribed to. She’d be turning those off right now.

She locates the origin of the notifications. It's a post she made around 2am, at the same time she was in dreamland.

 

How?

She pulls the post closer and others fall into the background. It’s a business post, short and precise, with a few catchy words and even some… humor?

 

Temilade hasn’t one funny bone in her body. How could she have constructed a sales pitch like this?

She suspects a hacker and moves to contact Support. But then her eyes flick to the comments and the avatars crowding there. They’re asking her the price of her products and how soon she can deliver.

Some are even laughing, saying things like Where has this product been all my life? and Didn’t know you’re this funny.

How?

Is this some kind of game?

She duplicates her avatar, then walks up to them to reply to their comments, only to see that she already has. Minutes ago. She’d dropped her credit details and informed them they’d get the product at their doorstep two hours after they pay… and…

…a different kind of chime, soft and low, from her wristlet.

Her account has been funded. Before her eyes, the figures double. She holds off from complaining to Support. She paces her tiny room pondering the fact that people are actually paying for what she’s selling.

For a moment, she forgets that this isn’t her doing and that some stranger is on the other side of her account. She almost doesn’t care, because her wristlet is still chiming with that soft sweet sound of money and all is right in the world.

From instinct – as though she's repeated this same action before – she walks to the window, teases the curtain apart and peeks, to see if someone outside is watching. But her apartment is on the 24th story of her building and the only things staring back are the other silent high-rises and the sun swelling over the horizon.

She goes to her door and looks through her peephole. There isn’t anyone there.
It doesn’t stop her from feeling watched, though. Like… someone is testing her, to see how she'd react?

Who could this be? And how did they manage to get these people interested in buying her virtual fishing machines?

Since Surface is several feet above ground and safe from risen waters, people don’t get the pleasure of engaging in the outdoor activity of fishing anymore. So if you are rich enough to install swimming pools, you plug these fishing lines into the water and it simulates a pond, complete with amphibians and the occasional reptile swimming around. Some bougie-ass tech for some bougie-ass folks.

Temilade’s online friend had convinced her that the playthings would sell like hot cakes, so she had created a fake account to try.

It had been three weeks and she hadn’t made a single kobo.

Temilade checks again, and the queue is expanding. Her wristlet has been chiming nonstop and she begins to panic, afraid to check how much is in there.

A thought flashes through her mind and she rushes to her wardrobe, pulls out a backpack and dumps clothes into it. She ties her hair into a bun and flies around her small apartment, grabbing one item after the other.

The whole business thing was an experiment. A scam. She wasn’t stupid enough to actually sell fancy fishing hooks.

She had opened the account to see if anyone would be interested, so she could make some quick bucks and shut it down. When no one showed interest, she had forgotten the whole thing – until this morning.

There is no way she can send this product to all these people in less than two hours. But two hours is enough time for her to get into a train and disappear.

When she steps out of her building and into the bustling street, she feels eyes on her. People with purple skins and cartoon faces. Avatars. A fruit seller abandons his wares and starts following her.

She breaks into a run, and the whole street trails behind her.

Is she supposed to run? someone asks.

Suddenly, Temilade freezes on the spot even though she desperately wants to keep moving. As though something has been switched off within her.

An unnaturally tall woman in a dark suit and a tight smile steps out of the crowd saying, "Sorry about that, everyone. It seems Character 43 has just become self-aware. Happens from time to time in Zen Games, but we'll edit her story and get her fixed in a heartbeat.”