The device was a flat, black slab of pure fucking arrogance. It sat in Ben’s palm, sleek and smug, a ghost of his own furious reflection staring back from its dark glass. It had been silent for a full minute, and he’d begun to feel a flicker of victory, when it suddenly chimed—a bright, condescending little trill that made the muscle in his jaw twitch.

“Goddamn idiot lights,” he growled at it, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of the living room.

He’d been trying to send a message. A simple task. Words on a screen. In his day, you sent a telegram. A man took it down, you paid him, it was done. This… this was a labyrinth of icons that meant nothing, a keyboard smaller than a postage stamp that turned his thick, calloused fingers into clumsy, useless clubs. He’d meant to type “On my way” He had no idea what he’d actually sent.

You were watching him from the armchair, curled up with a book you weren’t reading. He could feel your gaze on him, a warm, patient weight. It was the only reason he hadn’t pitched the fucking thing through the window yet.

“This piece of shit,” he muttered, stabbing at the screen. It lit up again, a cheerful, blinding white. “Who the hell needs this many… faces? It’s a phone. For calling.”

You uncurled yourself, the book whispering shut. You padded over, barefoot on the rug, and sat beside him on the sofa. The cushion dipped with your weight, tilting him slightly toward you. He didn’t look up, keeping his glare fixed on the offending device.

You reached over, fingers brushing his as you took the phone. “See?” you said, voice soft. You tapped the screen. “You hit this. For the microphone.”

He grunted, watching your hands. They moved with an easy, innate fluency that felt like a foreign language. “A microphone. For a phone. Of course. Why talk when you can whisper to a machine?”

You held the phone up between you, your expression a mix of amusement and encouragement. The little red recording icon pulsed like a malevolent eye. He felt profoundly stupid. He’d faced down entire divisions of Nazis. He’d survived decades in a Russian metal box. But this… this made him feel ancient, a dinosaur staring at a meteor.

He leaned in, his voice a graveled command into the sleek little slab. “Tell her I’m on my way. Five minutes.”

The phone listened. A string of text appeared on the screen, perfectly capturing his words. A minor miracle. Then you tapped again. His own voice, gruff and immediate, played back into the quiet room: “Tell her I’m on my way. Five minutes”

He stared. “What in the absolute hell was that?”

“A voice text,” you said, a smile playing on your lips. “You just sent it.”

“I sent my… my actual voice? Through the air?” The concept was both terrifying and absurd. “What if I’d been taking a piss? What if I’d coughed? You just send your… your unedited goddamn self to people now?”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎