Hands and Eyes

Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer

It’s the hands and the eyes that give it away. They’re too quick, too exact. There’s a precision and surety there that ‘belie the tech’, as they say.

I wouldn’t say that there’s a war brewing but the division between the haves and have-nots is deeper now than it’s ever been. It was like in years past when people that could afford breast implants and liposuction and other kinds of body sculpting transformed themselves into something other than human. Something more that human.

It was the beginning of evolution being taken into our own hands.

The whole concept of growing slowly, generation after generation, was boring to us already. The attention span of the rich two percent of the human race demanded more and demanded it now.

So it happened. The leaps and bounds made technological leaps possible. There were people that refused to get implants but really, there were people that refused to get cel phones and email addresses as well back in the day.

Left behind. Job security went to the people with the drive and capability to handle the pressures of the employment and reaction time was a factor.

Demands became higher. America climbed up to the top of the tech and labour ladder again.

I am not one of those people that had enough money to be improved. I am here in the lobby of the lawyer’s building, fresh out of law school, top of my class, and I’m ready for work. I’m watching the receptionist sort through her papers looking for my appointment and I can see that even the secretary here is augmented.

Her hands move like insects through the papers. She finds my data and taps the page twice. Her hands stop moving and they’re as still and dead as statues while she pauses.

This is the part I hate the most. It’s only a second or so but it feels like thirty. They’re uploading my file and accessing the relevant parts of my file to precede me into the interview.

The eyes look straight ahead, a little crossed, and they don’t move. The only movement I can see on her is the pulse in her neck. It ticks twice before she looks up at me.

Perfect eyes look at me with none of the imperfections that usually give away us pure organics. I’m struck again and how the beauty of the human race lies in its diversity and how that diversity is disappearing. She’s looking at me with a tight smile and I have the uncomfortable feeling that I’m being scanned instead of merely regarded.

“They’ll see you in ten minutes. Have a seat”. She says.

I know I’ve already lost the job.

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