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A presence tailor in a neon city threads deliberate imperfections into social tech to make room for real connection. After a risky live intervention at a festival, she contends with audits, imitators, and moral pressure while teaching neighbors to choose awkwardness over polish.
The shop sat on a crooked slice of alley where neon dripped like paint off the signs and the rain tasted faintly of algae and citrus. Juno Sable worked under a lamp that hummed in three frequencies, its light catching a thousand filaments and little metal hooks like constellations. The air smelled of solder and sea-broth dumplings from the stall two doors down; sometimes she used the vendor’s steam to soften seals when she needed warmth without turning on the heater. The shop's name, stitched in battered brass above the door, read Stitchwell — Arik’s joke, but customers called it whatever they liked. The stool Juno favored was dented on the left, where she braced a knee and leaned over a client’s overlay more nights than she could count.
A small repair droid sat on the bench with her—Mr. Snips, with a tendency to knit loose change into little scarves when not polishing lenses. He clicked his needle-like actuators and dropped a coin-scarf into a tray, then chimed a brazen little chirp that sounded suspiciously like pride. Juno pretended not to be amused.
“You're hoarding spare change again,” she said, easing a filament into a micro-loom. Her hands smelled faintly of solder and citrus dumpling grease; she liked that combination and kept a small tin of kelp-sugar to chew on when circuits made her impatient.
Mr. Snips made a sound like an offended oven. The lamp above made a tiny protest. Outside, a courier drone sighed as it negotiated a gust of neon-scented drizzle; the alley's umbrellas shivered. Juno threaded a microfilament through a needle-antenna with the practiced flick of a seamstress, fingers nimble from years of manual work. When she set the filament it hummed with a soft resonance and the overlay’s test face settled into a neutral, waiting smile.
Arik’s voice came over the shop intercom, rough as felt. “You pacing the wire like a drummer, or are you finally finishing that charity of a companion?”
Juno snorted. “It’s not a charity. It’s a commission with an awkward clause.”
The intercom buzzing softened. Arik had a habit of picking his words like he picked lint off a jacket. “Awkward how?”
She set the needle down and rubbed the heel of her hand along a solder seam. “There’s an option on the spec sheet—Reciprocity Lock. It locks mutual surprise out. Compensation is obscene.”
Silence on his end, then a sigh. “Ah. The 'no friction' demand. Pays double and leaves you hollow.”
“There’s debt to pay,” she said, and the matter sounded like a coin dropped in a tin.