The Rash

Five days to launch and all Alice could think about was the pink rash that had formed on her right arm. There was a press event at one tomorrow afternoon but, Jesus, what the hell was it? Just above the elbow on the back of her forearm, a fat pink line. It didn’t sting or anything but it was a nuisance and, let’s be honest, it can’t have looked particularly attractive. Especially now the weather was getting hotter and she would start wearing dresses. She turned her arm over to get a better look, straining the muscles in her shoulder and involuntarily opening her mouth just a bit. Christ, bloody annoying to have something like that come up now, just as the days were getting longer. She was going to wear that nice short-sleeve top for the event tomorrow but would now need a jacket as well. Those PR things are always so sticky and she knew the jacket would just make her sweat, especially when she would have to field questions from mental paranoids about dangers to human nature. And then all that hand-shaking afterwards with the knowledge that her palms were moist and she would probably smell a bit. Terrible, as if the press needed anything else to pounce on. The Sweaty Tech Witch.

She didn’t really understand the need for another PR meeting, it was only for the company to defend themselves against needless worries and in her opinion it came across as weak. All that crap about mind control and intrusion of human boundaries. It’s only a new sensor and, Christ, if they hadn’t developed it Apple would have. Then we’d be using our eyes to sweep across the pages and download useless aps. This way there was so much more we could do, the release titles were a great example of that. In her opinion the developers had done an amazing job integrating her technology in innovative ways, the first time she played the FPS she even surprised herself how smoothly the sensor detected minute eye movements. With the contraction of her iris the program was able to adapt and shift the game-play accordingly, and the resulting papillary response encouraged the narrative to increase the intensity of its content. As she blew a hole through the head of a Nazi the personal tailoring of the game’s action to her own mental state made her heart beat faster and, if she was honest, she had uncrossed her legs and pressed herself forward and down, just slightly, on the leather board-room chair.

Fuck, this rash was growing, she was sure of it, in the past five minutes alone no less. The phone started ringing and she used her left hand to pick it up, keeping focus on the back of her right forearm. It was her PA, he wanted to know what she would like for lunch tomorrow as the conference centre was booking the meals from the catering service in advance. Chicken was fine. She rested the phone between her shoulder and ear and moved her left hand to the rash. Roast potatoes were fine as well. Her fingers lingered above the pink blotch and she told her PA that yes she would be drinking wine and yes she was planning on getting a taxi home. She touched the rash with the tip of her forefinger. It was fine, she didn’t want him to give her a lift home, she was happy to get a taxi. She pressed the finger into the skin and it slowly eased into her arm, the surface opening around her nail and allowing her to push further, right down to the knuckle. Her PA wanted to know if she was sure about the lunch, as once he’d booked it she would be unable to change her mind. She worked her finger further into her arm and, with a bit of effort, was eventually able to slide a second finger in also. She uncrossed her legs and felt the cold phone against her neck. Yes, it was absolutely fine.