Disclaimer: This article is a work of science fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. It explores speculative concepts about AI, society, and human relationships within a fictional future.
The air in the yoga studio was thick with movement, a collective push-and-pull of breath, limbs stretching, muscles shuddering with effort. The instructor’s voice floated over the rhythmic inhales and exhales, guiding them deeper into their practice. Martha knelt near the edge of the room, her equipment laid out with quiet precision. Small, transparent receptacles lined with nano-filtration membranes stood open, waiting to capture the essence of the moment—sweat beading on foreheads, rolling down spines, dripping from trembling arms.
Then came the laughter.
Mirth rippled through the space as the class transitioned into a laughter meditation, a bizarre but effective emotional release. The sound was raw, infectious, weaving through the air like a wave. Some chuckled, some bellowed, some released an almost painful giggle that cracked like glass. And then, inevitably, tears followed. Martha moved carefully, collecting the shimmering drops from damp cheeks, blending them in with the salt of human effort. It was alchemy, a distillation of experience, and she bottled it with reverence.
Before she left the studio, she approached the participants one by one, transferring payment in Compute units directly into their accounts. A flick of her wrist, a confirmation pulse on their wearable chips. The blood of AI in exchange for the essence of humanity. Some laughed again as they accepted, some merely nodded. It was a fair deal. They knew what they were part of, and they knew the value of what they had given.
By the time she returned to her workshop, the world outside had begun its relentless hum again. The streets of her district were chaotic, patched together with fading remnants of the pre-automation age. Half of the shops were shuttered, their owners long since replaced by sleek AI storefronts where no human hands ever touched a product. She pulled her scarf tighter, ignoring the piercing stares from the drone patrols monitoring pedestrian movement, her bag of collected sweat and tears tucked securely against her side.
Andrew Hale’s order was already queued up on her workbench. A man of indulgence, he had discovered her craft almost by accident, commissioning his first piece as an ironic jest. But irony had turned to fascination, and now he was one of her most loyal customers. His girlfriend—fiancée now—was enamored with the concept, flaunting Martha’s pieces at every hyper-exclusive gathering she attended, whispering about their purity, their defiance of the synthetic.
This bag was different. It was not a quick commission, not something thrown together in a matter of days or weeks. This was the culmination of a year’s worth of work. For twelve months, she had collected the sweat and tears, refining them, concentrating their essence, ensuring they crystallized with the right texture, the right strength. She had monitored every step, ensuring purity, ensuring the bag would be more than just a symbol—it would be a masterpiece.
Martha had one Otis, a baseline necessity in this era. Everyone had one, some more advanced than others. Her Otis was well-functioning, a sleek and efficient model that moved with fluidity, managing the household chores, keeping the apartment in order, and ensuring everything outside her workshop remained seamless. But the workshop was off-limits. That was her space, her hands, her creation alone. Otis knew better than to enter.
Martha placed the bottles of crystallized human essence in the processing chamber, watching as the condensation formed intricate patterns on the reinforced glass. She retrieved a previous batch of solidified sweat, translucent sheets with an opalescent sheen, flexing them between her fingers before cutting them into thin panels that would later form the body of the bag. The nail clippings—collected over months from willing donors—would be next, arranged in fractal patterns under a layer of epoxy, like relics embedded in amber.
Her hands moved with a practiced efficiency, but her mind drifted.
She thought about the news reports. The relentless wave of automation had left entire communities in the dust, their skills made obsolete, their futures dissolved into a sea of digital inertia. The people outside the gated AI enclaves lived in a haze of uncertainty, scavenging for meaning in the gaps left behind by progress. And yet, the elite—Hale’s ilk—craved the authenticity she bottled, hoarded, and transformed. They surveilled her every movement, demanding proof that no machine had touched what they coveted. AI watched to ensure AI was not involved—not other AIs, not automated networks, only the unblinking, paranoid gaze of the hyper-wealthy ensuring their product remained human. The irony sickened her.
The resin set overnight, encasing the nail fragments in their frozen state of decay. She brushed her fingers over the cooling surface, feeling the ridges, the imperfections. Each piece was a testament to the human body, to effort, to the grotesque beauty of biology.
She imagined Andrew’s fiancée unwrapping the handbag at one of her dazzling events, the kind where humans pretended they were still at the center of their own world. She imagined the hush of awe, the murmurs of envy.
Martha wasn’t wealthy. She wasn’t powerful. But here, in her cluttered workshop, amid the scraps of sweat and sorrow, she was something more. She was irreplaceable.
And in this world, that meant everything.
