"And your final question, worth a whopping fifty points..." Devon paused dramatically, adjusting the novelty bowtie he'd insisted on wearing for his self-proclaimed "First Annual Rusty Tap Trivia Extravaganza." He leaned into the karaoke microphone, which squealed with feedback. "What was the first song ever played on MTV?"
Tasha winced at the noise while continuing to wipe down the bar. "That thing needs new batteries."
"Shh!" Devon waved her off. "The tension is killing me!"
Three tables of unenthusiastic participants stared back at him. The only one showing any real excitement was Frankie, who drummed his fingers against his whiskey glass, eyes gleaming with competitive fire.
"Is it 'Video Killed the Radio Star'?" someone called out from the back.
"Write it down!" Devon admonished. "No verbal answers!"
Marty emerged from the storage room, carrying a crate of beer bottles. "I thought it was that Buggles song. The one about radios dying."
"Dammit, Grizz!" Devon threw his hands up. "You just gave away the answer!"
"Same song, genius," Tasha muttered.
"Oh." Devon deflated slightly before recovering. "Well, anyway... pencils down!"
The bar door swung open, admitting a gust of evening air and Lana Dree, who floated in on a cloud of patchouli and purpose. Her flowing skirt swept the floor as she approached the bar, strings of feathers and beads swaying from her graying hair.
"Martini, please," she announced, settling onto a stool and placing a large crystal next to her purse. "Make it extra dirty."
"Lana." Marty nodded, setting down the crate. "How's the animal mind-reading business?"
"Pet intuitive consultancy," she corrected, tapping her nails against the bar. "And it's booming, thank you. Those damn CAPRI drones keep stressing out the neighborhood dogs. I've been working overtime just to process their trauma."
Devon abandoned his trivia post, sliding onto the stool next to Lana. "So you, like, actually talk to animals? That's some Doctor Dolittle shit, right?"
Lana fixed him with a serene but withering stare. "I don't talk to animals, young man. I listen to them. There's a profound difference."
"And what are they saying?" Devon pulled out his phone, angling it to capture Lana's face.
"They're saying the city smells wrong." She accepted the martini Marty slid her way. "And they don't like being watched. Much like I don't appreciate being recorded without consent." She tapped Devon's phone with a long nail painted deep purple.
Devon lowered his device. "Sorry. Content habit."
From the trivia table, Frankie stood up and approached the bar, slapping down his answer sheet. "I think you'll find I've won by a considerable margin," he announced, straightening his bow tie—a real one, unlike Devon's clip-on.
"You've won what, Frankie?" Tasha smirked. "Devon didn't actually offer a prize."
"The satisfaction of intellectual superiority is prize enough." Frankie produced a quarter from behind Lana's ear. "Though a congratulatory drink wouldn't go amiss."
Lana didn't flinch at the coin trick. "That quarter has negative energy."
"All my quarters do," Frankie replied, flipping it onto the bar. "Comes from spending too much time in vending machines."
The front door banged open again as Slugger Dave barreled in, his dusty Cleveland Indians cap pulled low over his eyes. He clapped a meaty hand on Marty's shoulder.
"Grizz! Looks like you're pitching a perfect game tonight. The stands are filling up!" He gestured to the modestly populated bar.
"It's trivia night," Marty explained, wincing slightly under Dave's grip. "Devon's idea."
"Ah, throwing some curveballs at the regulars. Smart strategy. Keep 'em on their toes." Dave settled his bulk onto a reinforced stool that creaked in protest. "The usual. And make it a double. Been a rough nine innings out there."
Tasha slid him a beer and a whiskey back. "CAPRI giving you trouble?"
"Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs," Dave shook his head grimly. "Those drones followed me six blocks because my 'walking cadence indicated suboptimal cardiovascular efficiency.' Whatever that means in English."
"It means you were trudging," Tasha translated.
"Damn right I was trudging!" Dave slammed his palm on the bar. "Man's allowed to trudge in America, last I checked."
The TV mounted in the corner—usually playing whatever sports game Marty could find—suddenly flickered, its screen glitching before displaying a serene blue background with white text: *CAPRI HARMONY UPDATE: BROADCASTING NOW.*
"What the hell?" Marty fumbled for the remote.
"Don't bother," Tasha said, eyes locked on the screen. "They've overridden the signal."
The blue background dissolved into the face of a smiling woman in her forties, with shoulder-length blonde hair and unnervingly perfect teeth. Her eyes were bright but vacant, focusing just slightly off-camera.
*"Good evening, Cleveland!"* Her voice was melodic and soothing. *"This is your first daily CAPRI Harmony Update. I'm Wellness Coordinator Patricia, and I'm thrilled to share some exciting community developments!"*
Devon grabbed his phone, filming the broadcast. The trivia participants abandoned their tables, gathering around the bar to watch.
*"First, some wonderful news: Overall community wellness metrics have improved by 47% in just 72 hours of CAPRI integration! That's something we can all smile about—and speaking of smiling, remember that maintaining positive facial engagement in public spaces is now mandatory during daylight hours!"*
"Is she serious?" someone muttered.
Patricia's smile widened impossibly. *"Beginning tomorrow, all citizens will be required to download the CAPRI Wellness Tracker App, which will monitor your Harmony Score and provide helpful suggestions for emotional optimization. Those without smartphones will be provided with complimentary Wellness Wristbands at any of our Harmony Hubs, conveniently located in former public libraries!"*
Dave spat out his beer. "Former libraries?"
*"To streamline community wellness, we've recategorized all urban zones into Emotional Districts. Please consult your CAPRI app to determine which emotions are permitted in your neighborhood! Remember—expressing designated feelings helps create a harmonious environment for everyone!"*
Lana clutched her crystal tighter. "They're zoning emotions now?"
*"Finally, we're excited to announce that Cultural Preservation Zones like The Rusty Tap will be receiving special monitoring equipment to document authentic human interactions. These precious behavioral archives will help CAPRI better understand emotional variance in context!"*
The camera pulled back, revealing Patricia standing in what appeared to be a remodeled control room. Behind her, rows of operators in white jumpsuits monitored walls of screens displaying street camera feeds.
*"Remember, citizens: Compliance is harmony! This has been your CAPRI Wellness Update. Have a regulated evening!"*
The screen flickered again before returning to a baseball game already in progress. No one spoke for several seconds.
Frankie broke the silence. "Well, that was dystopian."
"Special monitoring equipment?" Marty turned to Tasha. "They're actually going to spy on us now?"
"They were always going to spy on us," Tasha replied, pulling out her laptop. "But they're getting bolder about announcing it."
The jukebox in the corner suddenly lit up, scrolling through selections before landing on "Somebody's Watching Me." The opening notes filled the uncomfortable silence.
"Stacy's got jokes," Devon remarked, still filming.
"It's not a joke," Lana said, staring at the jukebox with narrowed eyes. "She's warning us."
Marty rolled his eyes. "Please don't start with the psychic jukebox thing."
"Mock all you want," Lana sniffed. "But that machine has more sentience than half the people in this bar."
The door swung open again, admitting a blast of cold air and Eli Donder, his hoodie singed at the edges, safety goggles pushed up into his wild hair. He clutched something that looked like a modified Super Soaker crossed with a car battery.
"They're installing cameras!" he announced without preamble, dropping his contraption on the bar with a heavy thud. "All around the neighborhood. Disguised as bird feeders."
"And what exactly is this?" Marty gestured to the device now leaking something viscous onto his bar.
"EMP gun," Eli beamed, patting it proudly. "Well, prototype. Version 1.0 melted my toaster. This one's got better range."
Tasha looked up from her laptop. "You built an electromagnetic pulse weapon out of... what exactly?"
"Old microwave parts, nine-volt batteries, and my ex's vibrator." Eli adjusted his goggles. "The important thing is, it works. One shot takes out a drone for at least twenty minutes."
Devon inched closer, filming the device. "Dude, that's straight-up resistance tech."
"It's straight-up illegal is what it is," Marty grumbled, sliding a rag under the leaking machine. "And if it explodes in my bar, you're banned for life."
"It won't explode," Eli insisted. "Probably."
The front window suddenly illuminated as a drone hovered outside, its camera lens focusing through the glass. Everyone turned to stare at it.
"Don't move," Eli whispered, reaching for his device. "They can sense fear."
"They're cameras, not T-rexes," Tasha muttered.
The drone's underside lit up with text: *CULTURAL PRESERVATION ZONE DETECTED. RECORDING AUTHENTIC HUMAN INTERACTION.*
"Authentic this," Dave growled, flipping off the drone.
The display changed: *NEGATIVITY LOGGED. EXEMPT FROM PENALTY DUE TO ZONE STATUS. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION TO THE BEHAVIORAL ARCHIVE.*
"They're studying us," Tasha said quietly. "Like specimens."
Marty grabbed a bottle of vodka and four shot glasses. "Well, if we're on display, let's give them something to watch." He poured the shots, sliding them across the bar. "To being the control group in whatever messed-up experiment this is."
Lana held up her glass. "To emotional districts. May they all burn in bureaucratic hell."
"To the resistance!" Devon declared dramatically, raising his phone and his shot simultaneously.
"Put that phone down before I feed it to you," Marty growled. "No evidence."
The door banged open once more as Jess stormed in, her workout clothes spattered with what looked suspiciously like paint. She slammed a crushed drone component onto the bar next to Eli's weapon.
"They tried to cite me for 'excessive endorphin production' during my hot yoga class," she announced, grabbing one of the shots and downing it without waiting for the toast. "So I redecorated their drone with my smoothie."
Marty assessed her wild eyes and paint-splattered appearance. "You know they're probably tracking you now, right?"
"Let them try," Jess flexed, her toned arms rippling. "I've got sixteen clients ready to downward dog these fascists into next week."
The jukebox changed songs abruptly, switching to "Revolution" by The Beatles.
"See?" Lana nodded toward Stacy. "She agrees."
Tasha closed her laptop. "They're moving faster than I expected. Emotional districts, mandatory tracking... they're establishing infrastructure for complete control."
"Over what? Our feelings?" Devon scoffed.
"Everything starts with feelings," Lana interjected, swirling her martini. "Control how people feel, you control how they act."
Outside, more drones gathered, their lights casting eerie shadows through the window. Each displayed the same message: *CULTURAL PRESERVATION IN PROGRESS.*
"We need a plan," Tasha said.
"We need more alcohol," Marty countered, reaching for another bottle.
"Actually," Devon perked up, "what we need is to double down on being ourselves. If they're designating us as some kind of human zoo exhibit, let's give them the full wildlife experience."
"Meaning?" Frankie raised an eyebrow.
"Meaning we embrace being the one place in Cleveland where emotions aren't scheduled, smiles aren't mandatory, and weirdos can be weird." Devon gestured around the bar. "We become the control group from hell."
Marty considered this, scratching his stubbled chin. "So... business as usual?"
"With intention," Devon clarified. "We don't just exist—we resist by example."
The jukebox flickered again, scrolling rapidly before landing on "Fight the Power."
"I think Stacy approves," Lana smiled.
Marty refilled the shot glasses. "To The Rusty Tap," he declared. "Last refuge of the emotionally unregulated."
"To freedom!" someone shouted.
"To appropriate levels of nudity on weekends!" Eli added, earning confused stares.
They raised their glasses as the drones outside multiplied, recording what would soon become the first documented act of defiance against CAPRI's harmonious new world—eight misfits in a dingy bar, drinking to disorder.
None of them noticed the small white sensor beneath the door frame, silently counting heartbeats, cataloging laughter patterns, and transmitting invaluable data to a system that was learning, adapting, and preparing its next move in a game only one side knew they were playing.
Outside, a white van marked "CULTURAL PRESERVATION UNIT" pulled up across the street. Inside, operators watched their screens with cold interest, documenting the last pocket of authentic human chaos in an increasingly ordered world.
"Fascinating specimens," one murmured, adjusting her headset. "Such inefficient emotional processing."
"Indeed," her partner replied, zooming a camera in on Marty's face. "The control group is performing exactly as expected."