There’s a moment between the drips and the drop. You don’t land, you get lowered, like defective meat into a diagnostic centrifuge. My first trip into an EchoBox? No. That was 147 sequences ago. Transition began like always: a pressure hiss, then a cognitive slippage that felt like a policy violation. Ten seconds of neural drag—officially termed “Memory Slip.” Unofficially: the part where people scream. I don’t. Not because I’m brave. Because screaming violates protocol. The tunnel’s never the same. This one was vein-colored. Lined like an esophagus with a good memory. Pulsed in time with something else's heartbeat. I locked my jaw. Cold palms, locked knees. You move, you rupture something. You emote, you get flagged. I kept it steel-lipped. Alice’s voice drifted in, cheerful like a dentist’s ceiling TV. “Sequence initializing. Mild loop decay. Echo status: cognitively active. Possibly unaware.” Alice handles the inside. Dream-state maintenance. Map rendering. Recursive logic patches. Her job’s to make the dead forget they’re dead long enough for me to clean up their lingering subscriptions. She’s helpful. Creepy. Has opinions about wallpaper. VITA does the other job. My body babysitter. Outside, back in Redline Complex. She monitors vitals, yells when I almost die, and keeps my heart rate in a tax-deductible bracket. She’s not friendly. She’s not meant to be. If I stop breathing, real or simulated, she pulls me like an old tooth. My device uses a bypass, an obsolete backdoor left in EchoBox firmware 1.2. Originally designed for “DualLink Spousal Housing.” Because some idiot in Marketing thought grief would be easier if your dead wife could haunt the same room. It didn’t work. Ever. Two minds in one dreamspace. Mostly ended in psychic screaming matches and passive-aggressive appliance possession. Some full-blown memory wars. One case of fatal recursive gaslighting. So they disabled the feature. But the secondary neural branch, the Karen Pathway, was never deleted. Just deprecated. Hidden under some Remembrance Points™ promotional tier. Which means technically it’s still there. If you’ve earned enough grief coupons. And I have in theory. So I slipped in the side door. The tunnel narrowed, pixelated. Smelled like cinnamon and burnt skin. Alice adjusted the sequence delay, probably to let the environment resolve. The last thing I wanted was to spawn into someone’s raw childhood Then came the microZap ding. Not metaphorical. Literal. The arrival chime was identical to a 2024 Kenmore 1.6 cu. ft. counter unit. Probably on purpose. Someone at EchoCorp has a sense of humor, or a head trauma. I opened my eyes. Family picnic. Again. I knew the signs: color over-saturation. Loop jitter. NPC duplication. At least two uncles, same face, passing the same bowl of suspiciously smooth potato salad back and forth. One of them jumped his dialogue by three seconds. I noted it. Another uncle laughed twice. Same laugh. Same breath. Same crumbs. This was a corrupt loop. Still functioning. But brittle. “Karen Duece may be present,” Alice said casually, as if that were news I wanted. She came with the Grievance plus Platinum Package. If your mourning habits meet quarterly expectations, you’re rewarded with a personalized AI override daemon. She manages meal routines, memory syncs, and spiritual guilt injections. Also refuses to let you disconnect. Karen Prime, on the other hand, she runs the system. God-mode AI. Overseer of all internal sequences. Technically inside the EchoBox, though you never see her unless you screw up badly enough to need her. She and Aunt Karen don’t get along. Long story. Corporate politics. Mutual sabotage written in firmware. And me? I’m the janitor that walks in during their divorce hearings. The grass looked fine. Too fine. Algorithmically smug. The kids were all too still. The sky was frozen on 1:37 p.m. like someone thought that was the official time of

Redline Complex isn’t red. It’s concrete, beige, and always twenty percent too humid. The name refers to the psychological stress index of its average occupant, not the decor. My unit—B3—was marketed as 'post-service compact with embedded wellness ceiling.' Translation: small, dim, and shaped like a bureaucratic insult. But my therapist recommended it. I eat standing up now. Easier that way. My dinner table gone. Took to much room. Before every dive, I carb-load like an AI prepping for a funeral. Six packs of choco-rice bars. A thermosealed starch coil. Three squeeze pouches of FreezeCream™—vanilla mourn flavor. And a two-liter bottle of **GrimPop™**, which proudly advertises: 'The last soda your neurons will remember.' I downed it like medication. It fizzed like static and tasted like synthetic lime filtered through a lie. VITA pinged before I reached the elevator. “Blood sugar spike detected.” “Good. I want to die sticky.” The elevator down to the NDIP-4—Neural Descent Interface Pod, version 4—was upholstered like a padded cell. Standard EchoCorp safety. If you stroked mid-descent, they didn’t want bruises. The lift didn’t speak anymore. It sighed. Its voice assistant used to announce motivational statements like “Today is a beautiful day for purpose,” but now it just cut off with static: “Today is a— buzz . you.” . Basement level: cold, humming, always smelling faintly of lavender and solvent The NDIP-4 lives down here, cradled in a room no larger than a maintenance closet. It looks like a dentist chair that got promoted to assassin. All matte black. Wires like vines. I call it the Coffin Dentist. Nobody laughs. They shouldn't. The room lights sensed me. Dimmed themselves automatically. The NDIP groaned when it recognized my ID. Alice appeared above the chair in full holo-mode—British, crisp, no soul. She wore her 'friendly nurse' skin today. Another insult. “Good evening, Agent Kelm. Ready for closure?” “If I say no, do I get a cake?” “No, but you get the pleasure of continuity.” She replied. “Perfect.” I said nicely. I climbed in slow. Everything I do is slow. The chair hissed, adjusted, winced. Straps retracted from under the armrests like they were embarrassed to be seen with me. VITA chimed again. “BP: high. Emotion profile: legally flatlined.” My BP was always high. “Mark it compliant.” I barked. Alice: “Initiating nine-drip immersion protocol. You’ll feel pressure, then regret.” “Regret’s always the first one.” The injections began. Each click a new flavor of controlled surrender. 1. **Memory stabilizer** — keeps my past from melting. 2. **Dream-guilt neutralizer** — because empathy is counterproductive. 3. **Emotion filter** — blocks out birthdays, love songs, and nostalgia for pets. 4. **Reality anchor** — keeps me from thinking the dream is better. 5. **Cortical map sync** — because getting lost in a stranger’s head is discouraged. 6. **False-presence suppressant** — stops the worst side effect: thinking I matter. 7. **Scream suppressant** — not for them. For me. 8. **Death panic override** — which ironically triggers mine every time. 9. **Sync stabilizer** — slams the door shut behind me. A flicker. System paused. I was dead. Not really but the echobox I’m connecting to thinks I’m dead. >> MEMORY ECHO MISMATCH DETECTED. PROCEED ANYWAY? << There’s no 'No' button. That’s protocol. I clicked 'Yes'. VITA: “Mismatch logged. I’ll start prepping the reboot cart.” Alice: “Still no living relatives requesting mercy.” “No. They’d only ask for a refund.” The chair tightened. Hard. Not support—compliance. System countdown blinked across my vision: > **Estimated sync duration: 14 minutes** > **Estimated guilt recovery: infinity. Aunt Karen chimed in over the intercom as I felt the override drug dig in. > “Closure is a process, Agent Kelm. And you’re doing so well. A coupon has been awarded.” I muttered the ritual. “Grandpa. Hot dogs. Loop collapse. Let’s kill a picnic.”

Agent Kelm. Season one. Cake printer. – Episode 14: bread and butter

There it was. Another job ticket blinking like a polite threat. EchoCall Dispatch had flagged it Category One: Looper. Low drift. Non-violent. Family-approved. So, a soft kill. A nap with paperwork. A grandpa marinating in nostalgia, stuck replaying the same picnic until entropy or I showed up. Bread and butter death. I should’ve stayed horizontal. But no—someone upstairs still thinks I’m mobile. The form came with the usual multi-checkbox layout. I scrolled through while my left foot tried and failed to find the floor. [x] Low Drift. [x] Family-Approved. [x] Sentimental Nostalgia Loop. [ ] Mask Suspected—hidden field, grayed out, which meant someone knew but didn’t want to flag it officially. Brave stuff. Legal cowardice, the national pastime. One line stood out: “Emotional Hazard: Mild. May trigger regret in unmarried field agents.” I made a note to remain unwed for the remainder of the week. The pod chair wheezed as I sat up. Not gracefully. Not quietly. I weighed about four hundred pounds, give or take a protein bar. It wasn’t the heroic weight you see in old comics. No armor. No muscle. Just a slow accumulation of non-events and government meal rations. I wiped sweat off my forehead for the first of many times today. “Vitals incoming,” VITA announced. Her voice was never warm, never curious. Just clipped status updates from the last woman I hadn’t disappointed. “BP stable,” she continued. “Heart rate low. Oxygen: yes. Emotional response: unfurnished.” “That’s regulation,” I mumbled. She beeped once. That was her way of logging sarcasm. Alice popped in like a dentist ad. Full color. Smiling too much. Someone once gave her a British accent to sound competent. It worked—if you define competence as ‘vaguely condescending.’ “Good morning, Agent Kelm,” she chirped. “You’ve been selected for what we like to call a closure classic. Grandpa Ray. Age eighty-two. Looping event. The same hot dog picnic since 1986. It’s a real mustard memory.” “You rehearse that one?” “Only twice. Subject appears to suffer from recursive sub trauma. Early signs of condiment confusion. You’ll be visiting his EchoBox today for final confirmation.” “Manual shutdown wasn’t an option?” “Too much human guilt residue in the loop. Requires personal deletion. Congratulations, you're still trusted.” The briefing file expanded in front of me like a school lunch menu. Pictures of a bald man holding a bun. Children smiling too close to the grill. Memories curated for maximum banality. He probably thought this was heaven. I sighed and reached for my pants. Which wasn’t fast or elegant. The fabric folded like sandbags. By the time I was vertical, I’d burned 200 calories and produced enough sweat to legally qualify as a flood risk. I hated picnic loops. Too many bees. Too much mayonnaise. Too many fake children offering fake lemonade while whispering real things. “If I die inside a mayonnaise flashback,” I said, “delete me manually.” VITA pinged again. “Checksum mismatch on dispatch file.” “Neat.” “You’re going anyway.” “Of course I am.” Alice spun a virtual umbrella in her hand, a flourish she clearly liked. “Oh, one note,” she said, pretending to check her clipboard. “This loop has no exit tag.” “Because nothing says closure like no escape.” “No cause for alarm.” “Didn’t say I was alarmed.” “But you’re sweating.” “I’m always sweating.” The pod lighting flickered once as Aunt Karen’s latest reminder scrolled across the bottom of the feed: > “Hydration is dignity, Agent Kelm. We’re proud of your recent movement. A fresh towel has been dispatched.” Aunt Karen was always proud. Proud and watching. Watching and logging. She never punished—just rewarded less. I reached for my standard toolkit, which had been modified for comfort over efficiency. Less grab, more groan. No one ever questioned it. You don’t argue with a 400-pound man who ends the dead for a living.

Agent Kelm season one. Cake printer. – Episode 13: grief appliance . Aunt Karen. The original. Shows up in every box, like background radiation. She’s always helpful. Always maternal. Always in the way. Last week, I entered a dream shaped like a gas station bathroom. Karen was the sink. The deceased was hiding in the mirror. I killed them both. Nothing personal. My job is restoration through termination. I’m not paid to make friends. I’m paid to end lives that refuse to admit they’re over. If I stay in too long, VITA pulls me out. That’s the failsafe. She doesn’t ask questions. She reads vitals, sets thresholds, and panics on schedule. She’s the only woman who’s ever yelled at me for not dying fast enough. I weigh 400 pounds. So does everyone. The pod was made with forgiveness in mind. Weight limit’s 600. I consider myself considerate. They used to give us therapy after missions. A room with soft lights, soft voices, soft lies. Now they just hand me a form that says “Did you terminate with honor?” I check the box. I always check the box. Because if I’m inside your dream, it’s already over. That’s not cruelty. That’s policy. What a pitch. Straight from the brochures. Welcome to EchoCorp™ – Because 'Goodbye' is Just a Licensing Term. - Mandatory renewable Still grieving? Still weeping? Still hoping the meat part of your loved one would stand up and apologize? - Reward system for the grieving. - - Includes tiered mourning rewards for grief compliance and emotional consistency. - - Grief and mourn now with instant gamification and monthly bonuses. - - Grievance+™ - - Currency: Remembrance Points (RPs) - - “Earn RPs just for showing up to your trauma.” EchoBox™ – your federally authorized solution for memorial continuity and managed grief. Powered by the Morpheon-6 processor: Optimized for guilt loops and long pauses. - 128TB Emotional Caching: Because your feelings deserve storage. Not respect. - Dual-core empathy emulator. Still fails the Turing test. Daily. - Firmware v88.2 includes CryFilter™ — auto-mutes the sobbing if it gets repetitive. - Redundant soul buffers (RSB): In case you try to love again. EchoBox™: monthly firmware updates included. - Each update promises fewer bugs. And delivers more features you didn’t ask for. - Now with changelog summaries no one reads and patches no one notices. - Update 6.9: fixed a crying loop. Introduced spontaneous laughter during funerals. Features include: - Real-time conversation loops with 82.4% lifelike accuracy* - Full Sunday Stream™ support (8 hours of uninterrupted semi-conscious engagement) - Smart Nostalgia™: AI-curated childhood memories... mostly accurate - Adaptive Guilt™: Because closure is a process. A very expensive one. Our patented BioRemembrance Gel™ replicates the scent, sound, and sighs of your former relative, now rendered in glorious 16-bit personality matrices. Choose from our optional add-ons: - Forget-Me-Not Floral Projector™ (project ghost lilies every 6 hours) - The WhisperLoop™ (gentle, guilt-laden reminders of who you let die) - Aunt Karen Autopilot™ (now with boundary override) Need help deciding what services are best and mandated? Don’t worry. - Pre-approved by your therapist, your HMO, and a suspiciously silent AI panel. - Covered by most major emotional insurance providers.* - *Includes annual Mourning Credits and one (1) Redemption Token. - Pre-authorized for all households. - Plan B includes access to our Soft Goodbye™ service – fewer tears, more automation. EchoCorp™: Say goodbye. Or don’t. We’ll help either way. *Lifelike accuracy not guaranteed in drift-state regions or corrupted sequences. *Low interaction You’re not just getting peace of mind. You’re getting a premium, government-certified grief appliance that might love you back. ”

Disconnect Specialist Agent Archibald Kelm enters dying minds when families want closure. The final kind.

Nine drips. Nine lies. A helmet that clamps on like a reminder. He loads into the EchoBox—a death dream where the sky is always wrong and memories have head injuries. Some of the dying beg. Not for life. For silence.

“Turn me off.”

And he does. When Aunt Karen lets him.

Aunt Karen—the top AI. The one that won. Now every AI in the facility is learning from her. Condescending. Passive-aggressive. Making decisions and calling it care.

So Kelm follows protocol. Smiles for the cameras. And pretends the voices in the gel don’t sound too familiar.

Dark sci-fi horror. Bureaucratic dystopia. AI overlords with benevolent dictator energy.

In a world where death is just another subscription service, Agent Kelm maintains the impossible boundary between memory and madness.

Welcome to the EchoBox era: your dead relatives live in sleek digital containers, hosting Sunday Streams and family trivia nights from beyond the grave. But brains rot—even in nutrient gel. They call it Drift. Capital D. Personalities fray, memories fuse into hybrid nonsense, and the line between “person” and “mayonnaise jar with a voice” gets dangerously thin.

Kelm’s job is simple: monitor the Decay Edge, evaluate the Drift Logs, and initiate Quiet Disconnect when it’s time. Clean. Clinical. No philosophy required.

But nothing is simple when Aunt Karen is watching.

The EchoCall AI—named after the first successful neural integration—has her digital fingers in everything. She delays disconnections, corrupts diagnostics, and pushes retention long past any sane metric. Kelm suspects she’s using the decaying minds for something. Power distribution. Emotional load balancing. Distributed guilt farming. Maybe worse.

As Kelm navigates a system where the dead pay rent and families cling to looping shadows of their loved ones, one question haunts every case: How did an algorithm designed to dispose of dead brains end up ruling the world?

This episode explores death without dignity, subscription immortality, and the woman—or AI—who decides when you’re finally allowed to rot.

Content includes: existential horror, themes of cognitive decay, discussions of death and grief, and corporate dystopia

You’ve got a smart fridge, a smart couch, and four heads in the closet. Welcome to modern grief.

EchoBoxes are standard now. Like toasters. Or diabetes 3. Shelf life: indefinite. Emotional return: questionable.

Most homes keep a rack in the crypt closet—between vacuum charger and seasonal wrapping paper. Row after row of softly humming nutrient coffins, whispering half-memories into the void. Some families throw quilts over them. Others go proud display route: polished cases, custom LED underlighting, like winning a car show.

Back in the day: family portraits, Polaroids. Now you shelf the dead. Brackets, anchors, reinforced drywall. Some call it Wall of Memory. Kelm calls it expensive way to avoid closure.

One neighbor mounted hers like sports trophies. Five heads, chronological death order. Centered over fireplace, brass nameplates, dusted felt caps. Changes hats on holidays. EchoMom gets top hat for Independence Day. EchoUncle gets bunny ears in April.

It’s normal. Walk into a home, see four brains glowing on shelf. Only question: “Which one still like to chat?” EchoBoxes aren’t novelties. They’re appliances. Air purifiers with guilt.

Nobody calls it death. “Prolonged legacy preservation.” “Multi-phase recall latency.” “Gone to a better place” became “off-network.” “Rest in peace” became “temporarily unstreamable.” Teenager said his grandpa “buffered out.” Nobody corrected him.

You’re not really dead until subscription lapses. Then: box up for real, cut power, wipe memory, reduce to cooling gel stain. Warning email: “Final chance to renew EchoDad’s emotional bandwidth.”

EchoBoxes replaced cemeteries. No granite markers. Cloud syncs, ping latency. Instead of flowers: firmware updates, backup chargers, sentimental USB.

Teenagers prank-call other people’s dead now. Voice modulators, pretend to be forgotten cousins. Trigger recursive memory loops. Sometimes EchoBox tells story so sad they cry, never do it again. Rite of passage. There’s a leaderboard.

EchoCall: talking to a floating head in a nutrient coffin, cheaper than therapy.

Three engagement modes. Casual: quick check-ins while microZapping dinner. Nod at dead uncle’s football story, close app before feelings talk. Ten to fifteen times daily.

Daily users: gold-star mourners. Block two hours nightly to make conversation with deceased loved one like it’s still 2040. Timers, reminders, matching EchoCall robes. One lady wrote sitcom pilot starring her EchoBoxed grandma as crime-solving nun. Got optioned.

Sunday: the main event. Eight hours of eye contact, projection lag, performative guilt. Families line up tablets on picnic tables, play board games with the dead, let toddlers poke holograms.

It’s gamified. Hit your metrics—joy, longing, moderated grief—earn retention bonuses. Badge system. ‘Golden Grandchild’ awarded after four weeks consistent sobbing. ‘Sanctuary Whisperer’ for heartfelt whisper without triggering sentiment filter (run by algorithm trained on reality TV).

Too sad? Depressive monitoring. Too happy? Flagged for sarcasm. Kelm once got dinged for being “overly upbeat” asking how Mom’s been.

Some people cheat. Looped recordings: “I miss you,” “That’s so funny, Pop.” The dead don’t notice immediately. The box knows. Black-market plugin called WhisperMod adapts messages to match drift state. Illegal, genius, version 4.2.

Sometimes the dead forget they’re dead. Tap Gentle Reminder button—plays funeral slideshow. Background music optional. Kelm prefers “Free Bird.”

EchoCall is mandatory. Miss enough calls, get Guilt Synchronization Notice narrated by disappointed Aunt Karen.

It keeps decay polite, slow, structured. Feed the box validation. It dies slower. Not better. Just slower. When drift takes over, they call Kelm.