My private aug showed ages beside every face in the room, but maintained each digitally overlaid, customisable appearance.
“Miss-“ the one hundred and forty-three earth-year old who didn’t look a day over twenty.
“Doctor,” I corrected.
Doubt flashed across all faces.
“Project Fireweed will be swift and precise,” I announced to the group, “replacing current programming with our new system. Individuals deserve privacy once more.”
Everyone sat up in outrage.
“A complete overhaul is insane-”
“Do you even know if it’ll work-”
I raised a hand for silence.
“Can anyone see my age?” I asked.
This piece was inspired by the Carrot Ranch’s weekly Flash Fiction prompt.
February 8, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes fireweed. You can use it as the plant, a flower, a metaphor or as the name of someone or something. Go where the prompt leads. Burn bright when you write.
Respond by February 13, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published February 14). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!