Broken Social Scene

Liz had a pile of them, now.
They'd accumulated, somehow; a chipdrift 'gainst her laptop by the door, heavy little lightweight bits, so useless by themselves. Invaluable to those they'd left. The Philistines, Liz liked to say- under her breath to friends in places without crowds. She'd never liked a crowd.
Now Liz was from Los Angeles, or thereabouts. This meant two things. One, she refused to walk. For chumps, walking- for the goddamn birds. Two, she was sick to death of people. Pressed against her, breathing on her, pawing sloppily at countertops with warm beer slopping on their hands and eyes. She had a poet's soul, she'd tell her friends, and crowds do not a poem make.
Whatever, said her friends. We're going to see the Schmunkaholics at Johnny's on Second.
But this required walking. Philistines.
It was a year back when the Bluetooths began integrating. Sounds funny, don't it? A jeweler and a neuroscientist whipped the whole business up at UC Berkeley- the start of it was hearing aid implements and how they interacted with the brain itself, if the eardrum was bypassed. Folk with shattered ears could hear again, allowing one small wire and something like a transducer pickup on the skull. Punch it straight through to meat and voila! Sound- the world restored.
So this scientist, a capitalist at beating heart, decided to push things further, and called upon a jeweler friend. The standard slim clip Bluetooth, integrated into the ear's upper cartilage, could be wired straight into one's brain, eliminating cell radiation, extraneous equipment, and most hateful to Liz- the need to interact with one's fellows with any sort of decor or respect for personal space.
It was as if the hateful bar followed her everywhere now- everywhere, she was assaulted by stranger's intimate conversations- never sure who was schizophrenic, and who was just another integrated asshole.
Darcy was the first in her inner circle. They talked about it, tersely, in the back of a hookah lounge, hidden away in a booth. Darcy showed her how it was turned on and off. She had a piercer install hers- far more chic, more pleasing to the eye than an instore job, and lined with bit-green LEDs no bigger than a flea's tit. 'Well, what about showering?' Liz asked. She was immensely annoyed.
'You have to turn it off,' Darcy said. 'Look, its not a fucking product scanner, Liz. I'm not some corporate heist-monkey, here to ruin your world. Its just a fucking phone.'
'It's in your head.'
'Yeah, yeah.' Darcy had a sip of her drink. 'Its weird, though- spooked me out a bit. The guy who integrated me, holding this big wicked punch in one hand, a sautering pen in the other, says Don't ever, ever, remove my RIFD chip from the back unless its powered off. Rain- even a shower- won't hurt me, just maybe screw the electronics up. It's like pulling an external drive out of your computer without, um...'
'Ejecting it,' Liz offered. She drained her drink, and stood. Sighed. 'You want another? And you'd better still give me a ride, drunky.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
When Liz returned Darcy was on a call. Manly Banister, her o'ersized troubadour, no doubt, pooing sweet somethings into her ear. Only not into her ear, Liz seethed, a drink in each hand. Directly into her inconsiderate little brain! Past the ear and into meat itself! "Are you going to ignore me so you can talk into that thing?'
Darcy waved at her distractedly. 'A real person, Darcy,' Liz snapped. 'Right here, in front of you!' No response this time. Liz set both drinks roughly on one of the many abandoned tables and stalked up close to her friend. 'Philistine,' she hissed into her blinking ear, and thumbed the little chip off the node that wired away into Darcy's bright red hair.
When Darcy's head hit the table Liz shook her once, fear in her in growing shapes. Then she turned heel and split, clutching at the chip in what approached fixation. Darcy! Oh God, what did I-
Oh God...
They'd come after her soon, she knew. She tried to target random assholes; even put herself in crowded situations and just waited for the inconsequential jerk who'd yell to get his aural rape across. But those she knew just kept on integrating! She would show up for a chat with friends, and there was Ben, his still-raw instore blinking inanely as he talked around the people he had come to meet! She took care of him as he used the urinal (still talking), thumbing out his chip with practiced ease, watching with orgasmic glee as he slid down into the pool of bile and urinal cake. They'd connect the dots. Oh yes.
Liz slipped a hand under her shirt and thought of all those noxious eyes- going blank- fogging over when she reached behind as if to caress, and fucked their hardwired brain instead, her thumb a killswitch clitoris they just didn't see coming. Philistines, the lot of them.
All she knew was, when they did catch her- it was going to make one hell of a screenplay.