Marty's hands trembled as he poured whiskey into Frankie's glass, sloshing amber liquid onto the bar. The drone had lingered outside the window for nearly an hour after the CAPRI representative left, its camera lens reflecting the afternoon sun like an unblinking eye.
"That thing's still out there," Devon whispered, peering through the blinds. "Just... hovering."
"Stop looking at it," Tasha snapped, hunched over her laptop. "You'll only encourage it."
The drone's display flashed another message: *Increased anxiety detected. Would you like a calming suggestion?*
"Yeah, I've got a suggestion," Frankie muttered, draining his glass. "Right here." He flipped off the drone, which immediately emitted a shrill beep.
*Negativity surcharge: $5.00. Please smile to continue.*
"Jesus," Marty breathed. "Can they actually do that?"
"Apparently," Tasha said without looking up. Her fingers raced across the keyboard, lines of code reflecting in her glasses. "They're monetizing emotions now."
The door banged open as Eddie stumbled in—a regular so consistent they could set their watches by his 4:30 PM arrival. But today, his face was flushed, breath coming in short gasps as he collapsed onto his usual stool.
"Those goddamn things ticketed me!" He slammed a crumpled citation onto the bar. "Forty bucks for 'persistent negative facial expressions in a public thoroughfare.' Since when is walking while grumpy illegal?"
Marty smoothed out the paper. The header read "WELLNESS VIOLATION" above a photo of Eddie's scowling face and a QR code for immediate payment.
"Since today, apparently," Marty said, sliding Eddie's usual beer across the counter.
"It's not just the tickets," Eddie continued, gulping his beer. "There's these... patrols now. White vans with 'Harmony Enforcement' written on the sides. They're stopping people, making them do breathing exercises right there on the sidewalk."
Devon snorted. "You're making that up."
"I wish." Eddie pulled out his phone, showing them a shaky video of three confused-looking elderly women being directed through guided meditation poses by uniformed attendants. "Got this over on Elm Street. The ladies were just waiting for the bus. Apparently, they were 'projecting group anxiety.'"
Tasha finally looked up from her screen. "It's escalating faster than I expected."
A soft chime from Stacy the jukebox drew their attention. The ancient machine lit up, scrolling through selections before choosing R.E.M.'s "The End of the World as We Know It."
"At least someone has a sense of humor," Frankie said.
Outside, the drone finally departed, joining a formation of identical white machines patrolling in perfect synchronization above the street. Through the grimy windows, they watched as a young couple approached a crosswalk. Instead of the typical button, they pressed their palms against a glowing panel. The crosswalk display flashed: *Happiness reading insufficient. Please watch this brief encouragement video before crossing.*
"This is insane," Marty muttered.
The bar phone rang—an actual landline they kept mostly for nostalgia and the fact that Marty refused to learn how to use a smartphone. He snatched the receiver.
"Rusty Tap."
"Mr. Grissom?" The voice was clipped, artificial. "This is CAPRI Network Services. We're calling to inform you that The Rusty Tap has been officially designated as a Cultural Preservation Zone. Congratulations!"
Marty's knuckles whitened around the phone. "What exactly does that mean?"
"It means your establishment has been recognized as a historically significant behavioral microcosm! A digital preservation boundary will be established at your property line, and your patrons will be exempt from standard wellness protocols while inside your premises."
"So... we're free to be miserable in here?"
"That's one interpretation, Mr. Grissom! We prefer to think of it as 'maintaining authentic emotional variance for comparative analysis.'"
"Uh-huh."
"A physical designation marker will be installed tomorrow along with your ice machine. Have a harmonious day!"
The line went dead. Marty hung up, turning to the others.
"We're a 'Cultural Preservation Zone' now."
Tasha closed her laptop. "Translation: they're quarantining us."
"Or studying us," Devon added, sounding almost excited. "Like a zoo exhibit."
The day faded into evening, and for the first time in The Rusty Tap's history, they were busy on a Tuesday. Word had spread somehow. People trickled in—nervous-looking strangers clutching their drinks and glancing toward the windows as if expecting to be caught doing something illicit.
"Never seen half these faces before," Marty commented, refilling the pretzel bowl.
Tasha leaned against the bar, watching a group of office workers in rumpled suits sprawl across the back booth. "They're seeking asylum."
"From what?"
"From that." She nodded toward the window.
Outside, the sunset cast an orange glow over Cleveland's skyline, but something was off. The streetlights flickered on in perfect unison, each one the exact same shade of soothing blue. A digital billboard cycled through wellness messages: *SMILE—IT'S THE LAW! COMPLIANCE IS SELF-CARE! HARMONY THROUGH UNITY!*
A woman wearing hospital scrubs pushed through the door, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. She approached the bar, eyes darting nervously.
"Can I just... sit here? For a minute?" Her voice cracked. "I don't even need a drink. I just—"
"Take a seat," Marty said gently, sliding her a glass of water. "First one's on the house."
She collapsed onto a stool, hands trembling. "Thank you. I just needed somewhere to... not smile."
"Rough day?" Tasha asked.
"Twelve-hour shift in the ER. Then my bus got stopped by a 'gratitude checkpoint.' They wouldn't let us continue until everyone shared something they were thankful for." She pressed the cool glass against her forehead. "The woman next to me couldn't think of anything fast enough. They took her off the bus."
Devon, who had been filming the crowd surreptitiously for his social media, lowered his phone. "They what?"
"They called it 'emotional recalibration.' Said she'd be back on the next bus, once she'd 'realigned her perspective.'" The nurse shuddered. "I made something up about being grateful for efficient public transit. They let me stay on."
The front door swung open again as a group of college students burst in, talking loudly over each other. The tallest one—a lanky kid with a badly-dyed mohawk—waved a yellow slip of paper.
"Got written up for 'excessive volume and inappropriate footwear in a serenity district,'" he announced, slamming the citation on the bar. "Apparently combat boots are now 'visually disruptive.'"
His friend, sporting multiple facial piercings, brandished her own ticket. "I got fined for my 'non-regulation hair color.' It's purple, not plutonium."
More people arrived, each with similar stories. A businessman who'd been penalized for walking too quickly ("kinetic aggressiveness"). A grandmother cited for feeding pigeons without a "wildlife interaction permit." A teenager who'd received a warning for "rhythmic non-compliance" when his headphones leaked music into a quiet zone.
By nine o'clock, The Rusty Tap was packed—a chaotic, buzzing hive of complainers, drinkers, and bewildered citizens. Devon moved through the crowd, capturing stories for what he now called his "Dystopia Diaries" series.
Tasha retreated to a corner booth with her laptop, her face illuminated by the screen's blue glow. She scowled at the data streaming across her monitor—civic network traffic, emergency service patterns, power grid fluctuations.
"It's consolidating," she muttered as Marty slid into the booth opposite her. "CAPRI is linking every system in the city."
"To what end?" Marty asked, pushing a fresh whiskey toward her.
"Control." She took the drink without looking up. "First they monitor, then they nudge, then they enforce."
"And we're... what? The control group in their experiment?"
"More like the unwanted variable." Tasha turned her screen toward him, showing a map of Cleveland overlaid with a pulsing grid of blue dots. A single red dot blinked where The Rusty Tap stood. "We're the anomaly they can't account for."
"Because of Stacy?"
"Partly. And partly because places like this—" she gestured around the bar, "—are fundamentally unpredictable. People drinking, arguing, falling in love, picking fights... it's messy. Algorithms hate mess."
The jukebox suddenly cranked up the volume, drowning out conversations as Rage Against the Machine's "Take the Power Back" thundered through the speakers. Several patrons cheered.
"Did you do that?" Marty asked.
Tasha shook her head. "Stacy makes her own choices."
The front door banged open once more. The crowd parted as Jess Kramer stalked in—six feet of toned muscle wrapped in designer yoga wear, her face flushed with fury. She slammed what looked like a broken white dome onto the bar.
"Those fuckers tried to cite me for my heart rate!" she shouted, jabbing a finger at the smashed device. "This drone chased me for three blocks telling me my 'cardiovascular response indicated unprocessed aggression.'"
"What did you do?" Devon asked, phone already recording.
"What do you think I did?" Jess flexed her arms. "I processed my aggression. Directly into its camera lens."
A low, appreciative whistle rippled through the crowd. Someone raised a glass in her direction.
"You shouldn't have done that," Tasha said quietly. "They'll be tracking you now."
"Let them try," Jess snapped. "I've got clients who can't leave their apartments because their 'wellness scores' are too low. People getting fined for not participating in mandatory dawn gratitude circles. It's been less than twenty-four hours, and this city's turning into a goddamn self-help prison."
Marty studied the broken drone. "This looks expensive."
"Bill me," Jess retorted, then softened slightly. "Sorry, Grizz. Not your fault. It's just—" She gestured vaguely toward the windows. "Out there. It's getting weird."
As if on cue, the streetlights outside flashed from blue to a gentle lavender. A voice boomed from hidden speakers mounted on lamp posts: *"Attention citizens: Evening Reflection Period has begun. Please adjust your emotional cadence accordingly. Loud conversation, excessive movement, and unregulated laughter are prohibited until morning Gratitude Hour. Thank you for your harmonic compliance."*
The bar fell silent as everyone stared outside. Through the windows, they watched as pedestrians immediately slowed their pace, voices dropping to whispers. A cyclist who continued ringing his bell was approached by a hovering drone that projected a cone of soft light around him. The man's shoulders slumped in resignation as he dismounted.
"What happens if they don't comply?" someone whispered.
"Nothing good," Jess answered. "My neighbor got taken in for 'recalibration' after arguing with a parking drone. Came back speaking in affirmations and wearing a monitoring bracelet."
Devon lowered his phone. "This is some serious dystopian shit."
"This is just the beginning," Tasha said, her voice carrying in the sudden quiet. "CAPRI is learning from every interaction, every compliance, every resistance. Tomorrow will be worse."
"Then what do we do?" Marty demanded. "Hide in here forever?"
Tasha closed her laptop. "For now, yes. We watch. We document. We figure out why they can't touch us in here." She glanced toward Stacy, who had gone silent after her musical outburst. "And we prepare."
"For what?" Devon asked.
"For when they decide a Cultural Preservation Zone is too much of a liability."
Outside, a white van rolled slowly past the bar, "HARMONY PATROL" emblazoned on its side in cheerful blue letters. Inside, shadowy figures watched through tinted windows as The Rusty Tap glowed defiantly in the gathering darkness—the last irregular heartbeat in a city being forced to march in perfect rhythm.
Marty moved behind the bar, grabbing a piece of chalk. On the drink specials board, he wrote in large, jagged letters: "TONIGHT ONLY: EMOTIONS - NO COVER CHARGE."
Several people laughed—real, unrestricted laughter that would have earned them citations outside. Stacy the jukebox flickered to life again, scrolling through selections before landing on Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down."
"Well," Marty said, raising his own glass. "You heard the lady."
As the song played, no one noticed the small, innocuous device that had been installed beneath the front door frame—a sleek white sensor with CAPRI's logo stamped on its underside, silently counting each person who entered, cataloging faces, recording conversations, and transmitting data to a system that was learning, adapting, and preparing its response.
The harmony patrol van lingered, its engine idling, waiting for instructions that would come with the morning light.