Free Web NovelChapter 140: 140 | Adequate RAM is My Love Language
The argument continued through bed frames, through nightstands, through a fifteen-minute detour about whether throw pillows were a personality or a purchase. I left them to it and wandered toward the electronics section of the design district, which occupied a storefront two doors down from Atelier Haven. The place was called CurrentWave, and it had the sleek glass-and-steel aesthetic of every tech store that wanted to feel like an Apple Store without the lawsuit.
I grabbed a cart and started with the obvious. Two laptops, one for me and one for Sloane, both the same model because I was not about to introduce a hardware debate into a household already fighting about sheet colors. The Halloran packet recommended a minimum processing specification for coursework that involved Aspect simulation software and tactical modeling programs, and the model I picked exceeded those specs by a comfortable margin without breaking into the obscene price range.
The TV was next. Fifty-five inches, mounted, 4K resolution. Not because I needed fifty-five inches of screen to watch anything, but because when the Oracle Feed was running at full capacity during a movie, having a screen large enough that my eyes didn’t have to refocus between the film and the floating notifications made the experience less nauseating. Purely practical. The fact that it would look sick mounted above my desk was a bonus.
Game system. Obviously. The newest generation console in matte black, because two years at Halloran without the ability to decompress through mindless entertainment after getting my ass kicked by Hero students with actual combat training sounded like a recipe for losing my mind entirely. I grabbed an extra controller too. Percy seemed like the kind of kid who would benefit from something to do with his hands that wasn’t mapping floor plans.
Smart speakers came last, and they were not a choice so much as an inevitability. Every electronics store in California had the same promotional display at the entrance: the Resonance Pro, a premium smart speaker system endorsed by Cadence, a Rank 12 Hero whose sound-manipulation Aspect had made her the obvious spokesperson for audio technology. Her face was on every box. Her signature sat embossed on the speaker grille. The tagline read HEAR EVERYTHING. MISS NOTHING. Which was genuinely good marketing for a Hero whose whole deal was sonic perception.
I grabbed a two-pack. Diane would approve of the brand recognition. Sloane would steal one within a week.
By the time I returned to Atelier Haven with two bags and a receipt that made me wince, Diane and Sloane had migrated to the bedding section and were currently standing on opposite sides of a display bed holding competing duvet options. Diane held a cream-colored option with a subtle weave pattern that looked like it cost more than my monthly food budget. Sloane held a solid black duvet with a red geometric print that looked like something from a catalog aimed at college freshmen who had just discovered that their parents couldn’t stop them from decorating anymore.
"That print is going to pill after three washes," Diane said.
"I’ll buy two."
"That’s not the point, Sloane."
"The point is that it’s my room and I’m sleeping in it and I like this one."
"You like it now. In a store, under showroom lighting, with no context for how it’ll look against a black frame on a mattress you haven’t chosen yet. You’re buying a vibe, not a duvet."
"Maybe I want to buy a vibe."
"Don’t say vibe to me like I don’t know what that word means. I was using vibe when you were in diapers."
"Mom. Please."
"I’m just saying."
Sloane spotted me and the electronics bags and her entire posture shifted. The duvet argument evaporated from her attention like steam off a sidewalk in July. She dropped the black duvet on the display bed and crossed the showroom floor with the focus of someone who had identified a target.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Depends on whether you think it’s a laptop."
"Give it."
I handed over the bag containing both laptops. Sloane pulled hers out, checked the specs on the box, and made a sound of approval that was close enough to the sounds she made in bed that I had to look at the ceiling for a second.
"This meets the simulation software requirements."
"Exceeds them."
"By how much?"
"Enough that you won’t have to close your tabs during processing."
Her eyes widened. The way to Sloane Fitzgerald’s heart was not through poetry or flowers or grand romantic gestures. It was through adequate RAM and a processor that didn’t choke when running Aspect-simulation software alongside six open browser windows of Hero combat footage.
"You got yourself a TV," she observed, peering into the other bag.
"Fifty-five inches."
"That’s excessive."
"That’s correct."
"You got a game console."
"Two controllers."
Her mouth opened. Something possessive moved behind her blue eyes. "One of those controllers is mine."
"One of those controllers is for my neighbor Percy."
The possessive thing in her eyes turned into something closer to a weapons-grade glare. "You met a boy for five minutes and he gets a controller before your girlfriend?"
"I’ll get you your own custom controller."
"You better."
Diane appeared beside us with the cream duvet draped over one arm and the air of someone who had won a war of attrition while nobody was watching. Sloane’s abandoned black duvet was nowhere in sight.
"Where’s my duvet," Sloane said.
"I had Marina pull a deep charcoal alternative with a matte finish. No print. No geometric pattern. Same feeling you’re going for without the visual noise."
"I didn’t ask for a charcoal alternative."
"You’ll thank me in September."
"I will not."
"You will. And when you do, I want flowers."
Sloane made a noise that lived somewhere between a growl and a sigh, a sound I had catalogued as the specific frequency of Sloane Fitzgerald conceding a battle while promising herself she’d win the war. She grabbed the charcoal duvet from Marina’s approaching hands, inspected the fabric weight, rubbed the corner between her fingers, and then tucked it under her arm without further comment.
Victory by omission. Diane’s specialty. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm
We spent another hour in the district. Marina arranged delivery for the furniture. The walnut desk I’d found earlier went on the list for my apartment along with a platform bed, a reading chair Diane picked in some color she called "sage" that looked green to me, and a small bookshelf for the gap beside the bathroom door. Sloane’s list ran longer because every item required negotiation. Her black bed frame survived without challenge. Her mattress choice survived after a twenty-minute test where she lay on six different options and ranked them by how angry her spine felt on a scale of one to Lukas’s training punches. Her desk was modern steel with a glass top that Diane considered aggressive and Sloane considered perfect.
The car ride home was quiet. Sloane sat in the back with her new laptop balanced on her knees, already setting up her user profile and downloading the Halloran student portal software that the acceptance packet had included access codes for. Diane rode shotgun scrolling through fabric swatches on her phone, occasionally holding the screen toward me to compare options I couldn’t differentiate.
"This one or this one?"
"They’re both grey."
"One is pewter and one is slate."
"They’re both grey, Diane."
