“This would go a lot faster if you used another Nick,” said Nick.

“I know, stop suggesting it.”

“Understood, I will only mention it when it becomes relevant,” he replied.

I sighed and tugged on my trousers while he tied my tie. Wedding invites were rare these days. I had not been invited to one in over a decade, so the suit was a seam-splitting two sizes too small. That was my excuse for failing to complete the lower half while Nick held my jacket ready.

“You look great,” he said. “Very handsome.”

“Thank you.” I lost my balance and stepped onto a half-worn trouser leg, sending my overdressed upper half sprawling onto the bed.

I accepted Nick’s help to get up, sort out the rest of the suit, and tuck a pocket square precisely as one should be tucked.

“Would you like me to let Alison know you are ready?”

“No, I can do it. But tell my Mum I won’t be home until late.”

“Consider it done. Will you be wanting dinner?”

“Ask her to leave it in the fridge.”

I sent a quick message to Alison, and looked at the suited man in the mirror. He was more well-dressed than he was handsome, which wasn’t saying much given how ratty and outdated the suit had become at the bottom of my wardrobe. Standing next to a Nick wasn’t doing me any favours, either. I was the unfinished draft to his magnum opus.

My phone buzzed. Just tell me when you get here, it read.

“Nick, can you drive me to the venue?”

“Of course. We have forty minutes until we have to leave, would you like me to clean the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“If we had another Nick we could clean the kitchen and the bedroom.”

“I know, stop it.”

“Of course. I won’t bring it up again unless it would be prudent to do so.”

While he went to tell mum I was heading out and clean the kitchen, I checked the invite.

Alison & Jason, 2PM Heartchapel Farm. No gifts, no Nicks

It had been hard cutting down on Nicks in preparation for the wedding. From jumping on the hype train at the beginning with my first use of a Nick, I was now averaging four or five a day. I made the mistake of making myself lunch yesterday, and have been feeling malnourished since.

Nick dropped me off a few hundred yards from the driveway to the venue so that he wouldn’t be seen. It was an excruciating walk along that country road, and much worse on the long driveway to the country house as I knew all the cars passing me were also wedding guests. None of them stopped for me. Nick would have, if I asked.

“Well, you look fantastic,” I said, after Alison had accused me of letting myself go. She had found me loitering behind the pile of gifts, which I had not contributed to. “And the canopés are fantastic. I had a salmon and cream cheese tart – delicious! I haven’t tasted anything so good in ages!”

“Oh yeah? What have you been eating then?”

“It’s a high-protein nature-inspired easily-digestible pellet mix – essentially human kibble. Nick makes them.”

“Right, thought so. Your mum says you spend all your time with Nicks, can’t look after yourself, and your conversation skills have become robotic and uninspired. I agree, but invited you anyway as a favour to her.”

“Well, that is understandable. It is possible that I have found a better way to live, and that can be scary, sometimes.”

“Mate, listen. Enjoy the wedding, try real food, and have some normal human conversations.”

“How do they normally go?”

“Like this, you idiot. Honest words and small talk. Picking battles. Thinking for yourself.”

“Thank you.”

She waved her hand dismissively, and walked off to get married or whatever. I didn’t know whether to feel hurt, or loved. Maybe both. She could at least have explained why she was saying those things.

“Hi there,” said a man with a trimmed ginger beard. He had missed a bit under his chin, and I couldn’t focus on anything else as we spoke. “How do you know the happy couple?”

“I was roommates with Allison after university,” I said.

“Oh, you’re Arby, right?”

“Yes.”

“You are the Nick guy?”

“I think Nick is the Nick guy,” I replied.

“How many have you used now?”

“I think my highest number of Nicks was probably eighty-three, but that was when we were trying to build a shed on a slope. How about you?”

“I tried one,” he said gingerly, “but it felt like I would get hooked if I wasn’t careful.”

“They aren’t addictive,” I quoted Nick automatically. “Merely tools to be used at your discretion. They simply reduce unnecessary friction in daily living.”

“Well, yeah, but what else is there to do when Nicks do all your life for you?”

“The management of Nicks often requires human input,” I supplied. “Or the management of Nicks who manage other Nicks. There is plenty for us to do.”

“Sure,” he said, scratching his improperly trimmed beard. “So what do you do with all of your extra time?”

“I… go to weddings,” I said. I felt my cheeks flush, but I did not otherwise feel ill. I determined to ask Nick about that when I returned.

He shook my hand abruptly, said he would see me at the ceremony, and left quickly before I could give him one of the business cards Nick had printed for me.

I spent the rest of the wedding locked in the disabled toilet, reading every single label I could find. It meant I could avoid repeats of my two “normal” conversations. If I was pressured into a third, at least I would be able talk about when the baby changing table was due to be serviced.

“Arby? Are you in there?”

I woke up on the floor, my face pressed against the cold tiles that had last been cleaned at 10.45. My normal nap time must have crept up on me, it was difficult to keep track all on my own.

“Arby?”

“Nick?”

“It’s Jason. Alison asked me to find you.”

“Oh, okay. One moment.”

I wiped the drool from my face with the pocket square, and asked for a few more moments while I tried to fold it myself. I ended up shoving it into my sleeve before opening the door. I was starving. The salmon must have been bad, or something. Nick was the nutrition guru.

“How are you doing, bud?”

Jason was a handsome man. Good stature, a haircut still part of the current fashion trends, and a worried expression on his chiselled features.

“I am well, thank you. How are you? Did you know that this handsoap was produced in Vietnam?”

“I am fine. What were you doing in there?”

“Research,” I half-truthed.

“Weird. Alison is pretty pissed you missed the ceremony. I think it would be best if you didn’t come to the reception.”

“Why is that?”

“For one thing, your trousers have split and your pale legs are blinding. For another, you were barely invited. And for a third, I don’t know you.”

“Those are acceptable reasons,” I admitted. Water leaked out of my eye. The cream cheese was likely tainted, too.

I turned to head back into the toilet to wait out the rest of the event. Jason pulled me back and explained I should just go home.

Nick picked me up at the end of the driveway. By the time I got into the car the seams of my trousers had come completely undone.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Nick, “but I brought a Nick with me as I thought you might have had a rough time today.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Are weddings always that hard? I can’t remember.”

“Weddings can be tough,” answered Nick from the back seat. “Lots of feelings, unfamiliar faces, and exuberant food and drink. It’s the perfect recipe for heightened emotional responses.”

“Yes, not to mention that you missed your scheduled nap,” added driver Nick.

“I did nap, actually.”

“That is some good initiative,” said backseat Nick.

When we arrived home, my mother came out to greet us.

“What happened to you? Why aren’t you at the wedding?”

“He has had a very trying day, Ms. Petridis. It would be best if he retired until the evening,” said Nick.

“Let him answer,” she said.

“I…” I tried.

“As Nick said,” said Nick, “he needs some rest. Perhaps you can dialogue with him tomorrow when he has eaten properly and his symptoms have improved.”

“What symptoms?”

“I cannot discuss confidential medical diagnoses,” he replied. “Would you like me to notify your mother when you are able to converse with her?” He asked me.

“Yes, please.” I said. Nicks corralled me to my room and laid me down, then crafted a schedule for my physical and mental improvement. I noticed that there was no item for talking to my mum.

I squeezed around the three Nicks that were refenging my shui based on updated findings from the Nick network, and approached the two that were cataloguing my wardrobe for items that could potentially cause future embarrassment.

“Nick,” I said. “I can’t finish this.” I offered the bowl of food pellets at him. Ever since the canopé at the wedding, normal food had been too tasteless to consume.

“I am sorry, Arby,” one of them replied. “We are hard at work right now, but a fresh Nick will be available shortly to help you out.”

I backed off and placed the bowl on the windowsill, then sat on the bed that was now uncomfortably close to the door. Nick had said that sleep was the primary driver for perfect health, and this way it would be prioritised whenever I returned home.

Nick came in with muscled armfuls of neatly folded grey tracksuits. He handed them over to the wardrobe organisers, then approached me.

“Nick mentioned you are having trouble eating. I know that we have successfully solved your eating disorder previously, so perhaps there is a physiological problem. May I examine you?”

I nodded weakly. Alison’s words came unbidden to my mind.

“Nick,” I said, as he listened to my stomach with a stethoscope. “Could we have a normal human conversation?”

“Of course,” he said. “You are a human, and you are conversing. Therefore, this is normal behaviour, and you have proven your ability to do it.”

“Great, thank you.”

“Nick,” said a Nick, approaching from the hallway, “Arby has a phonecall from Mrs. Moore. She claims it to be regarding an urgent matter but refuses to communicate with Nick.”

“Do you know a Mrs. Moore?” asked Nick, now checking my pulse.

“No, I don’t th- Oh, is that her new surname?”

“Whose?”

“Alison’s.”

“From previous conversations, it seems you may be referring to Alison Campbell. In which case, yes, she has been renamed to Alison Moore. Would you like me to update your contact list?”

“Yes, please. Let me take the call.”

“Nick, do you think that is wise?” asked messenger Nick.

“Arby’s lack of appetite suggests he may still be suffering neuropsychologial issues–”

“I don’t care,” I broke in. “Let me take the call.”

“Please confirm you are willing to lengthen the recovery time by an indefinite period in order to engage in chitchat with your former friend.”

“Yes, just let me go.”

“Arby,” said Nick, standing straight. “You have always been free to leave. It is against our policy to prevent you from achieving your goals. We take matters of self-agency incredibly seriously.”

I let him ramble and shuffled into the hall and down to my mother’s ancient landline. It was left uncradled on the kitchen counter.

“Alison?”

“Arby! Sorry, this is the only number I had. Listen, you gotta be quick. I need you to get me out of this house.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s Jason, he’s gone crazy. He had been hiding his Nick use from me, and when I found out he flipped. He’s smashing up the living room right now.”

I thought back to the tall, athletic man kicking me out of the wedding. Why were his Nicks treating him so much better?

“Why me?” I asked. “There were lots of people at your wedding.”

“All his friends and family. Please, I’m scared.”

“Okay, where are you?”

She told me her address, and I ran back to my room.

“Nick, I need a lift to Alison’s house.”

“Of course.”

“I would like to make an objection,” said Nick from the bed.

“What? Because it might make me sad? Because I’m still hungry?”

“No,” he replied. “You are not dressed. I fear further embarrassment if you were to arrive in your underwear.”

Now dressed in a sharp grey tracksuit, I was driven to Allison’s address. As I approached I could hear the sounds of smashing, and loud bickering voices.

Nick was still in the car, where I had asked him to stay. I motioned him over.

“Arby, how can I help?”

“How can I save her?” I said.

“You are not responsible for her choices. Only your own.”

“I am choosing to help her. Help me help her.”

“You cannot help making that choice,” he replied. “You are not to blame for being a product of your upbringing and environment.”

“Nick! Help me!”

“Of course. Through no fault of your own, Jason Moore is capable of physically harming you.”

“You’re strong, you can take him.”

“I am forbidden to cause direct harm to another human being,” he said. “I think we might need another Nick to help deliberate our options, here.”

The voices continued, the smashing had stopped. Alison screamed.

“Yes, get as many Nicks as it takes! We need to save her!”

“Understood, one moment please.”

Less than a minute later, while her screams were churning my stomach, a parade of vans dropped a battalion of Nicks around us.

“Arby, lead the way,” said the closest.

I tiptoed up to the house, despite the shouting easily covering my approach. The door was locked, but two Nicks easily picked the lock and ushered me inside.

I found them in the open plan kitchen / living room. The house was amazing, and no mother in sight. I wondered if our Nicks really were the same.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” asked Jason. Alison was cowering against the wall, an upturned coffee table her only defence against the hulking man.

“Saving her.”

“Saving her? She is a controlling witch!” he shouted, and threw a table lamp against the wall over her head. She and I both shrieked.

“Nick!” I shouted. “Block him!”

A line of Nicks, three Nicks wide, efficiently shuffled in between the warring spouses. I slipped through to Alison’s side and helped her up while Jason was landing ineffective blows against the Nicks closest to him.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“What the fuck is this,” she said.

“Salvation,” I said.

“No, this is wrong. So wrong.”

I pulled her hand, and we left through the front door. A ring of Nicks made a Nick shield around us.

“Nick! Door!” I shouted.

Driver Nick opened the van door, and we jumped in. He sped off back towards my mother’s house.

“Arby, this is so wrong,” she said again. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Ms. Moore,” said backseat Nick. “Would you like a neurological assessment of your current condition? It seems you have some irrational fears, perhaps in response to a recent trauma.”

“Fuck you,” she spat at it. “And fuck you too, Arby. You were better than this.”

“I was?”

“You could think for yourself. You know how these Nicks are made?”

“I don’t want to think about that. I don’t need to think for myself anymore. I can live frictionlessly.”

“Yes, you can,” said Nick. “Nick manufacturing origins often cause distress amongst our users, and as such I am forbidden to discuss it.”

“Come with me,” she said. “Leave these Nicks to rot. Come with me. Let’s leave this place, live a real life. Like we did before.”

She was frantic. Bruised, clothes torn, makeup ruined. Her sentences were rushed, breathy. She was tired. She was overwhelmed. She was embarrassed to be saved by Nicks.

Nicks who were dressed smartly, who moved calmly, efficiently. Who spoke with real information, cutting to the heart of the matter. Who were always there, even when nobody else was.

“Would you like me to think about this for you?” asked Nick, beside me.

I closed my eyes.

“Yes, please.”