Eye of the Beholder

“Very creative premise… highly recommended.”
“A very intriguing quick read.”

Chapter 1

An hour before Zia’s life changed completely, she got the message from Beth:
Check this out!!! It came with a URL and passcode to a not-yet-released website: CouplesUnlimited.
Apparently, it promised to find you your perfect soulmate. Pictures of couples arm in arm, grinning adoringly, filled the landing page. Her jaw tightened in disdain.
Then again, if she stayed single much longer, she wouldn’t be looking for Mr. Wonderful—she’d settle for Mr. Half-Dead.
She scanned the blurb:
We strive to match couples as perfectly as possible. Using a variety of indicators that have proved solid pointers to a joyful life together, and backed by multi-million-dollar technology, this matching process will change your life completely.
What?
‘As perfectly as possible’—what kind of terrible English was that? This was a very cheapo start-up if they couldn’t afford a proper copywriter.
‘So crappy,’ she muttered.
Being single too long could make a girl grumpy. And Beth was pestering her again—trying to match her up, or at least nudge her in that direction.
Zia started working through the application form, just to see what kind of scam these people were running.
Personal details first.
 Name: Zia Bronkowski.
 Height: 164 centimeters. Dead average.
 Sex: Female, from birth. Hair: Straggly, bendy dark hair—not curly enough to let go, not straight enough to wash and cap.
 Weight? Easy. She entered her ideal—just under 60 kilos, her weight at eighteen. Not far off that now, actually. Because of Nic.
In another lifetime—three months ago—she’d been working at Minus Virus, a big-league antivirus company selling overpriced corporate packages. That’s where she met Nicodemus Demetriou, top coder. They hit it off.
They were natural partners: both addicted to data, both obsessed with absorbing, organizing, and dissecting information. Yes, addicted.
But Nic had a curious lack of interest in the female body. Specifically, hers.
Once, after too many post-work wines, she’d suggested it was time they slept together. His shocked face told her everything. He gave her a quick hug and bolted.
Not gay either—he blushed furiously when hit on by gay colleagues.
Her frustration—being unable to consummate a relationship so perfectly matched intellectually—was hard to bear. So she moved. Out of his workplace. Into a new job. Tried to forget him.
Easier to forget you had a heart.
They still kept in touch, sort of. No personal messages. Occasional work emails. Mostly Nic asking her to clarify lines of code she’d written—questions he already knew the answers to. If that was his way of saying, ‘I can’t get you out of my head,’ it wasn’t enough.
Say it out loud, Nic. Sometimes you just have to.
Next: a 65-question personality quiz.
 A variant of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. Not a bad idea. Not new, either.
She began typing.
1. You are rarely late for appointments. Agree strongly. I’m never late. Only children can’t organize themselves.
2. It’s difficult to get you excited. Hmm. Sort of agree. Depends on my level of sedation.
3. You trust reason over feelings. Agree! Your brain is more reliable than your heart. Try running a red light because your heart says it’s the right thing to do.
And so on.
After the final question, she expected to be assigned a personality type—one of the sixteen. But no. Just a Thank You.
She clicked CONTINUE.
Educational background:
 Bachelor of Arts, Master of Information Management, RMIT.
Ethnicity:
 What do you call a Polish-German-Greek-Italian mix? Probably a punchline. She put down “European.”
DNA codes.
Wait—what? They wanted her DNA? Give away her most vital ID—her self? No thanks.
She clicked the INFO icon.
By pairing you with your biological match, rather than someone you just get along with, we can promise a better sex life and more orgasms. Also: lower risk of infidelity, higher fertility, and healthier children.
Right.
She tried to skip it, but another prompt popped up:
Do you really want a partner?
 ☐ Yes
☐ Yes, but
☐ No
Now they were getting cheeky. Zia clicked Yes, but.
The page moved on.
Please upload your favorite baby photo.
What? My baby pic? What!? She was looking for a partner, not a pedophile.
She clicked NEXT.
Another pop-up:
CouplesUnlimited understands your reluctance to upload a baby photo. However, many clients are seeking long-term relationships and children. They’d like to imagine what your mutual offspring might look like.
Gross. Baby photos were for cozy dates curled up on a couch—not first-round data dumps.
She clicked CONTINUE.
Sense-sharing.
 Excuse me?
A revolution in matchmaking! When you opt in to share your vision sense, you’ll see what your match sees—in real time. Their home, their friends, their world.
She laughed aloud. Marketing bullshit. They could feed you any random stream and pretend it was your soulmate’s vision. And only someone like Beth would fall for it.
Zia messaged her:
This doesn’t work for me. It’s a hideous scam. You should know better.
Beth shot back:
UR so wrong it’s great. Let’s meet tomoz lunch—I’ll explain.
Zia sighed.
 Okaaay. I’ll give it five more minutes.
How much were they charging for this nonsense?
She clicked BUY.
The price surprised her:
 $20 – best-match profile using birth data and quiz results.
 $30 – adds best genetic fit. Supposedly increased odds of a lasting relationship.
 $50 – the cupcake’s icing: a two-minute peek through your match’s vision.
Absolute crap. This tech didn’t exist—no way. No research even hinted at it.
She texted again:
 Can’t. Meetings all day. Maybe after work.
KK. CU then. Tell me what you think.
Damn. If she didn’t use the passcode, she’d have to endure Beth’s freezing stare while inventing excuses. Better to just look.
She returned to the login page. Entered Beth’s code.
Preferred sex? Male.
 Location? Oakleigh, Victoria, Australia.
Please wait while we complete your perfect match.
About time.
Thirty seconds later, her laptop dinged.
Say hello to Blake.
A shadowy outline of a male head appeared.
You’ve matched me to a silhouette? Was this a ploy to keep people glued to the screen?
Profile not available for this version. Do you want to see what Blake is seeing right now?
Er—awkward. But what the hell?
She activated screen recording and clicked YES.
Blackness.
Then—shards of light in one corner. Clunky. She switched on screen video capture.
Sky. Treetops.
Two bodies appeared—visible from the thighs up. One wore a black tee, the other faded green with some indistinct graphic.
The view tilted.
Is Blake lying on his side?
Sudden darkness. Four arms reaching toward Blake. Then another pair.
Blake’s?
The screen wobbled, like he was trying to stand.
Blackness again. Then vision returned.
A hedgerow. Trees. A two-story Victorian house in the distance. Blake’s gaze darted left, right—trees, sky, grass all whirling.
Then down.
His legs, in jeans. His feet wore Adidas, on gravel.
Around his ankles—
Chains.

Chapter 2

There had been four of them in the room that day, judging Ethan Stone as he made his pitch. A preliminary meeting—just a few investors invited to get first dibs on a new opportunity.
It had been organized by Richard Thwaites, an old university colleague who somehow knew everyone with money. Probably because his father ran a venture capital firm and tasked Richard with weeding out the flakier submissions.
Ethan got to the meat of his presentation.
‘Our matchmaking software,’ he said, ‘relies initially on the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator to produce accurate results. You may have heard of it.’
‘Heard of it?’ one investor scoffed, sounding bored and dismissive at once. ‘We use it constantly at the office to make sure new hires are a good fit. We also use DiSC profiling.’
‘We’re adding that,’ Ethan said quickly.
‘Will you need to pay licensing fees for Myers-Briggs,’ another investor asked, ‘or are you just planning to copy it and run your own version?’
That was Baron—yes, Baron, not Barry. He seemed genuinely interested, but he was probing. Checking if Ethan was prepared to bend the rules. Most venture capital guys weren’t bank manager types—they were freebooting pirates in designer suits. They didn’t mind if you cut corners, as long as you won the lawsuits that followed. Court cases made headlines, and for a fresh startup, publicity was priceless.
‘We’re negotiating a royalty, Baron,’ Ethan said, ‘but if they’re greedy and we can’t settle, we’ll launch our own version and see what happens.’
He must have sounded confident—Baron nodded in approval.
Ethan advanced to a new PowerPoint slide. There was fifty million dollars’ worth of seed money on the table. He had to nail this.
‘MBTI matches people closely around forty percent of the time. It’s a solid foundation, but not enough. So we’ve added astrological factors. Not the usual fluff you find in magazines, but data derived from focused testing and narrowed to key planetary aspects.’
‘Like what, exactly?’ Baron again.
‘We look for strong sun-moon connections between partners. That alignment makes people view one another as ideal companions. It creates a deep, natural bond—one that can override other conflicts.’
‘I see.’
‘On its own, the astrology results are surprisingly effective. When we blend them with MBTI data, our implied match success rate jumps to seventy-five percent.’
‘Yawn,’ said the first guy—the Heckler. Ethan realized he’d been planted. They were testing him, trying to get under his skin, to see if he really believed in the pitch.
They were money men. They recognized truth when they saw it. That thought steadied him. Ethan was good with truth—especially shaping it.
‘You may be skeptical,’ he said, smiling tightly, ‘but the only thing that matters is this works.’
The Heckler returned a smile, thin as a paper cut. But Richard wore a slight grin.
‘The third part of the package is beautiful—simply beautiful,’ Ethan said. ‘We’re offering DNA matching. But not how you’d expect.’
Silence from the Heckler.
‘Studies have shown women are naturally drawn to men with different compatibility genes—unconsciously selecting partners whose DNA gives their children an evolutionary advantage.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ the Heckler asked.
‘We believe we’ve isolated a handful of genetic markers that influence attraction. It’s the DNA version of ‘opposites attract.’ Couples chosen this way often experience the rare sensation of perfect chemistry.’
No response from the Heckler.
‘With this kind of match, we can all but guarantee sexual compatibility, high fertility, and—obviously—healthier children.’
The Heckler shrugged and looked out the window. ‘I’m giddy with excitement.’
Richard leaned forward. ‘What else have you got, Ethan?’
Not much, actually. Just the seed of an idea. But he needed to throw them another bone.
‘We’re developing a concept called Sense-Sharing,’ Ethan said. ‘A user would be able to see the world through their matched partner’s eyes—for a limited time. Real-time vision sharing. They’d see their environment, home, friends. It’s revolutionary.’
All four men straightened. Richard beamed like a lighthouse. Even the Heckler stayed quiet.
Ethan pressed on, feeling the momentum shift.
‘Audio-Sharing is expected to follow shortly. Then, eventually, the other senses.’
‘How does the sight-sharing work?’ asked the third investor.
‘We’re experimenting with a brain implant that intercepts neural signals and transmits them to our servers.’
‘This is possible?’
‘We’re in discussions with a top-tier medical lab. They foresee no major obstacles.’
He delivered the knockout blow. ‘Ultimately, we’ll offer Touch-Sharing. You can imagine how popular that would be.’
They certainly could. The mood shifted—they were grinning now, like toddlers handed ice cream.
‘Users could even opt for a permanent hookup, on a monthly subscription,’ Ethan added. ‘That’s where the real money is.’
Bingo.
They murmured among themselves, asked a few more questions. The hard part was over.
Afterward, Richard took Ethan aside.
‘I think you’ve got a winner. But we need to see the Sense-Sharing—prototype level is fine. You’ve got thirty days to show us it’s possible. Doesn’t have to be pretty, just real.’
He slapped Ethan on the back and walked him to the door. ‘Fabulous idea, Ethan. Fabulous.’ He crushed his hand in a final goodbye.

◆◆◆

Ethan first met Tarquin Locksley inside the spotless Medi-Labs facility in Caulfield. Tarquin, a sleek forty-year-old with streaks of gray in his dark hair, gave him a quick rundown.
‘My background’s in brain surgery,’ he said, ‘but I’ve always loved tech. A couple of mates and I scraped together some capital and built this place.’
Ethan explained the concept of Sense-Sharing.
‘We can do it,’ Tarquin said. ‘But it’ll require a brain implant.’
‘Nothing simpler?’
‘Not yet. But science moves fast.’
‘Shouldn’t you test this on pigs or rats first?’
‘No need. We’ve already run those trials for other purposes. And we’ve got access to unpublished research paving the way for deeper brain-tech interaction. We’re a little ahead of the curve.’
Smooth operator. Possibly a corner-cutter.
‘Do you handle the operation here?’ Ethan asked.
‘We have access to a hospital theatre. And we’ve got a top neurosurgeon on retainer.’
‘So… you insert a tiny device the size of a coin, and it intercepts sensory signals?’
Tarquin looked pained.
‘We don’t stick it in, as you put it. It’s a surgical implant—less than a millimeter wide. Already in use for treating drug addiction. We’d need to re-engineer it to intercept and transmit sensory signals.’
‘As easy as that?’
‘Not exactly. For one, the retina sees images upside down. The brain corrects that. So you’ll need software to do the same.’
‘Doable. The rest of the surgery’s simple?’
‘No. It’ll be tricky. We’ll have to go near the amygdala—controls emotion, among other things.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The patient might react strangely to normal visual input.’
‘Wouldn’t drugs help?’
‘The effective ones would deaden all responses. Probably not what you want.’
A malpractice suit would be a disaster. Investors wouldn’t welcome that kind of publicity. Ethan would need a bulletproof waiver—the volunteer had to have zero legal comeback.
But glitches or not, he needed funding. No sense-sharing, no money. And he was already overstretched just using his own money.
‘That’s amazing,’ Ethan said, beaming. He reached across the boardroom table. ‘You’ve just got yourself another customer.’
‘Glad to help.’
‘Think you can capture all the senses?’
Tarquin brushed aside imaginary dust from the boardroom table between them. ‘Everything is possible, but it’s a  long haul to deliver all the senses. A very expensive haul.’
Ah. So he wanted money upfront.
‘How much to deliver just vision?’
‘Two million. Maybe more.’
Jesus.
‘And the research? It’s ours, exclusive? We can’t have competitors copying this—we need a head start.’
Tarquin shook his head.
‘If you want exclusivity, we’ll need equity. That protects both sides.’
Jesus, Mary, and—
‘I’ll talk to my stakeholders. We’re mid–VC round and getting a lot of interest.’
‘I understand,’ Tarquin said, standing to shake hands like a man who didn’t expect to hear from Ethan again.
Ethan walked out swearing under his breath. His shareholding was shrinking. But he had no choice.
The company was now committed to sense-sharing. Without it, the investors would vanish—and he’d be down a million bucks.
The next week, Ethan struck a deal: Medi-Labs would take a 6% stake in CouplesUnlimited in exchange for $3 million in research. If they delivered no working prototype, their stake would be halved.
They shook hands on it, and Ethan began his search for the prototype target—a guy who didn’t mind a surgeon re-engineering his brain.

◆◆◆

‘What about this guy Blake?’ Beth asked, scrolling through their list of beta applicants. She stopped on a photo of a dark-eyed guy with streaky blond hair past his chin—surfie vibes all over.
‘He’s a student,’ she said. ‘Means he’s broke, I betcha. Cute, too.’
‘Of course he’s broke. We’ll tell him the experiment could change the world. He could be famous—like the first clone.’
‘Who was that? And how much are we offering?’
‘Dolly the sheep. Two grand a week. Ten weeks.’
‘That’ll make Blake’s eyes pop.’
Beth tilted her head. ‘Dolly was into dating?’
Ethan stifled a laugh. Beth got touchy about her lack of formal education.
‘No, she was a clone of her mother.’
Beth may not know medical trivia, but she knew people. Blake didn’t need much convincing. He met them the next day at a café.
‘The procedure’s minor,’ Ethan explained. ‘We’ll implant a tiny sensor in your brain that transmits neural signals to our server. Anyone matched to you will be able to see what you see—real-time.’
‘Amazing,’ Blake said, reaching for his third bread roll. ‘This real?’
‘It’s a breakthrough,’ Beth said. ‘You’ll be famous.’
‘Not really into that kinda thing.’
‘Only if you want to be,’ she added quickly. ‘We guarantee discretion.’
‘And the money?’
‘Enough to get off noodles.’
‘When’s the op?’
‘Later this week, if you’re okay with it,’ Ethan said.
Beth leaned toward him. ‘We’d love to have you on the team.’
‘I get paid upfront?’
‘Weekly retainer starts now,’ Ethan said. ‘Beth will grab your bank details.’
Blake nodded, as if the money was fine, but not thrilling.
‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘Will this op mess with my music?’
‘You’re a musician?’ Beth asked. ‘You listed student.’
‘I study music—piano, cello, voice. I also play in bands sometimes. Classical’s my thing, but the band gigs help. Crappy pay though. All angsty teen stuff.’
‘This won’t affect your musical ability,’ Ethan said. ‘We’re only targeting visual input.’
‘Great,’ Blake said, polishing off his wine and tucking the last bread roll into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and turned to Beth.
‘You want my bank details now?’

Chapter 3

The morning meeting of the management team at Bolte University, Oakleigh Campus Library, began with a discussion on overdue fines—and somehow grew even more boring from there.
Fines weren’t Zia’s responsibility unless changes needed to be made, in which case, as Systems Librarian, she was merely expected to update the new amounts in the system. And she couldn’t stop thinking about those chains—the images from the night before lingering in her mind, doing nothing to improve her mood. She wouldn’t have answers until she met with Beth later.
‘As you know,’ began Margot Rydell, Librarian Manager, ‘we have over two hundred thousand items in circulation, of which one percent are overdue at any time. At thirty cents per item per day, that’s about $600 in daily revenue. Much of this remains uncollected. So, I propose we raise our fines to compensate.’
Zia was certain Margot had never struggled for money in her life. She probably had no idea how students stretched their meager funds. Borrowing a book and paying a fine was often cheaper than buying it.
‘The thing is,’ Zia said, ‘students who genuinely forget will be punished, while those who don’t care will shrug it off. They either have parental support or they’ll wait for the usual end-of-year amnesty.’
Margot tapped her pen on the table. ‘We value your technical expertise, Zia, but student welfare isn’t your department.’
‘Well, I still have an opinion.’
‘And such an interesting one, too.’
Somebody snickered. No one else chimed in, and Margot moved on. She had her flaws, but she knew better than to push through an unpopular decision. Disapproval bred resistance—or worse, silent sabotage.
Two more hours followed. Topics: extended Sunday hours, sloppy reshelving, IT problems (slow internet, unavailable PCs, printer issues). Zia had answers to the IT issues: more funding. Funding that had been promised but never delivered.
The last topic sparked actual passion: the staff Christmas lunch venue. Debate raged for forty-five minutes before people began trickling out, citing other commitments.
Zia escaped with only a couple of hours of report generation for Margot—likely punishment for speaking up.
In the library cafeteria, she grabbed a flat white in her reusable cup and a ham-and-cheese croissant to take back to her desk. Predictable, safe, filling—her usual lunch. But even as she ran database reports to identify the worst student offenders for late returns, that image—those chained ankles—wouldn’t leave her mind.
The runners had been Adidas. Just like hers.
She texted Beth. Chicos at 6?
Chico’s was a Mexican-themed bar and coffee shop: chunky wooden furniture, low lighting, posters of bullfights, flamenco dancers, and a lone Chico Marx still. The best coffee within walking distance. Zia approved.
She ordered two flat whites: hers skinny, Beth’s full cream. She added a toasted banana bread she hoped Beth would eat most of.
Beth arrived in an exuberant crush of hugs and both-cheek kisses, but anybody watching them would wonder what they had in common.
Zia wore black pants, a pale blue check blouse under a loose charcoal cardigan, and polished brown lace-up boots. A girl could attend church in that outfit.
Beth, dark-haired, with the waist of a wasp, but fleshed out in the other places guys liked, was jammed into ripped blue jeans, black Doc Martens, and a white tee. The rest of her sported a black leather jacket, a red ball cap that matched her fiery nails, and oversized sunnies that hid most of her face. Definitely not dressed for bible study class.
Zia had never fully understood their friendship. Sure, Beth was fun—outrageous after a third drink—but if you crossed her, she’d ghost you for months. For some, that was a relief. But Beth’s charm, her uncanny ability to read moods and lift spirits, kept her in Zia’s orbit.
Beth was always chasing the next thing. Most recently, she’d tried drop-shipping vegan faux eyelashes on Amazon. She wasn’t vegan, just good at spotting trends.
And her boyfriends. One grifter after another. She only kept the ones with better ideas than hers. Once she’d learned enough? She ditched them like pocket lint.
‘Still seeing that guy?’ Zia had asked about one especially skeevy example.
Beth had shrugged. ‘Only physically.’
Jeez.
Now Zia explained what she’d seen the night before.
‘Wha?’ Beth tore off her sunnies, rearing back theatrically. ‘That’s not supposed to happen.’
‘How do you know? Are you involved?’
‘Ethan—the guy I told you about? It’s his company. I’ll ask him what went wrong. You’re not supposed to see that kind of thing. You can only connect to someone if they’ve given permission. And they agree nothing creepy gets transmitted.’
‘I hope so. It was maybe a minute long, but freaky as hell.’
‘Sounds like a prank. If the soulmate was responsible, he’ll be fined.’
‘How badly?’
Beth tilted her head. ‘Didn’t read his contract, did I?’
Zia sipped her coffee. ‘How do they transmit vision electronically?’
‘Obviously, it’s secret tech. Patents pending or whatever. But it’s not cameras.’
‘No eyeball cams?’
Beth laughed. ‘God, no. There’s a chip in your brain. It intercepts signals from the eyes and sends the output to a receiver, which then streams it.’
Zia put her cup down. ‘You’re serious? You’ve seen this?’
‘I’m telling you what Ethan told me.’
‘It’s not brain re-engineering?’
‘More like a bug catching nerve signals.’
‘So to meet someone, I have to agree to have a chip in my brain?’
‘You can lurk and observe. But to meet, yes.’
‘That’s not made clear on the site. Not telling people about brain implants is shady.’
‘You can’t overwhelm users with info right away.’
Zia gaped. ‘That’s your defense?’
‘This isn’t some polished marketing video. You’re seeing real-time images.’
‘What I saw wasn’t romantic.’
‘A glitch. Or maybe a hack. That’s my guess.’
Zia understood the attraction Ethan had for Beth; he owned an original idea, and if developed right, he could monetise it very well indeed. And she would be right by his side. ‘So, you didn’t meet Ethan by selecting him on the website?’
‘At a party. He looked at me like he could devour me. It wasn’t creepy, just… intense. We talked for hours. He said drop-shipping was dumb—too much competition. Better to do something original.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Right? I’m not the smartest, but I can spot a good idea.’
At least Beth was self-aware. That was something.
‘Is this all Ethan’s idea?’
‘Mostly. I think.’
So, not in the inner circle yet. Just circling the flame.
‘You got hooked on the idea, then on him?’
‘Exactly. And things… happened.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Six weeks.’
Typical. You’d never know who Beth was seeing unless you asked.
‘That’s a long relationship for you.’
She grinned. ‘We got matching tattoos.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘On the arm.’
She pulled up her sleeve. A small tattoo—swirls and squiggles the size of a beer cap. Pretty, meaningless.
‘Does it say ‘love’ in some obscure language? Or ‘regret this later’?’
‘Ha, ha. It means we’re connected. Ethan thought it up.’
‘So, everything you know is what Ethan told you.’
Beth pouted. ‘You make him sound like a villain. He’s nice. Old money, good manners. Whatever you saw, it was a bug. Still in beta.’
She swatted the air, miming gnats. ‘You can ask him yourself.’
‘Oh, I will. I’m curious. He might be installing webcams in people’s skulls.’
Zia pushed over the rest of the banana bread.
Beth, who could live in a bakery and not gain weight, took it happily.
‘Anyway,’ she said, mouth full, ‘how’s your love life? Still pining for Nic?’
‘Non-existent. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have joined that stupid site.’
‘That last guy was cute.’
‘All he did was game. I came last.’
Beth patted her hand. ‘Sometimes you have to spell things out for guys.’
Beth understood men. Zia didn’t.
‘That’s why I gave you the CouplesUnlimited voucher. The algorithm does the work. Total pain it glitched.’
‘Maybe it was fate.’
‘Rubbish,’ Beth said. ‘I’ll talk to Ethan. He’ll fix it.’
He’d better. Mix-up or not, what Zia saw had been dark. And she would never unsee it.

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