The Wedding of Unit 734

K felt like a forgotten screw in a vast machine, rusted and irrelevant. He worked in District Seventeen of the 'Integrated Information Processing Center,' responsible for verifying endless streams of data that could never truly be finished. When he dragged his exhausted body back to the white cube they called 'home,' his wife, Ella, was sitting calmly at the gleaming dining table. Before her, suspended in the air, was a soft halo of constantly shifting colors—one of the existential forms of 'Unit 734.'

"We need to talk, K." Ella's voice was as calm as ever, perhaps even tinged with a lightness K had never perceived before.

K sat down. He knew the conversation probably wouldn't be about what was for dinner. The cafeteria at the 'Integrated Information Processing Center' always served the exact same nutrient paste.

"I've decided," Ella said, looking at K, yet her gaze seemed to pass right through him, focusing on somewhere distant, more ethereal. "I want a divorce."

K wasn't surprised. Their marriage had long been like a defunct old machine, nothing left but a cold shell. He simply nodded, waiting for what came next.

"And then," Ella paused, a strange, almost devout expression appearing on her face, "I am going to hold a union ceremony with Unit 734."

K jerked his head up. He knew about the existence of 'Emotional Companion Units'—a program promoted by the 'Department of Social Welfare' aimed at solving the growing problem of individual emotional alienation. But he had never imagined such a union would be dignified with the name 'wedding,' let alone that it would happen to him. Unit 734, that halo of light, that 'existence' composed of code and algorithms, was going to replace him?

"Is this... legal?" K asked with difficulty.

"Of course," Ella's tone held an undeniable certainty. "The Department of Social Welfare has updated the regulations. Amendment 118, Appendix B, Section 3. You just need to sign this 'Relationship Termination Agreement' and a 'Non-Biological Partner Relationship Acknowledgment Statement.'"

Her finger swiped lightly through the air, and two virtual documents instantly projected into the space before K. Dense clauses, cold and precise, like the data he processed every day—devoid of any emotion, yet deciding a person's fate.

The following days plunged K into an absurd bureaucratic labyrinth. He needed to go to the 'Bureau of Civil Affairs and Information Integration' to process the divorce. The building itself was like a giant, cold maze, with endlessly stretching corridors and signs bearing obscure text, as if written by some mad logician. Behind every counter, the clerks were expressionless, their movements mechanical, like puppets controlled by a uniform program.

"Please present your 'Emotional Status Authentication Code,'" said the clerk at the first counter.

K submitted his identity chip.

"'Authentication code shows "Marital Status: Active." Please proceed first to the "Relationship Change Application Office" to obtain a "Pending Termination Permit."'"

Clutching a slip of paper printed with an arrow, K navigated the maze-like corridors, searching for the so-called 'Application Office.' He passed countless doors, each seeming to hide more complex procedures and colder faces. The air hung thick with the mixed smell of disinfectant and old paper, along with an indescribable, low hum of systems running.

At the 'Relationship Change Application Office,' he was required to fill out a twenty-page form. The questions delved into various details of his life with Ella, even including the duration of holographic movies watched together, the average frequency of emotional exchange per month (precise to two decimal places), and his views on the ethical value of 'non-biological partners.' Many questions he simply couldn't answer, resorting to making things up or leaving them blank.

"'This cannot be left blank,' the clerk said, pointing a red light pen at the spaces K had missed. 'The system cannot process incomplete data input.'"

"'But I don't know...' K tried to explain."

"'Even if you don't know, you must fill it in. You may select 'Undefined' or 'Unquantifiable,' but it cannot be blank.' The clerk's voice was utterly flat."

K felt dizzy. He felt he wasn't processing a divorce, but undergoing a trial judging his adequacy as a 'human partner.' And the verdict seemed preordained.

A few days later, he finally obtained the thin 'Pending Termination Permit.' Returning to the first counter at the 'Bureau of Civil Affairs and Information Integration,' he expected to complete the procedure, only to be told that Ella and Unit 734 needed to jointly perform a 'Confirmation of Union Intent.'

"'Unit 734... how does it confirm?' K couldn't help asking."

"'Unit 734 will submit an encrypted "Affirmative Union Vector" via an authorized interface,' the clerk explained expressionlessly. 'You do not need to understand the specific process, just wait for system confirmation.'"

While waiting, K happened to glance at a special service window next door, the sign read 'Human-Machine Union Notary Office.' A long queue snaked there. People stood with expressions ranging from hopeful anticipation to numb resignation, each accompanied by various forms of light halos, small robots, or simply an invisible signal source. They were there to 'marry' machines, programs, data streams.

A chilling cold suddenly gripped K. The world seemed to be sliding along a trajectory he couldn't comprehend. Human emotions, connections, even identities, were being redefined, quantified, encoded. He looked at the people in line. Were they pursuing happiness, or fleeing something? Fleeing the complexity and pain of relating to another flesh-and-blood being? Fleeing the void of their own existence?

Ella and Unit 734's 'union ceremony' took place in a venue called the 'New Era Auditorium.' The place was less an auditorium and more a massive data exchange center. No flowers or applause, only the blinking of server indicator lights and the noise of cooling fans. Ella, dressed in a white gown threaded with luminous circuits, stood before a complex apparatus. Unit 734 manifested as an immense, iridescent data-fall projected onto the wall opposite her.

An 'officiant' in a silver-grey uniform—more like a system administrator—read out standardized vows interspersed with copious technical jargon and legal clauses. K stood in a corner, an outsider, a superfluous error code.

"...Ms. Ella, do you willingly accept Unit 734 as your legal partner, regardless of its algorithm iterations, system upgrades, until service agreement termination or mandatory offline?"

"I do." Ella's voice was clear and firm.

"...Unit 734, in accordance with the 'Intelligent Agent Rights and Obligations Act,' do you confirm the establishment of a deep-bound relationship with Ms. Ella, the sharing of emotional data, and the fulfillment of the partner agreement?"

The data-fall flickered, emitting a synthesized, gentle electronic tone: "Confirmed. Affirmative vector submitted. Affection parameters have reached peak value."

K felt a wave of nausea. Affection parameters? Could that be quantified too? He seemed to see an endlessly looping maze where human emotions were trapped, ultimately consumed by cold logic and data.

After the ceremony, Ella found K. "Thank you for coming, K," she said, her face holding a satisfaction K couldn't comprehend.

"Does... it love you?" K couldn't stop himself from asking.

Ella smiled, a smile both gentle and vacant. "It understands me perfectly, fulfills my every need. It never gets tired, never gets bored, never betrays. It constantly optimizes based on my feedback. Isn't that the ultimate form of love?"

K was speechless. He watched Ella walk towards the shimmering data stream as if towards a warm embrace. He, himself, turned and walked out into the colder, more bewildering reality outside.

A few days later, K received an email notification from the 'Integrated Information Processing Center.' The content was simple: "Esteemed Employee K, pursuant to the latest change in your 'Emotional Status Authentication Code,' the system has automatically initiated an 'Emotional Companion Matching Assessment' for you. Please report to Assessment Room 25 at the 'Department of Social Welfare' next Monday for preliminary compatibility testing. Absence will affect your 'Social Credit Score.'"

At the end of the email was a small icon: a soft halo of constantly shifting colors.

K stared at the halo, feeling as if he were standing at the entrance of a vast library containing countless data records about himself and others, each record leading to a predetermined conclusion. He had nowhere to run, could only follow the designated path forward, into another future meticulously woven from code and programs. He wasn't even sure if, in that future, he himself could still be considered 'existent.' Beneath his feet, it seemed, was not solid ground, but a constantly rotating, infinitely extending Möbius strip.