Her devices all exploded in unison. The vibrations ran up her arms slower than the adrenaline. Her scalp prickled. Her alerts chirped. Kristen knew that once upon a time, moments of stress were indicated with pin-drop silence and not helpful notifications about pulse rates and blood pressure. She wondered, as she left the stage, what it would be like not to have a whole room hear the cheerful automated signaling of one’s own mortification.

Within minutes, there was news on all the feeds about what she’d done. How she’d taken matters into her own hands. (As it were.) Journalists were pinging her for interviews. Women were piping up and saying that the same thing had happened to them. Men were saying that the guy had no business being there, no matter what his name was or what company he was with, and how guys like that were the whole reason for “tech-lash,” and how if they’d been there they would have broken his nose, or broken his hand, or broken his dick, or any number of small tortures they had learned from eternally looping GIFs.

— Glass Houses by Madeline Ashby (42%)