A/N: So, if you read my fic in general, then you know that I like to write about the misfortunes in my life and the lives of others. Sometimes they're really dark and angsty, and other times they're not. Sometimes I write about mildly horrifying things like stomach viruses, university bureaucracy, and just plain old bad mornings. Or, in this case, computers dying. That is why I have not updated The Bodies in the Beach in something like 3 (or maybe even 4... yikes) weeks, and why I have not been able to read/review anyone's recent fic *coughlizcough* It's not for lack of wanting to, it's for lack of a computer that actually worked when it was supposed to. Now that laptop is off to HP land to either be fixed or replaced, and I've been relegated to using the public library's computers for internet access.

Actually, the most amazing (borderline miraculous) thing happened today. For the first time in 2 years (!), the internet connection on my desktop computer decided to work. I did nothing to this computer except turn it on, and shut my mouth, the internet works. God is good and He is in a good mood, I'm telling you. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that it stays this way until my laptop comes home!

So now that I'm done whining about my computer/life, read this and let me know what you think. :) Enjoy!

"Work, damn it," she swore under her breath, holding down the power key until the laptop stopped buzzing. Over the past week the machine would sporadically die without warning, taking her unsaved partial manuscript with it, and now it was making what could only be described as the sound of a hornets nest as the screen flickered on and off.

She turned it back on after sitting with it for a few silent seconds, holding her breath that by some mercy the computer would prompt to automatically recover the fifteen or so pages of book that she had not yet saved. Naturally, the computer did no such thing, and she let out a pained moan.

"Are you okay?" a voice asked. She looked up from her desk to see Booth standing in the doorway, leaning in on the frame, looking both concerned and bemused. She pursed her lips.

"This… thing…" she said, unable to think of a better word, "isn't working."

"What's wrong with it?" he asked, flopping back on her couch. She shrugged.

"It started giving me problems a few weeks ago, and now it keeps dying for no good reason. I've charged the battery, I've never dropped it or spilled anything on it, in fact I've been keeping it plugged into the outlet thinking that maybe it was losing power faster than I could charge it…"

"How old is it?" he asked.

"About two years," she said. He made a knowing face.

"Warranty time," he said simply. She furrowed her brows.

"Excuse me?"

"Warranty time," he said. "The warranty, the manufacturer's warranty, it usually expires after two years."

"What has that got to do with anything?" she asked. He made a face as if resisting the urge to roll his eyes, rising from the couch and leaning on her desk on the rise of his palms.

"Because," he said patiently, "when the warranty runs out, they don't have to fix it for free anymore, you just have to buy a new computer. Haven't you ever noticed that all computers seem to die after two or three years?"

"Not really," she said. "I'd never thought about it."

"It's true," he said. "Ask anybody, computers always die after two years, right after the warranty expires." She snorted, pressing the power button again as the screen flickered on and off rapidly. She was fortunate not to be epileptic.

"You say that as if manufacturers hard-wire the computers to die after two years of use," she said. When he did not respond, she looked up and saw the somber look on his face. "Oh, you're serious?" He nodded.

"Absolutely," he said. "Come on! Why else would something that advanced just up and die after only two years? Do cars die after two years? Airplanes? Refrigerators?"

"I think the mechanics of an automobile are quite a bit more sophisticated than those of a computer," she said. He snorted.

"Does your car suggest songs to buy that you might like, based on what you already have? Does your car keep a calendar that reminds you of what to do? Does your car let you video chat with people from all around the world? Does your car…"

"I get it," she said, cutting him off. "Computers are extremely versatile, I understand. That doesn't mean they should be more prone to premature death than any other sophisticated piece of technology."

"Yeah, but if cars died all the time, people would get hurt," he continued to argue as she gave up on the laptop, shutting it and slipping it into a bag. "The worst thing that happens when your computer dies is that you can't get on Facebook."

"Or it eats half of your new manuscript," she added irritably.

"Right," he said. "But it's not like if a Boeing just up and stops working after two years. The people who make computers know you're going to need another one and that you'll dish out a grand to replace it, so why not make them to break? If laptops lasted ten years, nobody would ever buy a new one, and the companies wouldn't make any money."

"You're beginning to sound like Hodgins," she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder and exiting the office. He strode easily next to her, shaking his head.

"It's not a conspiracy theory, it's an actual conspiracy!" he insisted. "They make bright, shiny, thin computers you can take anywhere that can do seventeen things at a time, but they make them so they don't last very long. They're like drugs—you get reeled in by the high, but then you have to keep shelling out cash for your addiction."

"That's not actually a bad metaphor," she said. He paused, caught off guard by her agreeing.

"What, really?" he said. "I was being a little hyperbolic when I called them drugs… where are we going?"

"The electronics store, so I can have someone look at this. And no, really, they are like drugs," she said. He opened the door of the SUV and let her in, and when he stepped up into the driver's seat she continued. "Studies have shown that when college students are abruptly withdrawn from social media like Facebook and Twitter, they begin to experience symptoms of withdrawal, not unlike those seen in patients undergoing detox for hard drugs like cocaine and heroin. Anxiety, insomnia, irritation, mood swings…"

"Wow, really?" he said. She nodded.

"Yes," she said. "The use of social media is so insidious that it's become the opiate of the masses. People can't function normally if it's suddenly taken away from them."

"I don't doubt it," he said. "You could spend an hour alone just reading through all the new tweets on Twitter, or Googling yourself—I could spend all day on Google."

"Did you know that 'Google' comes from the Arabic numeric term 'googol'? It means one hundred zeroes."

"You are so full of random facts," he observed. "Seriously, you could fill a book with all the off-the-wall things you know."

"I'm trying to, my computer won't let me!" she said exasperatedly, and they both laughed.

In half an hour they were standing in a long line of impatient customers at the repair desk of a popular chain store. Booth tapped his feet and hrmphed impatiently.

"Can't these computer geeks work a little faster?" he grumbled. "Geez, they're supposed to be brains at this stuff—if the computer doesn't work, then take it in the back already, don't just stare at it like that's gonna do anything."

"Amen," a woman standing behind them said, nodding approvingly. "I've only had mine for barely two years, and I'm gonna spend another two years waitin' in this line!"

"Two years," Booth said, turning slowly to face Brennan with a smile creeping across his face. "Two years, you see? Warranty time."

"Mine too," a man standing two spots in front of them said, having obviously been listening in on their conversation. "Just about two and a half years, then boom, the screen stops working. Right after the warranty expires, go figure."

"See!" Booth said, pointing a finger at Brennan's chest. "I told you, they're made to break."

"That's preposterous," she said, but she couldn't help but feel outnumbered.

"Nah man, it's true," a teenager in their vicinity said, shaking his hair out of his gaze. "Ask anyone, those things are pieces of shit."

"Don't say shit," his mother said reflexively. He blew her off.

"They always die after the warranty runs out," the teen insisted. "It's like they make 'em that way." By this point Brennan was shaking her head unbelievingly.

"This is insane," she said. "You're all insane. My computer was not programmed to break just so that I would have to buy a new one!" The kid shrugged and turned around.

"Suit yourself," he said.

When they finally made it to the repair desk, a gangly twenty-something took the laptop and opened it up on the table.

"So what's wrong with it?" he asked.

"It keeps dying, whenever I…" Brennan began to explain, but he cut her off.

"Is it still under warranty?" he asked. She nodded.

"I bought the extended three-year warranty," she said. "It's covered through next year." When he looked up at her, she couldn't help but feel uneasy about the knowing expression on his face. It was the same one Booth had worn in her office from across the desk, and the one the shaggy-haired youth had given her in line a few minutes prior. It was the look of gnosis, of secret knowledge, of underground conspiracy.

"That was a good plan," the geek said. "These things always die after two years."