ã€ŠA Journey Beyondã€‹


 Chapter 1: Collapse

    While I still question how I ended up here in the first place, I can at least wrap my head around the ¡°why.¡± ¡°Turbulent times,¡± they called it. More like a full-blown existential clown car crash. Society had gone tits up, the economy belly-flopped into the abyss, and humanity decided to mainline despair.

    Looking back, it¡¯s almost laughable how good we had it. We lived in a society so privileged it was starting to sprout gills. Famine? Plague? Violent conflicts? Gone faster than a fad diet. We were practically gods compared to the generations that came before us. But like all great empires, we got cocky. We thought we¡¯d tamed chaos, turned it into our own personal lap dog.

    Then, as if the cosmos decided to remind us of our cosmic insignificance, the bottom fell out faster than a mime¡¯s pants. The economy tanked harder than a toddler dropped from a skyscraper. Entire industries vanished like smoke signals, taking jobs with them. Companies started going belly-up like beached whales, and unemployment skyrocketed faster than squirrel on Red Bull. Meanwhile, the stock market resembled a heart monitor <mark>flatlining</mark> in slow motion, recording the death throes of our financial delusions.

    I remember the day it hit home. Mr. Johnson, the banker next door, showed up at my doorstep. Always impeccably dressed and oozing confidence. Now his suit was rumpled, his eyes hollow. ¡°They pink-slipped me,¡± he mumbled, looking like he¡¯d swallowed a lemon whole. That¡¯s when I knew ¨C no one was safe. Not the suits, not the blue collars, not even the gig economy hustlers.

    Ironically, while money woes were the talk of the town, the real problem ran deeper. Work wasn¡¯t just about the paycheck anymore; it was our social life, our self-worth¡ªbasically the glue holding our sad, sackcloth souls together. We¡¯d become human-shaped hamsters, running on the corporate wheel, mistaking motion for meaning.

    Back in the good <mark>ol</mark>¡¯ days, people took pride in their families and communities. Now? All that mattered was work-related success, especially in the cities. We met our spouses at the office, gossiped about our in-laws at the water cooler, and practically lived and breathed the corporate grind. Losing a job wasn¡¯t just a career hiccup; it was social Siberia. You were cut off from everything, left to rot in the wasteland of unemployment. Cue the existential dread, isolation, and a good helping of depression on the side.

    Society became one big identity crisis. Sure, not everyone lived in a cardboard box, but a whole lot of folks struggled to keep their heads above water¡ªboth literally and metaphorically. Young people, especially, got the shortest end of an already stubby stick. Without a foothold in the workforce, they¡¯d barely had a life to begin with. Now, with the economic collapse, they couldn¡¯t even get through the door. They were adrift in a sea of despair, their dreams of avocado toast and home ownership fading like mirages in a desert of debt.

    But hey, cults love a good crisis! They swooped in like vultures, offering a sense of belonging to the newly unemployed and desperate. Those not into the whole <mark>Kool-Aid</mark> ritual were left scrambling for any way out. Some turned to virtual reality, living out digital fantasies while their physical bodies wasted away in dingy apartments, others gave up on life altogether.

    The news became a constant parade of misery: rising unemployment, rising cult memberships¡ªthe whole nine yards. But it was the personal stories that stung the most: families falling apart, graduates with degrees as useless as a chocolate teapot in a sauna, retirees watching their nest eggs crack and ooze away. The death rate skyrocketed, especially among the young. Not because of some medical mystery, mind you, but because the whole damn world felt like a giant cosmic joke with an especially unfunny punchline.

    It was in this climate of despair that Future City Inc. made its move. Every April, as society continued its downward spiral, they opened the application window to become a ¡°Chosen One.¡± Now, don¡¯t get any ideas of a heavenly choir or brainwashing scheme. These Chosen Ones were ordinary <mark>Joes</mark> and <mark>Janes</mark> picked for their very ordinariness. Lab rats for a social experiment cooked up by a mega-corporation. It was like ¡°The Truman Show¡± meets ¡°Brave New World,¡± with a sprinkle of ¡°The Hunger Games¡± for good measure. Their plan? To be the center of humanity¡¯s future, all wrapped up in a neat, profit-driven package.

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    Decades ago, they¡¯d built some weird little villages in the middle of nowhere, hoping to lure social outcasts with the promise of a life outside the rat race. Nobody cared then, and the villages promptly imploded, because, well, who wants to live in a self-sufficient commune when Netflix exists, right?

    Future City Inc. shelved the project after that disaster, waiting for the ¡°right time.¡± Well, guess what? The economic meltdown was apparently that ¡°right time¡± they were waiting for. Nothing like ¡°turbulent times¡± to make people reconsider their life choices, I guess.

    The company pounced, launching a massive ad campaign that would make a used car salesman blush. Billboards plastered every corner, commercials looped on repeat, websites practically paved with their ads. They wanted everyone to know about their not-so-little experiment. And they wanted everyone to apply. Race, religion, sexual orientation? Didn¡¯t matter. They just wanted bodies. It was like Noah¡¯s Ark, if Noah had been a Fortune 500 CEO with a god complex.

    And humanity, in all its collective misery, ate it up. Even the most serious news network couldn¡¯t resist the allure of Future City. Of course there was still the economic breakdown, still a murder or two a day, some VIP births and deaths - but the main story of the day was Future City. And of course water cooler conversations, if there were still water coolers left to gather around, buzzed with speculation and debate. Did we know anyone who would apply? Was your neighbor secretly filling out an application? How about that quiet guy from accounting? Your best friend? Your spouse? Hell, were you the only one who hadn¡¯t applied yet? And the kicker: if everyone around you disappeared into Future City, what would happen to those left behind?

    Funny how desperation can turn yesterday¡¯s punchline into today¡¯s golden ticket. Those weird little villages that had been a colossal flop? Suddenly, they didn¡¯t seem so bad. In fact, they looked downright appealing when your alternative was fighting over scraps in the urban wasteland. Future City Inc., once the laughingstock of the corporate world, found itself with a captive audience. And boy, did they capitalize on it.

    The once-failing utopia project became a runaway success. Applications flooded in by the thousands. The initial villages were soon replaced by futuristic mega cities, isolated on massive islands scattered across the oceans. Imagine Atlantis, but with more neon and corporate logos.

    Year after year, the company expanded these of the future, desperately trying to accommodate the ever-growing number of applicants. Within a few short years, they had achieved their original goal: global captivation! It was like a pyramid scheme, but instead of losing money, you lost your entire previous life.

    Initially, I scoffed at the project. The villages seemed like a bizarre experiment, a future dictated by a capitalist behemoth. Even with the relaunch, my interest remained purely voyeuristic ¨C a morbid curiosity about what kind of desperate souls would sign up for this circus. Who, in their right mind, would volunteer for such an experiment?

    I¡¯d spend hours speculating about the mental state of the applicants. Were they naive optimists? Adrenaline junkies? Or just poor bastards so beaten down by life that even this insanity seemed like an upgrade? It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, fascinating but horrifying.

    But as the years crawled by, my amusement curdled into something darker. Tens of thousands abandoned their careers, families, possessions, and entire lives, disappearing into this unknown world, lured by <mark>utopian</mark> promises with no guarantee of reality. For many, it was enough. In a world where hope had become a scarce commodity, the promise of a fresh start, a purpose, was more intoxicating than any drug.

    It took personal turmoil for me to understand the appeal. In our fractured society, anyone could become a candidate under the right circumstances - or rather, the wrong ones. Three weeks after the application window opened, I found myself among them. Funny how quickly principles crumble when reality comes knocking with brass knuckles.

    The economic crisis that had ravaged our world finally sank its teeth into my life. My job vanished into the abyss of unemployment. Overnight, I transitioned from secure professional to unemployed outcast. Everything I might have sacrificed by joining Future City Inc. was already gone, swept away like leaves in an autumn storm.

    No social life. No family. No career. The casual workplace interactions I¡¯d taken for granted revealed themselves as a cruel illusion, shattered by the sudden, deafening silence of unemployment. The world I knew had become as alien and uninviting as a Martian landscape.

    And so, here I am. Pen hovering over my diary, contemplating the twists of fate that led me here. Just another statistic in Future City Inc.¡¯s grand spectacle. Was it worth it? I suppose that¡¯s a question each of us has to answer for ourselves.

    As I watch the last rays of sunlight glint off the solar farms stretching to the horizon, I can¡¯t shake a nagging feeling. We¡¯ve traded one form of desperation for another ¨C sleeker, shinier, but somehow familiar. The faces around me wear the same masks of hope and fear I saw in the world we left behind.

    Welcome to the future. Sponsored by Future City Inc. ¨C where your happiness is our bottom line. Terms and conditions may apply.

 Decision

    The hangover hit like a sledgehammer wrapped in velvet. Even at the end of the world, biology still had the last laugh. The application I¡¯d submitted to Future City Inc. felt like a hazy dream, as substantial as a fart in a hurricane. Nothing to take seriously, right? The idea of being chosen¡ªof leaving everything behind¡ªfelt like a fever dream cooked up by a madman with a God complex and too much corporate backing.

    And yet, there it was. I stared at my laptop, its glow mocking me in the dim light of my sad excuse for an apartment. The confirmation email sat in my inbox, a ticking time bomb of potential life upheaval. What was I thinking? The very idea seemed absurd now, like trying to bail out the Titanic with a teaspoon. The whole concept of Future City Inc. was something I¡¯d laughed at for years, a joke told by capitalism at humanity¡¯s expense. But now, in a world where hope was as rare as a honest politician, even the most ridiculous lifeboat looked appealing.

    Days bled into weeks, weeks hemorrhaged into months. The routine remained unchanged, a hamster wheel of futility spinning in the void. Twice a week, I¡¯d meet with my ¡°professional job advisor,¡± a balding man named Greg with a penchant for ill-fitting suits and clich¨¦d motivational quotes that made me want to gargle with bleach.

    ¡°Remember,¡± he¡¯d say, leaning back in his creaking chair like some cut-rate Buddha, ¡°every ¡®no¡¯ brings you closer to a ¡®yes¡¯.¡±

    I¡¯d nod, fighting the urge to point out that life wasn¡¯t a math equation, and that enough negatives didn¡¯t magically transform into a positive. But I bit my tongue. These meetings, as grating as a cheese grater to the soul, had become my sole social interaction. A sad truth that wasn¡¯t lost on me, much like my dignity and my will to live.

    Between these thrilling encounters with Greg the Guru of Gainful Employment, I continued my dance with rejection emails and unanswered applications. But now, a new thought had lodged itself in my mind, like a splinter under my skin or a catchy jingle you can¡¯t shake. Future City Inc. What if¡­? The possibility nagged at me, equal parts alluring and terrifying, like a siren song played on a kazoo.

    As summer dragged on, its heat as oppressive as the growing despair in the streets, Future City Inc.¡¯s marketing machine kicked into overdrive. Their upcoming ¡°Selection of the Chosen Ones¡± was plastered across every available surface, screen, and billboard, as inescapable as death and taxes. August 27th loomed large, a date that seemed to consume the collective consciousness like a black hole of hope and fear.

    The day arrived with all the subtlety of a rhinoceros in a tutu. As the selection ceremony began, I realized with a start that I was holding my breath, my body apparently deciding that oxygen was overrated.

    The crowd shots from around the world were almost hypnotic, a global testament to humanity¡¯s desperation. Times Square in New York was a sea of hopeful faces, each one more pathetic than the last. Moscow¡¯s gathering looked like a particularly cheerful gulag reunion. Jakarta buzzed with an energy usually reserved for rioting or religious epiphanies. These scenes were mirrored in Trafalgar Square, Tianmen Square, and countless other gathering places worldwide. A global community united in hope and fear.

    But in my quiet room, I felt only a creeping sense of dread, as familiar as my reflection in the mirror and twice as unwelcome. The familiar numbness settled over me as questions swirled: Did I even want this? What would it mean to leave everything behind? Could I really start over in some distant, closed-off city run by a corporation that made Orwell¡¯s Big Brother look like a kindly uncle?

    Horace Grenlawn, CEO of Future City Inc., appeared on screen, lounging on his chrome throne like a cut-rate Bond villain. His trademark green suit made him look like a leprechaun who¡¯d stumbled into a board meeting. Yet people loved him¡ªhe had the charisma to sell sand in a desert and make you thank him for the privilege of choking on it.

    The screen behind him cycled through images of gleaming cities rising from reclaimed islands, each one a testament to corporate ambition. But it was the glimpses of Future City III that caught my eye - or rather, the careful way they avoided showing too much of it. Like a movie trailer that holds back the monster, letting your imagination fill in the blanks with something far worse than reality.

    ¡°Welcome, everyone, to the Selection of the Chosen Ones,¡± Greenlawn began, arms outstretched like some messianic figure with a hefty PR budget. ¡°Today is the day your future begins.¡±

    I watched, nauseated, as he launched into his overly polished PR masterpiece. He spoke of ¡°early successes,¡± conveniently skipping over the failed villages fiasco like a child whistling past a graveyard. A map highlighted their reclaimed islands and shining new cities, with tantalizing glimpses of Future City III. That could be me, I thought, a chill running down my spine. Another rat in a prettier cage.

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    ¡°Isolation is the key to progress,¡± he said, eyes gleaming with the fervor of a man who¡¯d never had to live with the consequences of his own bullshit. ¡°The Chosen Ones will live in a world beyond their wildest dreams.¡±

    His voice was almost hypnotic, but I felt only dread. No one knew what awaited them in Future City III. No one had seen it. No one had left it. The secrecy was part of the allure, and part of the danger. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that we were all being led like lambs to the slaughterhouse, only the slaughterhouse was at the other end of the world and came with a shiny brochure.

    ¡°We¡¯re not just building cities,¡± Greenlawn proclaimed, his voice echoing across continents, ¡°we¡¯re crafting a new global society, free from the borders and conflicts that have plagued humanity.¡± The screen behind him lit up with a dizzying array of statistics and infographics. ¡°From the favelas of Rio to the bustling streets of Mumbai, from the ruins of Detroit to the scorched earth of Australia, we¡¯re offering a universal solution.¡± He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. ¡°Climate refugees from the Maldives, economic migrants from Greece, political dissidents from Belarus - all are welcome in our brave new world.¡± I couldn¡¯t help but scoff. It sounded less like a utopia and more like a corporate melting pot, a globalized experiment with humanity as the lab rats.

    Greenlawn crowed about surpassing a hundred million applicants, a not-so-subtle brag given the world¡¯s current state. ¡°And over a hundred thousand applicants have been chosen,¡± he continued, ¡°representing a diverse tapestry of continents, countries, and cultures. You won¡¯t be mere settlers ¨C you¡¯ll be citizens, just like before.¡±

    Just like before. The words echoed in my head, a hollow promise. Nothing would be ¡®just like before.¡¯ We¡¯d be starting over in a world controlled entirely by a corporation. The thought made my skin crawl.

    As Greenlawn''s speech drew to a close, he introduced the local PR representatives who would be announcing the chosen applicants in each region. I felt a twinge of guilt for not joining the crowds, but the thought of being surrounded by that desperate energy was too much to bear. I¡¯d rather watch the world end from the comfort of my own couch, thank you very much.

    My mind slipped in and out of reality as our local rep took the stage, his voice a monotonous drone. He announced that a hundred applicants had been chosen from our region. Come September 10th, these Chosen Ones would converge on a designated location, to be transported by sea to the city itself.

    Two weeks¡¯ notice ¨C how thoughtful of them to help us sever our last ties to the world we knew. My stomach churned, a nauseating mix of anticipation and dread. Did I want this? The question pounded in my head, each repetition louder than the last.

    The emails would come within the next 30 minutes. Two hours to confirm, or the chance would pass. Once confirmed, there would be no going back. I swallowed the rising panic, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it ¨C the moment that could change everything.

    Tick. Tock. Click. Refresh.

    The PR guy¡¯s voice droned on, names blending together in a symphony of the doomed. Bonita Driscoll. Sean Clayton. Each name another potential life changed forever, another rat for the cosmic experiment. As names were called, I imagined similar scenes playing out in every time zone. From Tokyo to Toronto, lives were being uprooted, destinies rewritten.

    Click. Tock. Tick.

    Thirty minutes left. I stared at the screen, contemplating the life-altering decision that loomed before me. If chosen, could I really leave everything behind? My past, my failures, my entire life? And if not chosen, would I feel relief or disappointment? The weight of the decision pressed down on me, making each second feel like an eternity.

    Tick. Tock. Click. Refresh.

    Refresh. No email. The silence in my apartment was deafening, broken only by the relentless ticking. How many names had been called already? Ten? Dozens? Each one a story, a life, a decision made in mere moments. How could anyone be so sure?

    Tock. Click. Tick.

    Twenty-five minutes. Had it only been five minutes? It felt like hours.Greenlawn''s face flashed on the screen again, his words a meaningless buzz in my ears. I found myself fixating on the smallest details ¨C the wrinkles in his suit, a bead of sweat on his forehead. Anything to distract from the gnawing anxiety in my gut.

    Click. Tick. Tock.

    Refresh. Still nothing. My mind raced through memories. The job I lost. The relationships that crumbled. The world that had left me behind. Could Future City really offer a fresh start? Or was it just another dead end?

    Tick. Click. Tock.

    A local artist was performing now. The melody drifted through my consciousness, somehow both soothing and grating. How could anyone focus on music at a time like this? Yet the crowd seemed entranced, swaying to the rhythm, as if their fates weren¡¯t hanging in the balance.

    Tock. Tick. Click.

    Twenty minutes. Thoughts racing. Heart pounding. Names keep coming. People deciding so fast. How can they be sure? Am I sure? Words blurring. Can¡¯t focus. The clock won¡¯t stop.

    Click. Click. Tick. Tick.

    The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Just me, the screen, and the endless ticking of the clock. Everything else faded away. This was it. The moment of truth. A life decided in seconds.

    Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Click.

    Fifteen minutes. A bead of sweat trickled down my back. My mouth was dry. When was the last time I blinked? Breathed? The screen blurred before my eyes. Names. Numbers. Faces. All melting together in a dizzying whirl.

    Click.

    The clock¡¯s minute hand jumped one more time. The ticking stopped, leaving a deafening silence.

    There it was. A stark, cold confirmation button sitting at the bottom of the email, its pulsing glow seeming to mock my indecision.

    I was chosen.

 Exit

    The first tendrils of morning light slithered through the blinds like unwelcome parasites, finding me tangled in sheets that felt more like a cocoon of regret. My phone, clutched like a radioactive talisman, blinked its judgment: 27 missed calls. Perfect. Nothing says ¡°I¡¯ve made a life-altering decision¡± quite like ghosting everyone you¡¯ve ever known. Then again, it¡¯s not like they¡¯d been lining up to chat during my extended vacation in Unemploymentville.

    As the fog of sleep lifted, replaced by a hangover that felt like a jackhammer orchestra in my skull, the events of yesterday evening came crashing back in a chaotic rush. The email. The confirmation. The roar of the crowd that could¡¯ve been cheers or just the collective death rattle of a society circling the drain. I¡¯d sleepwalked through the confirmation process in a haze of panic and cheap whiskey, my fingers apparently deciding that my brain was as useful as a chocolate teapot in a sauna.

    The logical part of my brain - you know, the part that usually stops me from trying to high-five a cactus - was screaming in protest. This was a blunder of cosmic proportions, a decision more reckless than using a ouija board to choose stock options. Here I was, the guy who¡¯d spend three hours researching the optimal way to arrange socks in a drawer, and I¡¯d just tossed my future into Future City¡¯s lottery machine with all the careful consideration of a lemming with a death wish.

    But hey, silver linings, right? That gnawing sense of frustration that had been my constant companion for weeks, like an emotionally needy tapeworm, had vanished. No more applications, no more soul-crushing job hunting, no more endless, mind-numbing tasks that made watching paint dry seem like an extreme sport. The corporate hamster wheel had finally stopped, leaving me dizzy, nauseous, and inexplicably lighter.

    Ironically, the vultures who¡¯d abandoned me faster than rats from a sinking ship were now circling again, their concern delivered in voicemails so saccharine they could give you cavities through the phone. For the first few days, I played hermit, refusing all calls with the dedication of a monk who¡¯d taken a vow of ¡°go screw yourselves.¡± But after a week, the dam broke, and their well-wishes, laced with a hint of morbid curiosity, washed over me like a tidal wave of insincere sewage.

    ¡°I never expected you to do something like that,¡± became the chorus of the willfully oblivious. Join the club, folks. We meet on Tuesdays, right after the ¡°I thought I had hit rock bottom but then I found a jackhammer¡± support group.

    ¡°Hopefully everything goes well,¡± some offered, a sentiment I echoed in my own head with all the conviction of a politician promising to drain the swamp while knee-deep in alligators.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be back soon enough,¡± others chuckled, a prediction I doubted more than the existence of diet water or honest lawyers.

    For now, this marked the end of my illustrious social career, a tragedy mourned by absolutely no one. Compared to the months spent navigating the soul-crushing labyrinth of unemployment, this was practically a vacation. A vacation to parts unknown, with no return ticket and a complimentary side of existential dread, but hey, beggars can¡¯t be choosers, right?

    The gift of solitude brought a deluge of introspection, because apparently, my brain decided now was the perfect time for an existential crisis. Hours stretched into days, filled with contemplation about the life I was leaving behind. Even facing the wreckage of my current existence, a sliver of melancholy remained, stubbornly clinging like that last potato chip at the bottom of the bag. A minimum ten-year exile loomed, possibly forever. And a bizarre, persistent notion lingered ¨C that at any moment, someone would burst through the door, revealing this entire ordeal to be an elaborate, albeit belated, April Fool¡¯s Day prank. Logic scoffed at the idea, but a sliver of hope clung to it, nonetheless.

    As the days crawled by with all the speed of a geriatric snail, my emotions oscillated more wildly than a pendulum in a mosh pit. One moment, I¡¯d be filled with excitement about the possibilities awaiting me in Future City III, imagining gleaming skyscrapers and technological marvels that would make Star Trek look like a period drama about the Stone Age. The next, paralyzing fear would grip me, conjuring images of a dystopian nightmare I¡¯d willingly signed up for, like a turkey volunteering for Thanksgiving dinner and offering to bring the cranberry sauce.

    The news didn¡¯t help, with constant speculation about what life inside Future City might be like. Experts debated on TV, some painting it as a utopian marvel, others warning of potential human rights violations. The truth, I suspected, lay somewhere in between, probably in a dive bar drowning its sorrows.

    After a week and a half, a letter arrived from the company, focusing solely on the departure process. They¡¯d handle the logistics of severing ties with my current life, assuring me of everything needed to reach my destination and thrive upon arrival. Packing was strictly prohibited ¨C just my phone for emergencies, and clothes for the brief trip to the island. A passport was requested, but my wallet had to be emptied. Apparently, past attempts at fraud necessitated stricter identification procedures. I imagined a crack team of corporate ninjas, trained in the art of sniffing out contraband socks and rogue toothbrushes.

    Attached to the document was a train ticket, allowing me to leave even my money behind. My remaining belongings would be held in a secure location for a decade. When my initial contract expired, they¡¯d either sell everything (a not-so-subtle profit motive) or transport it to my hypothetical new home if I chose to return. They relentlessly emphasized this possibility, clearly expecting a permanent stay. Future City, they boasted ¨C who¡¯d willingly regress to the past? Ten years gone, regardless, and who knew how long this global crisis would drag on. The entire journey felt like a leap into the void, only with a flimsy parachute strapped on. A potential death sentence, perhaps, but the emotional security of the parachute offered a sliver of comfort.

    After what felt like an eternity compressed into a fortnight, D-Day arrived with all the subtlety of a rhino in a tutu crashing a ballet recital. I packed my phone (hello, separation anxiety, my old friend), some snacks for the trip (because apparently, I thought I was going on a grade school field trip to the apocalypse), and a wallet so empty it echoed. Passport and train ticket clutched like the last vestiges of my sanity, I rushed out of my apartment, leaving the keys in the mailbox as instructed. Someone would be by to collect my belongings that afternoon. Probably to laugh at my pathetic life choices and wonder how someone could accumulate so many mismatched socks.

    The walk to the train station was devoid of tearful goodbyes or dramatic farewells. It felt like my 18th birthday all over again, minus the acne and the misplaced optimism about the future being anything but a dumpster fire with better special effects. As the train pulled away from the city, I left behind everything I owned, what could generously be called a social life, and any illusion of control over my destiny.

    Three hours later, the train lurched to a halt, announcing my final destination with all the enthusiasm of a DMV employee on a Monday morning. As I stepped onto the platform, a wave of anxiety washed over me. This was it ¨C the point of no return.

    The image I had of Future City Inc. headquarters ¨C ostentatious and impossible to miss ¨C shattered as I approached the village. Nestled along the coast were quaint cottages and sprawling farms, more suited to a pastoral painting than the launch pad for humanity¡¯s great leap into the abyss. Juxtaposed against this idyllic scene, a monstrous tower stabbed skyward, its neon sign screaming ¡°Future City Inc.¡± with all the subtlety of a neon-lit middle finger to rural charm. I half expected to see villagers with pitchforks and torches gathering at its base.

    Reaching my destination, the glass doors of the tower whooshed open, revealing a lobby that looked like it had been decorated by someone with more money than taste and a serious fetish for red carpets and chrome. A woman in a suit sharp enough to cut glass awaited at the reception desk, her smile as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Identity confirmed, she whisked away my meager belongings faster than a magician¡¯s sleight of hand, assuring me everything would be returned upon arrival at the island. Yeah, and I¡¯m the Queen of Sheba with a side gig as a rodeo clown.

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    The elevator ride to the 118th floor felt like an ascent into madness, each floor punctuated by a beep that grew more mocking with every passing second. By the time we reached the top, I was half-convinced I¡¯d entered some sort of cosmic joke where the punchline was my life.

    The doors opened to reveal a penthouse-like suite and the man from the August 27th selection, wearing a smile as forced as a laugh track on a funeral broadcast.  "EugeneReynolds,¡± he mumbled, as if vowels were a luxury tax in Future City. "Call''m''Eugene.¡±

    I introduced myself, half expecting him to burst into maniacal laughter and reveal this whole thing as an elaborate prank. No such luck. He shuffled me to a designated spot where I¡¯d wait for the other participants. Meeting our fellow travelers should have been exciting, but the mood hung heavy. Everyone sat stiffly, a healthy distance between them, creating an unsettling spectral ambiance.

    As the last of the hundred participants trickled in, looking like extras from a post-apocalyptic fashion show, Eugene lumbered to the front again. A video message flickered to life, and there was Horace Greenlawn, his face radiating enough charisma to power a small city.

    ¡°Today marks the turning point in your lives,¡± he boomed. ¡°You¡¯ve all taken a bold step, and we commend your courage. This isn¡¯t just a personal leap for you, but a pivotal moment for our company and the global community. Each of you is a crucial piece in the puzzle, a catalyst that will propel mankind towards the future we desperately need in these uncertain times. Think of it less as an experiment, and more as an evolutionary leap.¡±

    He continued, outlining the challenges and opportunities that awaited us. ¡°You¡¯re embarking on an adventure ¨C a social, psychological, and personal odyssey. You¡¯ll be venturing to a future we¡¯ve meticulously crafted, a city built from the ground up just a few years ago with a singular purpose: to push the boundaries of current technology. Our world has been shackled by the limitations of existing infrastructure. Technological advancements are within reach, but the idea of rebuilding entire cities, restructuring society to unlock its full potential ¨C that¡¯s been an impossible dream. Regulations and red tape have stifled progress for far too long. Even discussions of rapid industrialization have ignited controversy in recent years.¡±

    Greenlawn paused for dramatic effect. ¡°When the first Chosen Ones set foot in Future City III, we provided them with everything they needed to establish a society free from these burdens and limitations. State-of-the-art infrastructure, cutting-edge housing, hospitals, schools ¨C everything meticulously designed for the future, not just socially, but technologically as well.¡±

    ¡°Feelings of alienation are natural at first,¡± he soothed. ¡°But rest assured, you won¡¯t be left behind. Just like those who came before you, we¡¯ll provide you with a fully furnished apartment and a basic income to guarantee a certain level of financial security. It won¡¯t take long before you¡¯re integrated into the communal life, independent of our support. Just as we stopped supporting Future City III once it became self-sufficient, our investment in you will eventually cease.¡±

    Greenlawn then addressed the issue of data collection, attempting to quell any privacy concerns. ¡°We have stringent policies in place,¡± he assured us. ¡°All data will be anonymized, with no individual tracking. Your movements, communications, and actions will remain private. However, to analyze the city¡¯s effectiveness, some data collection is necessary. We need to understand how people function within this environment and evaluate the city¡¯s economic performance based on key indicators. That¡¯s the extent of it.¡±

    He emphasized that these privacy guarantees applied only to the company. ¡°The local community may have different regulations,¡± he warned. ¡°Their decisions are entirely independent of ours ¨C we don¡¯t influence their internal politics in any way, democratic elections included.¡±

    With a final flourish, Greenlawn concluded, ¡°Enjoy your voyage aboard the Seahawk. We¡¯ll reconvene upon your arrival.¡±

    The video flickered off, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake. Usually you¡¯d expect mumbling, you¡¯d expect chatter after such a message, but here, everything was different. Maybe we weren¡¯t all that ordinary after all. No mumbling, no chatter, just a hundred people lost in their own private hells. I scanned the room, taking in the varied expressions. Some looked shell-shocked, others seemed to radiate a quiet determination. A few appeared on the verge of tears, probably realizing they¡¯d left the oven on back home.

    A young woman with fiery red hair caught my eye. She stood rigidly, her fingers twitching nervously at her sides. Our gazes met briefly, a moment of connection in this sea of isolation. I saw a flicker of recognition ¨C not of me, but of the shared ¡°what the hell have we done¡± panic we all felt. She offered a weak smile before turning away, leaving me to wonder what desperate circumstances had led her here. Misery loves company, after all.

    Eugene, now devoid of his earlier forced smile, simply gestured us back towards the elevator. In a somber procession, we all filed in, descending to the ground floor. The Seahawk awaited. As the elevator doors closed behind us, I felt a strange mix of terror and exhilaration. Whatever lay ahead, there was no going back now.

    As we shuffled onto the ship like cattle to the slaughter, I couldn¡¯t help but feel we were characters in some cosmic joke. The Seahawk loomed before us, a steel behemoth gleaming dully in the late afternoon sun. The salty breeze carried a hint of rust and diesel, a pungent reminder of the world we were leaving behind. We shuffled forward, a procession of the desperate and the deluded, our footsteps echoing hollowly on the gangplank.

    A staff member, her smile as plastic as the nametag on her crisp uniform, checked me off the list. ¡°Number 95,¡± she chirped, her voice high and brittle. ¡°Right this way, sir.¡± Her perfume, cloying and sweet, lingered in my nostrils as she ushered me towards a corridor.

    The narrow passageway seemed to stretch endlessly, lined with identical cabin doors. Many already sported ¡°Do Not Disturb¡± signs, silent sentinels guarding the occupants within. The carpet, a nauseating swirl of blues and greens, muffled my footsteps as I searched for my assigned quarters. 89¡­ 91¡­ 93¡­

    Finally, I reached number 95. The door handle was cool to the touch, smooth and impersonal. As it swung open, I was hit by a wave of recycled air, tinged with the faint scent of industrial cleaner.

    The cabin was small but efficiently designed. A narrow bed hugged one wall, its crisp white sheets a stark contrast to the rich mahogany paneling. A compact desk housed a sleek computer terminal, its screen dark and reflective. The porthole window offered a view of the bustling dock, workers scurrying about like ants, oblivious to the life-altering journey we were about to embark upon.

    As I sank onto the bed, its firm mattress barely yielding, a fleeting sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu washed over me. For a split second, I felt like a child again, lost in an unfamiliar room. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me disoriented. The cabin¡¯s speakers crackled to life, jolting me back to the present. A face appeared on the monitor, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a practiced smile.

    ¡°Welcome aboard the Seahawk,¡± she began, her voice a monotone that suggested she¡¯d delivered this speech a thousand times before. ¡°We are currently en route to Future City III. Our next stop is approximately three hours away. For your safety and comfort, please familiarize yourself with the emergency procedures outlined in the manual in your nightstand.¡±

    She paused, seeming to gather herself before continuing with a hint more enthusiasm. ¡°Feel free to order lunch at your convenience. Today¡¯s special is grilled salmon with a side of seasonal vegetables. Enjoy your journey to your new future.¡±

    The screen flickered off, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the gentle hum of the ship¡¯s engines. I reached for the room service button, more out of a need for distraction than actual hunger.

    As our food arrived, I turned to the computer, surprised to find I still had access to the outside world. This was it - my last chance to truly understand what I was leaving behind. With a mix of nostalgia and urgency, I dove in, devouring news articles and social media posts. Future City Inc. dominated the headlines, as it had for months.

    Speculation ran rampant about the lives of the Chosen Ones. One article caught my eye: ¡°Former Future City Resident Speaks Out.¡± I clicked, eager for any insider information, but it was just another rehash of vague praise and non-specific criticisms. The real story of life inside Future City remained as elusive as ever.

    As I scrolled, a notification popped up - a message from an old colleague. ¡°Hey, heard you¡¯re one of the lucky ones. Congrats, I guess? Let us know if they have good coffee in the future.¡± The casual tone felt jarring, as if I was just heading off on a fancy vacation instead of a one-way trip to an unknown destiny.

    Hours slipped by unnoticed as I gorged myself on information. The familiar cycle of global news - climate disasters, political scandals, technological breakthroughs - took on a new poignancy. Would Future City III be immune to these issues, or would we be at the forefront of solving them?¡±

    As night fell, I found myself drawn to the porthole. The vast darkness outside mirrored the uncertainty in my heart. What truly awaited us in Future City III? With any luck, we¡¯d find out soon. Or maybe we¡¯d all wake up to find this was just a shared hallucination brought on by societal despair and questionable in-flight meals.

    Tomorrow, I would wake to a new world, a new life, and a future I could barely imagine. But for now, sleep beckoned, promising dreams of neon cities, fresh starts, and the nagging feeling that I¡¯d forgotten to cancel my gym membership.

    As I drifted off, one last thought floated through my mind: it couldn¡¯t be worse than unemployment¡­ right?

    Right?

 Foundations

    Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtain, jolting me awake like an overzealous alarm clock with a vendetta. Disoriented, I pushed the curtain aside, blinking against the sudden brightness. As my vision cleared, I found myself faced with an endless blue expanse. The sea stretched to the horizon, a stark reminder of how far I¡¯d come from my old life. The gentle sway of the ship and the faint smell of salt in the air grounded me in the present as memories of the previous day flooded back ¨C the journey, the cramped cabin, the strange sense of anticipation. Another day in paradise. Hope you enjoy the smell of regret and salt water.

    Without a watch or phone, my sense of time had become unmoored. I squinted at the horizon, searching for any sign of our destination. As if summoned by my gaze, a faint smudge materialized on the edge of the world. Skyscrapers, shrouded in a hazy mist, began to pierce the sky, their tips catching the morning light. Future City III. My heart hammered a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Still too far for a clear view, the city beckoned with the promise of a new life. The sight of those distant towers sent a shiver down my spine. Ah yes, the promise of a new world. Or perhaps just a glorified ant farm for corporate overlords.

    Patience, however, outweighed my eagerness, and with a sigh, I retreated back to bed. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, the whirlwind of events replayed in my mind. Time blurred again ¨C ten minutes, twenty, an hour, two? ¨C before the need for breakfast, or at least some semblance of routine, nudged me awake.

    I stumbled out of bed, pressing the button for food, a silent plea for a connection to the usual rhythm of life. Because nothing says ¡°normal¡± quite like summoning sustenance from an unseen kitchen run by who-knows-what. A quick shower and a change of clothes brought a momentary sense of purpose. Reaching for the computer, I clicked on the browser icon, hoping for a sliver of normalcy. ¡°404, Page not found.¡± Even the clock had been disabled. It was done. The information umbilical cord, severed. No more news of ¡°colleagues,¡± friends, or family.

    A strange sense of relief washed over me. The powerlessness, the lack of control, was strangely calming. The frantic information overload of yesterday felt distant now, replaced by a quiet acceptance. Lost in thought, I stared at the blank screen, unsure of how much time had passed before the familiar knock on the door startled me.

    Rushing to the door, I missed the service personnel for the second time, only to find a food trolley parked outside. Bread, butter, and an apple sat on the tray, a simple yet satisfying breakfast. Or so they¡¯d have us believe. Wheeling the trolley into the cabin, I left it by the door, taking a bite of the apple as I sank into my chair.

    The apple was mushy, disintegrating at the touch of my tongue, the bread not much better. Twenty-four hours at sea ¨C it was hard to expect culinary wonders. I devoured the lackluster breakfast, my impatience mounting with each passing bite. Surely, our arrival couldn¡¯t be far off.

    As if on cue, a disembodied voice boomed through the speakers: ¡°We will reach our destination in 15 minutes. Please get ready to disembark.¡± The announcement repeated itself for emphasis. Get ready? With no luggage, not even a backpack or a wallet, there was nothing to forget. All I could do was wait for the next instruction, my stomach fluttering with nervous energy.

    As the Seahawk approached our destination, I found myself drawn to the porthole, curiosity momentarily overriding my cynicism. The vast darkness outside gave way to a shimmering skyline that seemed to defy reality itself. I blinked, sure that exhaustion was playing tricks on my eyes.

    But no - the cityscape was actually shifting, buildings seeming to rearrange themselves like some grand, urban-scale game of Tetris. Sleek skyscrapers stretched and contracted, while entire blocks appeared to slide into new configurations. It was mesmerizing and more than a little unsettling

    ¡°Welcome to Future City III,¡± the voice in my cabin chirped, its cheerfulness grating against my growing sense of disorientation. ¡°Please note that our Adaptive Architecture is currently optimizing the city layout for today¡¯s population density and activities. Your designated living quarters will be finalized upon disembarkation.¡±

    I leaned back from the porthole, my head spinning. ¡°Great,¡± I muttered to no one in particular, ¡°a city with an identity crisis. I feel right at home already.¡±

    ¡°We are approaching our destination shortly. Please leave your cabins now,¡± the voice commanded. I flung open the door, stepping out into a bustling corridor. A human river flowed past, directed by the glowing arrows on the floor towards the main hall. An eerie quiet hung in the air despite the throngs of people. Sleep deprivation was a factor, the weight of our situation another. There was little inclination for conversation; the crowd shuffled along in a silent symphony of anticipation. Only upon reaching the grand entrance hall did the murmurs begin as we were divided into groups. Nothing like a bit of crowd control to make you feel like valued individuals in this grand experiment.

    ¡°Numbers one through fifty, Booth A please!¡± barked a security guard. Another added, ¡°Number fifty-one through one hundred, Booth B please.¡± The first guard helpfully repeated his instructions. Additional pronouncements followed, assigning numbers one-hundred and one through one-hundred and fifty to Booth C, and so on. Mentally confirming my number as 95, I navigated towards Booth B.

    Behind the booth, a tour guide distributed the confiscated wallets ¨C thoroughly inspected, of course ¨C and offered additional information. His voice remained inaudible from where I stood. The air buzzed with a cacophony of shouted numbers ¨C the guides barking their assignments, the crowd muttering confirmations ¨C punctuated by the occasional bewildered shuffle of someone lost in the process. The silence of moments ago had morphed into a constant low hum. The sweet sound of organized chaos.

    As I neared the booth, the tour guide singled me out. ¡°Number, please?¡± he inquired.

    ¡°95,¡± I replied, my voice sounding strange to my own ears after the prolonged silence. How fitting that my first words in this brave new world were to identify myself by a number.

    ¡°Here you go,¡± he said, handing me my wallet. ¡°Please wait near the booth.¡± I shuffled past him, collapsing onto the floor with a sigh. Mornings were not my strong suit, and the entire situation was heightening my usual grumpiness.

    ¡°Still a bit scared,¡± a woman beside me mumbled, her fingers nervously tracing the edges of her wallet.

    I glanced at her, taking in her tense posture and worried eyes. For a moment, I saw my own anxiety reflected back at me. ¡°Yeah, I think we all are,¡± I admitted, trying to keep my voice light. ¡°Quite the adventure we¡¯ve signed up for, huh?¡±

    She offered a weak smile, about to speak again, but the tour guide cut her off before a word could escape. As she turned away, I felt a pang of regret. In this sea of strangers, even a brief connection felt significant. But there was no time for that now. Future City III awaited, and with it, the unknown future we¡¯d all chosen. Or rather, the future that had been meticulously crafted for us.

    Herded by the booming voice of the tour guide, our group of fifty shuffled out of the cruise ship and into a nondescript wooden hut. This utilitarian structure, devoid of architectural flourishes, solidified the reality ¨C this was a one-way trip. No grand departures awaited us in the future. The stark contrast between the sleek ship we¡¯d left and this bare-bones structure was jarring, a physical representation of the past we were leaving behind.

    Beyond the hut, the futuristic cityscape shimmered in the distance, a mirage distorted by the intervening miles. Our path led through another unassuming wooden structure ¨C the train station. Just as disposable as the haven, it mirrored the company¡¯s philosophy: show them that they don¡¯t leave anything worthwhile behind.

    The sleek, black train we boarded stood in stark contrast to the rudimentary stations. Hovering above a single pipe instead of rails, it resembled a futuristic caterpillar with a pointed head and tail. The tour guide, with a flourish, opened a gullwing door, revealing a sterile interior lined with rows of pristine white seats. The smell of new materials ¨C a mix of plastic and leather ¨C filled my nostrils, another reminder of the newness of everything around us.

    ¡°Please enter,¡± he barked. ¡°This train will take you directly to your designated district. Everything you need is in your wallet. Enjoy your trip!¡± With that dismissive pronouncement, he disappeared. Everything we need in our wallets? Well, that¡¯s comforting. I always wanted my entire existence to fit in a billfold.

    A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the group as we filed in, the cramped seating offering little comfort. Red restraints flanked each leather seat, immovable despite my attempts. Once everyone was settled, the lights flickered on, illuminating the interior.

    ¡°Registration process initiated,¡± announced a robotic voice. I fished my wallet out, finding a new ID card nestled inside. A new name stared back at me ¨C Wynston Kader. Another jarring change, another layer of my past shed. The ID was devoid of information, even a photo. A stark symbol of my new, blank slate existence created by a corporate behemoth. My fingers trembled slightly as I held the card, the weight of this new identity settling over me. Wynston Kader ¨C because apparently, in the future, we all sound like rejected Bond villains.

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ¡°Scan your ID card,¡± the voice continued. I located a small camera and complied, a confirming beep signaling success. After a brief pause, the voice resumed. ¡°Press the button to your left.¡±

    A low hum filled the compartment as I followed the instruction. The red restraints whirred to life, encasing my body in a web of safety¡­ or control. A touchscreen materialized before me, prompting me to adjust the restraints. With a few taps, I found a balance between security and comfort, though the feeling of being so thoroughly restrained sent a shiver of claustrophobia through me.

    ¡°Security procedure initiated,¡± the voice announced. A blue light snaked through the car, turning red halfway down the line. ¡°Row 43, adjust your restraints!¡± it barked. A flurry of activity ensued as passengers scrambled to avoid the machine¡¯s reprimand. The light cycled back to blue and continued its journey. Ah, the sweet sound of compliance ¨C music to a corporate dystopia¡¯s ears.

    ¡°Your data has been saved,¡± the voice finally declared. ¡°We are now headed for Molt Corner.¡± With a soft hiss, the cabin rose a few inches, followed by a metallic clang from outside. A glimpse through the tiny window revealed the pipe enclosing our vehicle. A jolt signaled our departure, but the movement was eerily smooth, devoid of the usual bumps and rattles. The blackness outside offered no clues to our speed, adding to the surreal nature of our journey.

    Ten seconds later, another jolt and a click. Sunlight flooded back in as the encasing pipe retracted. ¡°We have arrived in Molt Corner!¡± the voice boomed. The restraints released their hold, retreating to their original positions with a sigh. The gullwing door swung open, beckoning us out.

    Emerging from the train, we found ourselves in a brightly lit underground station. Holographic displays buzzed with information about the city¡¯s transportation network, their soft blue glow casting an otherworldly light on the faces of my fellow travelers. Behind us, the pipe whooshed shut, the telltale bump signifying another departure. Yellow arrows gleamed on the glass floor, guiding us deeper into the station. One more escalator, and then we were finally out in the open. Follow the yellow brick road, Dorothy. I¡¯m sure the wizard at the end of this one is just as trustworthy as the last.

    The first breath of Future City III air hit me ¨C crisp, clean, with an underlying scent I couldn¡¯t quite place. Synthetic? Natural? It was impossible to tell. The sky above was a brilliant blue, unmarred by pollution, a stark contrast to the hazy skies I¡¯d left behind. For a moment, I stood still, taking in the vastness of the cityscape before me, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Ah, the sweet smell of¡­ whatever the hell they¡¯re pumping into the air here.

    Following the flow of people, a gnawing anxiety welled up within me. Where was I supposed to go? My wallet, I remembered. I frantically searched for its contents ¨C nothing but the ID card. Even my old passport had vanished. The woman I¡¯d noticed earlier walked just ahead of me, her back a symbol of the unknown path ahead.

    I caught up to her, eyeing her empty wallet. ¡°Well, isn¡¯t this generous?¡± I drawled, my voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°They¡¯ve gifted us with the astounding wealth of absolutely nothing. I feel positively spoiled.¡±

    The woman glanced at me, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the empty wallet. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally managed a soft, ¡°Apparently¡­¡±

    ¡°Oh, where are my manners?¡± I said, rolling my eyes at myself. ¡°I¡¯m S-¡± I paused, a bitter laugh escaping me as I checked my ID. ¡°Actually, scratch that. According to this fancy new identity card, I¡¯m Wynston Krader. Pleasure to meet you, fellow nameless entity.¡±

    She tensed visibly, her eyes darting around before settling on her own ID card. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ Jala,¡± she murmured, the name sounding foreign on her tongue. She offered a smile that looked more like a grimace.

    ¡°Jala, huh?¡± I mused, the name feeling strangely familiar on my tongue. I arched an eyebrow, pushing away an inexplicable sense of recognition. ¡°Well, Jala, welcome to our brave new world. Where the wallets are empty, the names are new, and the future is¡­ well, let¡¯s just say it¡¯s something.¡± I gestured grandly at our surroundings, my smile not quite reaching my eyes. For a moment, I caught my reflection in a nearby surface - a stranger staring back at me, yet oddly familiar.¡°Ready to embrace our exciting new lives as numbers in Future City¡¯s grand experiment? I hear the view from rock bottom is spectacular this time of year.¡±

    Jala nodded slightly, her gaze fixed on the ground. She seemed to be wrestling with whether to say more, but ultimately remained silent. I felt a twinge of guilt for my flippant remarks, but before I could say anything else, we reached the barriers. Time to face whatever fresh hell awaited us beyond those glass doors.

    Just before the apparent exit, we encountered five barriers with glass doors. A prompt displayed directly on the glass instructed us to scan our IDs. With a collective wave of cards, the barriers glowed green and the designated doors whooshed open. I found myself in a dimly lit corridor, Office Number 5 illuminated above the entrance. The door swung open before I could knock, revealing a stark room with a desk and chair at the far end.

    ¡°Please stand against the wall, Wynston Kader,¡± the voice commanded. A scan later, it continued, ¡°Your ID has been updated, Wynston Kader. Please sit down.¡± At least they¡¯re polite while stripping away the last vestiges of my identity.

    The chair creaked under my weight as I settled in. ¡°Connect your ID, Wynston Kader!¡± The command prompted me to activate the card, which promptly displayed my updated information ¨C photo, size, weight, and arrival date. Only the birthday field remained blank. While they likely cared little about our actual ages, I opted for honesty to avoid future complications. As I input my birthdate, a wave of nostalgia washed over me ¨C would I ever celebrate a birthday in the traditional sense again? Or would it just be another day of being Wynston Kader, Future City lab rat extraordinaire?

    ¡°Please follow the corridor to the left and head to platform seven, Wynston Kader,¡± the machine droned. My new name, particularly its relentless repetition, already grated on me. Before I could even rise, the door opened again, ushering me out. Apparently, in this utopian future, even the doors are eager to see the back of you.

    The corridor led back to the main hall, where a vast exit hall awaited. A glass ceiling offered a panoramic view of the city, and numerous labeled platforms lined the perimeter. Platform seven housed a curious sight ¨C a tiny, black, wheeled vehicle with tinted windows. With a hiss, the right wall slid open, revealing a single seat and a complete lack of controls. Apprehension gnawed at me as I entered and strapped myself in.

    The vehicle lifted slowly, joining dozens of others ascending into the sky. My stomach lurched as we rose, a mixture of exhilaration and fear coursing through me. The initial fear subsided as I marveled at the aerial ballet around me, the vehicles expertly navigating the crowded airspace. This was a far cry from the driverless cars of my old world.

    As my vehicle glided through the air, the initial disorientation faded, replaced by a chance to truly see Molt Corner, the city¡¯s outer district. Here, vertical living took on a whole new meaning. While a few squat buildings dotted the landscape, skyscrapers dominated. Glass giants shimmered next to structures resembling white marble or porcelain, their rounded forms a stark contrast to the sharp lines I was used to. The sun glinted off the surfaces, creating a dazzling display that was almost painful to look at directly. I squinted.

    The streets below were narrow, unsuited for anything larger than a bike. Eerily empty, they snaked between the buildings, devoid of life. Even the white expanse beside them lacked any sign of movement. A single blue line broke the monotony ¨C a small, man-made river with a bridge crossing its tranquil waters. The absence of cars, the lack of pedestrians ¨C it all contributed to an unsettling sense of artificiality. I couldn¡¯t help but wonder: was this pristine emptiness the future, or just a carefully constructed fa?ade?

    My vehicle approached a skyscraper, slowing before landing gracefully on its rooftop. As I stepped out, the vastness of the terrace surprised me. Standing on one of the district¡¯s lower peaks, my view was mostly blocked by the other white giants. But at least, the river and a patch of trees offered some solace. A gentle breeze carried the scent of vegetation ¨C real or artificial, I couldn¡¯t tell. The familiarity of the scent contrasted sharply with the alien landscape around me, sending a pang of homesickness through my chest.

    Exploring the rooftop, I found a locked entrance leading to the stairwell. The scanner beside it was a familiar sight. My ID card did the trick, revealing the building¡¯s interior. Unlike the stark white exterior, the inside offered a panoramic view of the city. Even the walls supposedly leading to other apartments were transparent, showcasing the cityscape beyond. Looking down, I could see all the way to the basement through the stairs, guided by yellow arrows just like at the station. The vertigo was intense, and I had to take a moment to steady myself before descending. ¡°Well, Wynston,¡± I muttered to myself, ¡°looks like you¡¯ve traded one fishbowl for another.¡±

    Following the arrows quickly, I reached my apartment door. Another ID swipe, another welcoming swoosh.

    ¡°Welcome home, Wynston Krader,¡± the apartment announced. My new, unwelcome name. But at least I was here. The words hung in the air, a reminder of how much had changed in such a short time.

    No sooner had I arrived than the living room TV flickered to life, a pre-recorded message from Horace Greenlawn filling the room. Local authorities would¡¯ve been nice, especially considering their promise of non-interference. An automated video upon entering my supposed private space felt ¡°a little¡± intrusive. Still, it made sense - this might be their last chance to brief us before throwing us into this strange new world.

    ¡°Welcome, Molt Corner residents,¡± Greenlawn began, his familiar face filling the screen. ¡°A few things before you explore. This district is brand new. Some residents are already here, others arrived today, but it¡¯s largely yours. On this arrival day, there¡¯s a curfew imposed by existing residents. This afternoon is for settling in, furnishing your apartments ¨C anything you need without disturbances. Explore, familiarize yourselves. Your ID is your key, your payment method, your all-in-one solution.

    ¡°At 2:00 PM, meet your future colleagues at Molten Square. Learn about the district, the city. Socialize, explore together, acclimatize. We strongly encourage you to attend. This is our final farewell. We won¡¯t meet for ten years. Enjoy yourselves, and all the best.¡±

    With that wave and a screen going dark, I finally had a chance to explore my new digs. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and the living room I¡¯d just entered. Empty except for the living room, the apartment offered a blank canvas. No furniture, just windows ¨C similar to the rest of the building, showcasing the city even where they faced the stairwell. The vastness of the empty space was both liberating and intimidating. How would I make this place feel like home?

    I ran my hand along a smooth wall, the coolness of it grounding me in this surreal moment. This space, as alien as it felt, was mine now. A canvas waiting to be filled with¡­ well, whatever Future City deemed appropriate for its new citizens, I supposed. The thought brought a wry smile to my face.

    A digital clock on a counter between the kitchen and living room displayed 1:30 PM. They weren¡¯t wasting any time. Time to head out. Next to the clock, a digital journal and a fascinating map ¨C a thin, foldable layer of glass that zoomed in and out with a tap. Streets were named, the river marked, and Molten Square highlighted near the center of the map. A quick tap revealed the fastest route - fifteen minutes by foot, three by cab.

    As I folded the map, a wave of emotions washed over me ¨C excitement, fear, curiosity, and a twinge of loss for the world I¡¯d left behind. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. With one last glance at my empty apartment, I stepped out, ready to begin my new life in this bewildering, fascinating city.

 Glass

    The disorienting maze of glass walls and transparent floors persisted as I made my way out of the building, feeling like a rat in a particularly cruel experiment. Upward glances revealed the endless azure sky, sideways ones the bustling cityscape. Even looking down offered a dizzying view all the way to the basement. The omnipresent transparency was both breathtaking and unsettling, a constant reminder of how exposed we all were in this new world. Like ants in a giant, gleaming farm, scurrying about for the amusement of our corporate overlords.

    I stepped out of my apartment building and into the blindingly perfect world of Future City III. It was like walking through an ad for a lifestyle I couldn¡¯t afford, except I was apparently living it now. Lucky me. The air felt different here ¨C crisp, almost artificially clean, devoid of the familiar urban scents I¡¯d grown accustomed to. Each breath felt like inhaling pure potential, tinged with an undercurrent of apprehension and what I hoped wasn¡¯t mind-control chemicals.

    The glass structures stretched so high into the sky that the term ¡°skyscrapers¡± finally made sense. Everything, literally everything, was immaculate. And towering. And pristine. Like a clean slate, or perhaps the world¡¯s largest, most expensive sanitarium. No smog. No cacophony. No debris skittering across the sidewalks. Just sterile beauty that made me wonder if I¡¯d accidentally stepped into a giant petri dish.

    It was surreal, sure, but hey, surreal is good when you¡¯re escaping your old life, right? I wasn¡¯t going to complain, I traded the endless grind for¡­ well¡­ this, Future City, even if the city appeared as clinical as the name suggested. It still felt as if the future was now. I felt lighter, like I¡¯d been put into a time machine. Or maybe they¡¯d just removed my soul along with my old identity.

    The streets were hushed. Maybe a bit too hushed. Every face I passed was glued to their glowing rectangles, all seemingly as lost as I navigating this unfamiliar territory. Everyone was walking as if they were an extra in some dystopian horror movie. Not exactly a bustling community. More like a city-wide tech zombie apocalypse.

    ¡°Hey there¡­¡± I mumbled, approaching a man fixated on the map displayed on his device. My voice sounded strange in the stillness, almost echoing off the pristine surfaces around us. I half expected it to shatter the perfect glass towers.

    ¡°Hey¡­¡± he mumbled back, his eyes never leaving the screen. No eye contact, no courtesy of a moment¡¯s attention. I might as well have been a particularly articulate lamppost.

    Undeterred, I tried again with a passing woman. ¡°Excuse me, could you tell me¡ª¡± She brushed past, her fingers dancing across her device, oblivious to my existence. Right. I¡¯d forgotten. In the future, human interaction is apparently as outdated as my fashion sense.

    A third attempt ended before it began. He veered away as I approached, his face a mask of polite disinterest. The people practically worshipped their devices. Here I was, Mr. Grumpy Pants who loathed all and everyone in his old life, suddenly adrift in a sea of silence, yearning for a sliver of human interaction. Me, who literally ran away from everyone just to get rid of these superficial, unnecessary social interactions. Who escaped the first 27 calls just not to talk to people around him. Social interaction seemed a lost art here. The irony wasn¡¯t lost on me ¨C I¡¯d come here to escape, and now I was desperate for the very connections I¡¯d once shunned. Talk about cosmic joke with me as the punchline.

    Giving up on the unresponsive crowd, I pulled out my own glowing rectangle ¨C camouflage in this world. Staring at a screen seemed to be the universal language for ¡°don¡¯t bother me.¡± It wasn¡¯t like things were much better back in the old world, these devices had been a plague for years. Back in the days - two days ago - people like me used them to shut out the world around them. Now I loathed them. What a rapid change of perspective! The device felt cold in my hands, a stark reminder of how quickly our tools can become our masters. Or in this case, our only friends in a world of high-tech hermits.

    As I crossed the bridge, I consulted my map app, a red dot marking my destination - Molten Square - straight ahead. Every now and then, I¡¯d steal a glance around, hoping to find someone a little less¡­ consumed by their device. But for a while, it seemed like I was the only one interested in my surroundings. The gentle hum of the bridge beneath my feet and the soft whoosh of air vehicles overhead were the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence. It was like being in a city-sized library, only with less personality and more shiny surfaces.

    Finally, I spotted Jala¡ªthe woman from before. I hadn¡¯t loved her vibe, but at least she wasn¡¯t glued to her device. She was scanning the area¡ªthe sky, the buildings, everything in between. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, her posture tense as if ready to bolt at any moment. Seizing the moment, I jogged up to her, my footsteps echoing oddly in the quiet street.

    ¡°Hey there,¡± I said, trying to sound casual. ¡°Nice to see a familiar face. Quite a place, huh? Makes the Emerald City look like a shanty town.¡±

    Jala¡¯s eyes, a deep brown that seemed to reflect the city¡¯s gleaming surfaces, darted towards me. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she quickly looked away, her shoulders hunching slightly. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ different,¡± she murmured, her voice barely audible over the soft hum of the city.

    I nodded, glancing around. ¡°Different is putting it mildly. I was thinking more along the lines of ¡®eerily quiet¡¯, but maybe that¡¯s just me.¡± I gestured at our surroundings. ¡°Future City living up to your expectations? Personally, I was hoping for more flying newspapers and shoes and less existential dread, but I guess you can¡¯t have everything.¡±

    Jala shifted slightly, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, settling for a small nod.

    ¡°You know, I was half-tempted to start chatting with the architecture,¡± I said with a wry smile. ¡°Seems about as responsive as most folks around here. At least you¡¯re acknowledging my existence. I was beginning to think I¡¯d turned invisible, or maybe died and this is some bizarre techno-purgatory.¡±

    A faint smile tugged at the corners of Jala¡¯s mouth, though her eyes still held a hint of wariness. ¡°People seem¡­ preoccupied,¡± she said softly, her gaze flitting to a passing group engrossed in their devices.

    ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it,¡± I agreed. ¡°I¡¯m starting to think social skills might be a rare commodity here. Present company excluded, of course. Hard to imagine me, feeling like the social butterfly around here. What a time to be alive. Or whatever this is.¡±

    Jala¡¯s shoulders relaxed slightly, and she managed a small laugh¡ªa quiet, almost startled sound that seemed to surprise even her. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ not what I expected,¡± she said, meeting my eyes for a brief moment before looking away again, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a compliment,¡± I replied with a slight grin. ¡°So, fellow unexpected person, fancy exploring this brave new world together? I promise I won¡¯t try to make friends with any lamp posts along the way. Though at this point, they might be better conversationalists than most of the people we¡¯ve seen.¡±

    Jala hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a hint of relief in her expression. ¡°That¡­ that would be nice,¡± she said, her voice a bit stronger now.

    As we walked around on Molten Square, the strange new world of Future City III seemed to unfold around us. The silence between us stretched, occasionally broken by comments about the city¡¯s sleek aesthetics or the oddly perfect weather. The soft hum of the city ¨C the barely audible whir of hovering vehicles, the muted beeps of devices ¨C formed an alien backdrop to our hesitant conversation.

    ¡°It¡¯s all so¡­ clean,¡± Jala observed, running a hand along a perfectly smooth wall as we passed.

    I nodded, eyeing a group of people huddled around a holographic display. ¡°Yeah, makes you wonder where they hide all the mess. There¡¯s got to be a giant junk drawer somewhere, right? Or maybe they just ship all the imperfections off-world. Wouldn¡¯t want reality to intrude on our perfect little bubble here.¡±

    ¡°Where do you live?¡± she asked softly, her eyes darting towards me before quickly looking away.

    Panic surged through me. I had no clue where my designated apartment was, let alone the address. ¡°Oh, you know,¡± I started, my voice dripping with sarcasm to mask my uncertainty, ¡°I thought I¡¯d just wander aimlessly until I stumbled upon a ¡®Home Sweet Home¡¯ doormat. Seems as good a strategy as any in this wonderland. Maybe I¡¯ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs.¡±

    Jala¡¯s brow furrowed slightly. ¡°Your map,¡± she murmured, gesturing vaguely towards my pocket. ¡°It should tell you.¡±

    ¡°Right, the map,¡± I said, fumbling to retrieve the device. ¡°Let¡¯s see what our digital overlord has to say.¡± I tapped through the menus, my fingers clumsy with barely concealed nervousness. ¡°Ah, here we go. Apparently, I¡¯m destined for that towering marvel over there. Because nothing says ¡®home¡¯ quite like a glass behemoth that probably sees more of me than I do.¡±

    Jala leaned in slightly, comparing her map to mine. ¡°We¡¯re¡­ neighbors,¡± she said, her voice a mix of surprise and something I couldn¡¯t quite identify.

    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that convenient,¡± I replied, unsure whether to be relieved or concerned. ¡°At least we¡¯ll have someone to borrow sugar from, right? Assuming they allow such old-fashioned practices in our brave new world. Maybe we¡¯ll borrow nanobots instead.¡±

    An awkward silence fell between us as we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, each pretending to be deeply engrossed in our maps. The assembly of a sizable crowd and the arrival of enormous flying vehicles barely registered as I grappled with the reality of my new ¡®home¡¯.

    ¡°Interior Design,¡± Jala mumbled, nodding towards one of the vehicle compartments.

    ¡°Oh good,¡± I drawled, following her lead. ¡°I was just thinking this day needed more decisions about throw pillows and color schemes of fifty shades of clinically approved white.¡±

    As we entered the compartment, I found myself face-to-face with a dizzying array of furniture options. ¡°Wow,¡± I mused, eyeing a ¡®magnetic bed¡¯ floating inches above the virtual floor. ¡°I guess they really want us to elevate our sleep experience. Because regular beds are so last century, right? Nothing says ¡®restful night¡¯ quite like worrying about plummeting to the floor if the power goes out.¡±

    I selected it, along with a stark black and white color scheme. ¡°Who wouldn¡¯t want to float while unconscious, right? At least when I have nightmares about this whole experience, I¡¯ll be doing it in style.¡±

    Jala, already halfway through her selections, offered a non-committal hum in response.

    ¡°Your enthusiasm is infectious,¡± I quipped, finalizing my order with a scan of my ID. The confirming beep felt oddly final, as if I¡¯d just signed away the last vestiges of my old life. ¡°Well then, shall we continue our grand tour of pre-approved life choices? I can¡¯t wait to see what other aspects of my existence they¡¯ve kindly decided for me.¡±

    With the bed customized, I turned my attention to the wardrobe selection. Like the other sections, a vast array of styles and materials flooded the screen. Maintaining the black and white theme, I filtered the options accordingly. Wardrobes came in all shapes and sizes: standard closets, expansive walk-ins, space-saving designs, some even boasted automated features. I opted for a space-saving, automatic model, its functionalities a complete mystery for now. Experimentation would have to wait. Another ID scan, another satisfied beep, and the order was confirmed. ¡°Look at me, embracing the future of storage. I bet this wardrobe will judge my fashion choices even more harshly than I do.¡±

    Jala, a whirlwind of efficiency beside me, zipped through her furniture selections at lightning speed. By the time I¡¯d finished customizing my bed, her entire apartment was virtually furnished. Noticing I was done, she gestured towards the next section ¨C clothing.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    The clothing restriction on our previous belongings still rankled. Apparently, a whole new wardrobe was a mandatory part of this fresh start. Here too, the options were diverse ¨C basics like t-shirts and pants, formal suits, and even outlandish garments that defied comprehension. Never much of a fashionista, I stuck to my usual choices: nothing too flashy, mostly white shirts and black pants with a smattering of blue thrown in for good measure.

    Strangely, there was no need to specify sizes, which felt a little too intrusive for comfort¡­ again. ¡°Great, so they know my measurements. I guess privacy is so the-day-before-yesterday, right along with my sense of individuality.¡±

    The final stop ¨C the food wagon. Here, I grabbed essentials for the next few days, figuring I could explore proper shopping options later. There would be time to learn about the local currency and any financial support offered, considering everything so far had been complimentary. ¡°Let¡¯s see what culinary delights our new overlords have in store for us,¡± I mused, eyeing the selection skeptically. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to try ¡®Nutrient Paste: Now with 20% more artificial flavor!¡¯¡±

    Stepping away from the wagons, I waited for instructions on how to receive our orders. The silence remained, broken only by the growing number of people finishing their selections. Once everyone had completed their orders, the wagons sealed their doors with a hiss and ascended into the sky. ¡°There they go,¡± I remarked to Jala. ¡°Off to prepare our new lives in convenient, pre-packaged form. How thoughtful.¡±

    Suddenly, a soft chirp emanated from my pocket, a sound echoed by others around me. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved my ID card, a faint glow emanating from its surface. The message on my ID card was clear: ¡°Order complete, delivery expected in 20 minutes.¡±

    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that efficient,¡± I drawled. ¡°I guess in the future, even instant gratification isn¡¯t fast enough.¡±

    With a shrug, the crowd began to disperse, melting back into their respective buildings. Jala and I followed suit, retracing our steps across the bridge and down the silent streets. ¡°Back to our glass palaces,¡± I quipped.

    We arrived back at my towering home, the white platform perched atop it now bustling with activity. Vehicles descended, depositing numerous packages far above on the rooftop landing pad. Jala and I hurried to the entrance, the familiar red light scanning my ID and granting us access. Stepping into the elevator, we ascended in silence, the cityscape slowly shrinking below us. ¡°Going up,¡± I muttered. ¡°Next stop: The Twilight Zone, Future City Edition.¡±

    The rooftop was a scene of controlled chaos. Several vehicles disgorged dozens of packages, some addressed to me, others presumably for Jala. With a final whoosh, they lifted off, leaving us amidst the cardboard towers.

    Confusion clouded my face. ¡°What now?¡± I asked, the sarcasm in my voice barely masking my uncertainty. ¡°Do we start our own cardboard city up here? I¡¯ve always wanted to be a box architect. Maybe we can build a fort and defend it against the forces of Future City¡¯s relentless efficiency.¡±

    Jala approached a package and attempted to lift it. As if sensing her struggle, a hidden mechanism whirred to life. Leg-like appendages extended from the base, effortlessly elevating the box. I followed suit, a wave of relief washing over me as my own packages mimicked the same trick. They weren¡¯t heavy, but the prospect of lugging them all down the hall was daunting.

    ¡°Well, would you look at that,¡± I mused, watching my own packages mimic the trick. ¡°Seems our new overlords have thought of everything. Can¡¯t have us breaking a sweat, can we?¡±

    ¡°Mind meeting up later, neighbor?¡± I blurted out, immediately regretting the hint of desperation in my voice. ¡°You know, to compare notes on our shared descent into this brave new world?¡±

    A faint smile played on Jala¡¯s lips. ¡°Sure,¡± she replied softly, her eyes darting away.

    Together, we descended the building, the packages trailing obediently behind. Even the stairs posed no challenge ¨C these ingenious creations simply glided down ahead of us. The colored arrows, now a confusing jumble, continued to guide us, thankfully differentiating mine (yellow) from Jala¡¯s. Finally, we reached my floor.

    With a farewell wave, Jala continued down the hall, her packages in tow. I ushered mine into my apartment, directing the one labeled ¡°Bedroom¡± to the designated room.

    ¡°Well, what now?¡± I thought aloud, staring at the boxes. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose these things come with a ¡®Ph.D. in Furniture Assembly¡¯ button, do they?¡±

    Inside each box, a manual awaited. To my surprise, the instructions were refreshingly simple. Apparently, all I needed to do was position the box in the desired location, plug it in, and press a button. The rest, according to the manual, would take care of itself. Not a PhD. in Furniture Assembly, but a button that fixes all your problems nonetheless.

    Skeptical but eager, I pushed the metal box containing my bed into the corner of the room and pressed the button. A whirring sound filled the air, followed by a series of clicks and clangs. Mesmerized, I watched as the bed frame materialized before my eyes. For the first time that day, a genuine smile spread across my face. This ¨C this was something I could appreciate. What would have taken hours of manual labor was now a reality thanks to the simple press of a button. In that moment, amidst the strangeness and uncertainty, a flicker of hope ignited within me.

    In a whirlwind of activity, I zipped through my apartment, directing packages, pushing buttons, and transforming the space into a symphony of automated construction. The once-quiet space echoed with whirring, clanging, and humming ¨C an industrial symphony replacing the usual ambiance of a home.

    Reaching the kitchen, I realized with a jolt: no fridge. Panic clawed at me as I envisioned wilted vegetables and spoiled meat. But a quick inspection of the food package revealed yet another user manual. Apparently, refrigeration was a thing of the past. Instead, the instructions promised some magical food-preservation technology embedded within the cabinets. Skeptical but out of options, I followed the instructions, tucking away the groceries in their designated compartments.

    Finally, the clothing box met its fate in the bedroom, joining the wardrobe that was steadily taking shape. With a sigh of accomplishment, I settled back, the day¡¯s events finally catching up to me. It was well past five by the time the last box found its place.

    Some chairs had already materialized from their packaging, offering a welcome respite. I pulled out my digital map, navigating the virtual streets. Shops, restaurants, a hospital, even a school ¨C the options were plentiful. But a question gnawed at me: were there actual doctors, nurses, and teachers staffing these places? Or were we, the newly arrived, expected to take on these roles?

    The inclusion of a school was particularly surprising. Did children exist in this world? How did they even get here? The information blackout left me with a gnawing suspicion about the true nature of this society and its governing body. Honestly, it wasn¡¯t much different from the pre-arrival world in that regard.

    Despite the lingering doubts, a strange sense of wonder bubbled within me. Here I sat, surrounded by the marvels of automated technology ¨C the flying vehicles, the self-ordering system, the walking boxes, and now, self-assembling furniture. It was like witnessing magic for the first time, a child mesmerized by the pull of magnets. Perhaps life wouldn¡¯t be easy here, but for now, I couldn¡¯t deny the thrill of discovery.

    The sterile silence of my apartment was shattered by a disembodied voice booming through the speakers. ¡°Jala Alder at the door,¡± it announced, a welcome change from the guessing games of the previous days. ¡°Come in, come in,¡± I called out, my voice dripping with faux enthusiasm. ¡°Welcome to Chateau Wynston, where the furniture builds itself and the fridge is¡­ well, nonexistent.¡±

    Jala seemed a bit taken aback by my tone. With a mumbled apology, I grabbed my ever-present map and shoes, and together we descended the sterile staircase.¡°Let¡¯s explore,¡± she declared quietly, her voice barely audible in the deserted hallway.

    Jala, ever the picture of practicality, emerged from her apartment sporting a sleek black jacket. We ventured out into the streets, the eerie quietness still clinging to the air. A few new arrivals wandered aimlessly, and a handful of buildings flickered with signs of life. Consulting our glowing rectangles, we opted for a restaurant in Molten Corner, a familiar landmark that offered a sense of security in this unfamiliar world.

    ¡°Need a cab, though,¡± Jala announced, her fingers working magic on the map¡¯s surface. My eyebrows shot up in confusion. ¡°Ordering one now,¡± she explained, her movements efficient and practiced. ¡°You seem to be getting the hang of this place pretty quickly,¡± I remarked, a touch of admiration in my voice. Jala shrugged, a silent dismissal, before finalizing the order and tucking the map away.

    Our wait wasn¡¯t long. Within minutes, a smaller version of the strange flying vehicles we¡¯d encountered earlier materialized in front of us. The doors hissed open, revealing a sleek, two-seater interior. We climbed in, the silence broken only by the soft whirring of the engine as we lifted off and sped towards our chosen eatery.

    ¡°Approaching The King¡¯s Grill,¡± a robotic voice announced as we touched down on the restaurant¡¯s rooftop. We disembarked, following the signs to the elevator that whisked us down to the 37th floor. A barrier stood guard at the entrance, its sleek surface blocking our path. Reaching instinctively for my ID card, I was stopped by Jala¡¯s hand on my arm. A red light scanned us both from head to toe, the eerie glow sending shivers down my spine. A moment later, it flickered green, and another voice chimed in, ¡°Entry permitted, number 12!¡±

    ¡°What was that all about?¡± I stammered, completely bewildered by the whole ordeal. Jala offered a tight smile. ¡°Security protocol, I guess,¡± she mumbled.

    The restaurant itself was a labyrinth of curtained cubicles, each numbered like prison cells. Following the sequence, we arrived at ours ¨C number 12. The familiar red light scanned us again, followed by the retreating curtains and a beckoning glass wall. Inside, a table awaited, surrounded by a selection of pre-packaged snacks. The decor, however, surprised me. Wooden furniture and whitewashed walls evoked a sense of nostalgia, a stark contrast to the sterile corridors outside. It felt like a throwback to an old American barbecue joint, with individual cabins replacing the usual open seating.

    On the table, a glowing tablet awaited, beckoning us to place our orders. The menu displayed a familiar array of dishes, but a curious cogwheel symbol adorned each entry.

    ¡°What¡¯s that symbol mean?¡± I inquired, pointing at the cogwheel on the menu.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t get much real food on the ship, did you?¡± Jala countered.

    ¡°There was food,¡± I admitted. ¡°At least, that¡¯s what they called it.¡±

    ¡°Lab-grown,¡± she explained. ¡°There¡¯s hardly anything else here.¡±

    ¡°Lovely,¡± I sighed. ¡°Do you like it?¡± I asked, watching her scroll through the menu.

    ¡°Not really,¡± she confessed quietly. ¡°We¡¯ll get used to it, though.¡±

    As our food arrived, I couldn¡¯t help but comment, ¡°Well, at least the service is prompt.¡±

    ¡°How does payment work here?¡± I asked Jala. ¡°Or is everything magically free in our new home?¡±

    ¡°Not sure,¡± she mumbled through a mouthful of food. ¡°But I guess we don¡¯t have to worry for now.¡±

    ¡°You think they¡¯re just covering everything?¡± I asked, skepticism creeping into my voice.

    ¡°Probably until we meet with the local authorities,¡± she offered vaguely.

    ¡°Ah, the mysterious ¡®local authorities,¡¯¡± I mused, cutting into my artificial steak. ¡°Can¡¯t wait to meet them.¡±

    I dug into my artificial steak and vegetables. Considering the lab-grown origin, it wasn¡¯t bad. Not exceptional by any means, but survival didn¡¯t depend on gourmet meals. Lab-grown or not, it was edible. Not exactly a five-star dining experience I was used to, but beggars can¡¯t be choosers, especially in a situation like this. The texture was the biggest hurdle ¨C a constant reminder that this wasn¡¯t a juicy cut of meat fresh off the grill.

    ¡°Well¡­¡± I started, searching for anything to fill the silence beyond food and small talk. ¡°How did you end up here?¡±

    ¡°Bathroom break,¡± Jala muttered, almost under her breath. She stood abruptly, her movements quick but not rushed, like she had already been preparing to leave. Her jacket snagged on the chair as she grabbed it, causing her to fumble slightly. For a split second, she froze¡ªjust long enough for me to notice, before she quickly untangled the fabric.

    It was such a small moment, but something about it lingered in my mind. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. Everyone here had their quirks. Hell, I¡¯d spent the last hour glued to my own screen like the rest of them, avoiding eye contact and casual conversation as if it were a plague.

    ¡°Can you order a cab back to the apartment?¡± she called over her shoulder, already halfway to the restroom.

    ¡°Yeah, no problem,¡± I said, pulling out my map and fumbling through the app. The strange icons blinked at me as I struggled to navigate the interface. It wasn¡¯t that different from the life I¡¯d left behind¡ªeveryone here was preoccupied with their own devices, their own thoughts. Jala was no exception.

    She didn¡¯t stand out, not really. None of us did. We were all just drifting, existing in the strange limbo Future City had provided.

    As the cab approached, I glanced toward the restroom, waiting for Jala to return. I briefly wondered what her story was, but quickly squashed that thought. Curiosity killed the cat, and in this sterile hellscape, I was already on life eight or nine.

    Jala returned without a word, her face as expressive as a blank wall. She didn¡¯t owe me an explanation, and I didn¡¯t particularly want one. We were just two rats in Future City¡¯s maze, scurrying around in our designated spaces.

    The cab ride back was a symphony of silence, punctuated by the occasional whoosh of a passing vehicle. I half-expected to see tumbleweeds rolling down the pristine streets. Welcome to Future City III, where the buildings are high, and the social interaction is non-existent.

    As we ascended in the elevator, I caught my reflection in its mirrored walls. ¡°Well, don¡¯t you look dashing,¡± I muttered to myself. ¡°Nothing says ¡®living the dream¡¯ quite like bags under your eyes and a expression that screams ¡®what the hell am I doing here?¡¯¡±

    Jala¡¯s quiet ¡°Goodnight¡± barely registered as she disappeared into her apartment. I fumbled with my ID card, half-expecting it to reject me. ¡°Welcome home, Wynston Kader,¡± the apartment announced as I stumbled in. Home sweet home, if your idea of home is a sterile box with furniture that assembles itself.

    I dragged myself to the bedroom, eyeing the floating bed with suspicion. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare drop me in my sleep,¡± I warned it, feeling only slightly ridiculous for threatening furniture. As I sank into its admittedly comfortable embrace, exhaustion hit me like a freight train.

    My eyes grew heavy, but my mind raced. Self-assembling furniture, flying cars, a city that looked like it had been scrubbed with industrial-strength bleach ¨C it all felt like a bad sci-fi movie. Or maybe a good one, depending on your tolerance for dystopian nightmares.

    As sleep began to claim me, a nagging feeling of unease settled in my gut. Something wasn¡¯t right, but in this brave new world, what was? The last thing I saw before darkness took me was my reflection in the window ¨C a stranger staring back at me, his eyes wide with a fear I couldn¡¯t quite place.

 Pursuit

    I¡¯m in a cave. I¡¯m running. I don¡¯t know why. A rumbling noise behind me. I glance back¡ªnothing. I keep running. The noise grows louder. And louder. And louder. I¡¯m out of breath. I glance back again¡ªa boulder. Chasing me. I try to escape left. Right. A jagged stone wall looms on either side. My heart pounds. The ground trembles beneath my feet. I dart forward, the echoes of the cave distorting the distance between me and the boulder. The rumble feels close. Too close. Dust kicks up with each step, clinging to the stale air I¡¯m gasping for. I glance left again¡ªthe jagged stone presses in, unyielding. My chest burns. My legs falter. Nowhere to go. The roar behind me swells, consuming the cave like a living beast. Every second it draws nearer. Every step heavier than the last. Every heartbeat thunders in my ears.

    Then¡ªa light. A flicker ahead. The end of the tunnel. I¡¯m running harder now. The boulder crashes behind me. I reach the exit. I jump. I¡¯m flying. For a moment, I¡¯m free. The cave dissolves beneath me, the boulder¡¯s rumble fading into silence. The darkness bleeds away until there¡¯s nothing left but white¡ªendless, suffocating white.

    I land on my feet. The ground beneath me¡ªwhite. Above me¡ªthe sky, white. There¡¯s nothing to be seen. I stand there. Frozen. My chest is heaving. The air feels¡­ different. It¡¯s not the thick, suffocating air of the cave. Something lighter. Cooler. I breath it in, but nothing changes. My feet are planted on the ground. Everything¡¯s smooth, featureless.

    I spin around, searching for the cave, the boulder, anything to anchor me to where I was. But there¡¯s nothing. No rumbling, no jagged walls, no echoes. Just silence. An eerie, consuming silence that presses against my ears. The whiteness swallows everything, endless and empty. There¡¯s no horizon. No up, no down¡ªjust me, suspended in this vast, formless space.

    Panic wells up. I try to move, but my legs feel heavy, like they¡¯re wading through thick air. There¡¯s no point of reference, nothing to guide me, nothing to run from anymore. Just this infinite white. My breath quickens again, but it doesn¡¯t help. My chest tightens as I take a step forward, hoping the ground will meet me, but it doesn¡¯t feel like walking. More like floating.

    I land on my feet. White. Above me, the white sky. Below me, the white ground. Nothing to be seen. My mind races, struggling to comprehend this strange emptiness. Everything is white, featureless, stretching into eternity. It feels like time has stopped.

    But then, something shifts.

    A flicker at the edge of my vision, barely there¡ªa shadow, maybe? No, a shape. It bleeds through the whiteness like ink through paper, spreading, staining the void. The white begins to fracture, cracks spreading out from where I stand, each one filled with fragments of a different reality. City streets emerge from the breaks, buildings rising through the cracks like dark growths. The space twists, warps, and suddenly the whiteness crumbles away like broken eggshells, leaving me standing on cold pavement.

    I¡¯m in the city. But something¡¯s off. The city is eerily deserted. The streets are silent, the shops and schools stand empty. A man approaches from behind, his presence unsettling. I turn to face him, a chill running down my spine. He touches my shoulder lightly. I flinch. My feet start to run. Don¡¯t know why. My legs feel like lead. Every step heavy and labored. I cannot stop. I¡¯m glancing back. The man¡¯s face is blurred. His gesture ambiguous. Fear propels me forward.

    The city warps around me, the fear from the boulder¡¯s chase still echoing in my mind. The city¡¯s familiar streets twist into a surreal labyrinth, and I am left running, lost in a maze of my own fears. I¡¯m running. He¡¯s not. He calmly chases after me. I can¡¯t throw him off. Can¡¯t put any distance between us. I turn right. He turns right. I turn left. He turns left. I jolt forward. Nothing changes.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    I¡¯m out of breath. I stop for a second. He comes closer. Step by step. His steps still calm. I stare into his dark eyes. They lock onto mine with an unsettling calmness. I feel his gaze pierce through me. As if he could see right into my soul. My chest heaves with each frantic inhale. I try to muster the strength to move, but my legs are encased in lead. Heavy and unresponsive.

    I take a step back. It feels like I¡¯m moving in slow motion. The man¡¯s expression remains unchanged. His demeanor eerily serene. The city around us continues to twist and warp. The familiar streets now a disorienting maze of shadows and distorted buildings. My heart races as I struggle to navigate this nightmarish landscape. But the man¡¯s steady approach is inescapable.

    Desperation fuels my next move. I dart down an alley. Hoping to lose him in the labyrinth of twisting streets. The alley¡¯s walls are lined with crumbling bricks. Their surface rough and cold against my fingertips. I glance over my shoulder, but the man is still there, his steps deliberate and unhurried.

    The alley opens into a small, dimly lit square. I stumble into the center, my breathing ragged and uneven. I turn to face the man, trying to catch my breath. His presence is relentless, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel as though I¡¯m being drawn into his gaze, caught in an invisible web of fear.

    I notice a doorway in the square, half-hidden in shadows. It¡¯s an old, rusted door, its surface covered in grime and cobwebs. I run toward it, pushing it open with a forceful shove. The door creaks and groans as it swings inward, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

    I hesitate for a moment, glancing back at the man. He is still advancing, his expression unchanged. The fear that grips me drives me forward. I take a deep breath and plunge into the darkness of the staircase, the door slamming shut behind me with a resounding bang.

    The stairs are steep and uneven, each step echoing with a hollow thud. I descend quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. The darkness is complete, enveloping me in a suffocating blackness. I can barely see my own hands in front of me. My footsteps reverberate off the walls, creating an eerie cacophony.

    Suddenly, the staircase ends, and I stumble into a small, dimly lit room. The walls are lined with old, dusty mirrors, each one reflecting a distorted version of myself. My own image is fragmented and warped, the reflections twisting and shifting with every movement.

    I collapse to the floor, my body shaking with exhaustion and fear. I look around the room, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The mirrors seem to close in on me, their surfaces reflecting my panic-stricken face from every angle. The man¡¯s footsteps can still be heard, faintly echoing through the darkened corridors beyond the room.

    As I sit there, my breath coming in ragged bursts, I hear a soft, unsettling sound. It¡¯s the faintest whisper, like a distant echo, but it seems to come from all directions. The whispers grow louder, converging into a dissonant chorus of voices. They speak in fragmented phrases, their words unintelligible but filled with an underlying menace.

    The whispers grow louder, merging into a cacophony that drowns out everything else. I cover my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it seeps through my defenses. My mind races, trying to grasp at the fragments of reality that slip through my fingers.

    The man¡¯s footsteps approach the doorway, and I can see his shadow fall across the room. I brace myself for whatever comes next, the fear consuming me. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but the whispers and shadows continue to close in, my own reflection staring back at me from every angle.

    The room begins to spin, the mirrors warping and twisting, and I feel a sudden jolt as if I¡¯m being pulled into the very fabric of the nightmare itself. The fear and exhaustion overwhelm me, and I lose my grip on reality. The shadows stretch out, enveloping me in darkness, and I¡¯m left suspended between fear and the unknown.

    With a final shudder, the world around me dissolves into a whirl of darkness. The echoes of the whispers fade, leaving only the pounding of my own heart in the silence. I am plunged into an abyss of nothingness, the nightmare collapsing around me, leaving me alone in the void. The man pulls out a gun. A gunshot. I¡¯m in my bed again. Staring at the ceiling. Out of breath. Soaked with sweat. Another one of those dreams. Another one done.