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—of leaving everything behind—felt 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 clichéd 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—he 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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.