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 – 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 – ten minutes, twenty, an hour, two? – 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 – 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 – thoroughly inspected, of course – and offered additional information. His voice remained inaudible from where I stood. The air buzzed with a cacophony of shouted numbers – the guides barking their assignments, the crowd muttering confirmations – 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 – 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 – 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 – a mix of plastic and leather – 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 – 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 – because apparently, in the future, we all sound like rejected Bond villains.
Stolen novel; please report.
“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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – a small, man-made river with a bridge crossing its tranquil waters. The absence of cars, the lack of pedestrians – 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 façade?
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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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.