Life doesn’t have much meaning. No purpose, no direction. Same old routine, same cramped apartment. Three rooms in total: a tiny bedroom where I can barely stretch out, a bathroom that’s not much bigger than a closet, and a living room-slash-kitchen. Every morning, I wake up at 6:50, like clockwork. I drop my pajamas on the floor—I'll deal with them after work, or not—and drag myself into the shower. The water’s cold. Ice-cold. It stings my skin like a punishment, but at least it jolts me awake.
I get out and stare at myself in the mirror. I’m 27, but the reflection looks closer to 37. Tired eyes, scruffy brown hair, and a full beard that’s seen better days. Women on dating apps have made it clear I’m not much to look at. Five foot six—yeah, I know, I’ve heard it all. And let’s just say I’m not exactly ripped either. Got a bit of a gut. Not enough to call myself fat, but enough to say I’ve got that “dad bod” going on. Only I’m not a dad. No kids, no wife, just me and this sorry excuse for a life.
I throw on my usual: black trousers, black shirt, black jacket. Color? What’s that? I get dressed fast, grab some coffee from the kitchen, down it in a couple of minutes, and head out. No time for anything else. I take the elevator to the rooftop. The city spreads out below me, tall skyscrapers, hover cars buzzing around like flies. I pull out my holopad and hail a taxi. A yellow one lands a minute later. I get in and mumble my destination—just another skyscraper in this steel jungle.
The hover taxi drops me off on the roof of the skyscraper where my office is. I take the elevator down, and when the doors slide open, I step into the hallway. Offices to my left, cubicles to my right, filled with people glued to their holocomputers, all too absorbed in their screens to notice me. Same routine every day. Then there’s Adriana. She greets me with a smile that’s as polite as it is empty.
“Hey, Ian,” she says. Right, Ian McArthur, that’s me. “Nice to see you.” It’s the kind of thing you say to someone you see every day but know nothing about.
“Yeah, you too,” I say, giving her the kind of smile you could cut out of a magazine. We exchange a few words every day, but we might as well be strangers. Same goes for everyone else here. Acquaintances, if I’m being generous. Honestly, I’m not even sure if that word fits.
I make it to my office. It’s not much—just a cold, metallic desk and a holocomputer. The window offers a stunning view of, you guessed it, more skyscrapers and hover cars. I’m an accountant, a corporate drone, shuffling through numbers to make sure our clients' finances are clean enough to dodge taxes. My job, in a nutshell, is helping people who make more in a minute than I do in a year avoid paying their fair share. Meanwhile, I pay my taxes like the sucker I am. But hey, it covers the rent and keeps the lights on. So, there's that.
The hours crawl by like molasses. Every minute at that damn holocomputer feels like an eternity. Numbers, tax codes, rinse, repeat. By the time night rolls around, I’m beat, but not from doing anything remotely physical. Just mental exhaustion from staring at a screen all day. I push myself out of the chair, toss out the usual halfhearted goodbyes to my colleagues, and head to the elevator. It takes me up to the rooftop, where I call a hover taxi on my holopad. It takes me back to my skyscraper, I ride the elevator down, unlock the door with my keycard, and step into my little slice of misery.
First stop: the bedroom. I throw my clothes into the tiny closet, which is so packed it’s practically suffocating the few pieces of clothing I own. I grab the pajamas from where I left them—on the floor, of course—and throw them on. Time to "relax" after another thrilling day of corporate servitude.
I head to the kitchen-slash-living room to make dinner. Tonight’s culinary masterpiece? A cheese and ham sandwich with a side of potato chips. Superb cooking, I know. But I’m not exactly a master chef. I collapse onto the only piece of furniture that passes for a couch and flip on the HoloNet. A holographic reporter—gorgeous, of course—flickers into view, talking about how the GDP is climbing. There’s even a chart behind her with an upward arrow. Great news for someone, I guess. Not me, though. Same wage I’ve had since I started two years ago, which barely keeps the lights on. But if the economy’s booming, who am I to argue?
I switch the channel. Some movie’s on. A guy’s shooting a bunch of other guys. I don’t know why, but it’s better than listening to the talking head go on about numbers that don't mean jack to me. I watch for about half an hour. Caught the tail end of the movie, but it wasn’t exactly hard to figure out: some vigilante wiping out bad guys. Simple, mindless. Just what I needed.
Time to call it a night. Gotta be up early for another thrilling day at the office. I crawl into my tiny bed, pulling the blanket over myself. I close my eyes, praying for sleep, but of course, it doesn't come. The harder I try to clear my head, the more it fills up with useless thoughts. Great. It’s probably around 1 a.m. when I finally drift off. Then, like clockwork, the alarm jolts me awake at 6:50. Another day, another round of the same soul-sucking routine.
Fast forward to the end of my shift, and I’m slumped in the backseat of a hover taxi, heading back to my skyscraper. That’s when I notice it—a hover bike tailing us, weaving through traffic like it’s playing a game. It’s driven by a woman, and not just any woman. She’s... stunning. Short black hair, striking green eyes, red lips, and a flower tattoo on her cheek. She’s all in black—jacket, trousers, even sunglasses. At night. No sun in sight, but she makes it work.
The hover taxi touches down on my rooftop, and I get out. A few seconds later, the hover bike lands too. She hops off, casual as anything. Weird. I’ve never seen her around here before. Then again, with how many people live in this building, I could pass by my own neighbors and not even know it. But something feels off. Did she follow me here? To talk to me? Yeah, right. Like someone who looks like her would have anything to say to someone like me.
“Ian,” she says, out of nowhere. At first, I don’t even react because, let’s be honest, the idea of someone like her talking to someone like me is laughable.
"Yes?" I manage, my voice more confused than curious. How the hell does she know my name?
“I need you.”
What now? My brain, predictably, jumps to the most ridiculous conclusion. She needs me, like, sexually. Can you blame me for going there? She’s stunning, and it’s been, what, over a year since I last got laid? But reality kicks in. No way she means that. I’m not exactly what you'd call 'boyfriend material.' Maybe she needs me for a job? But she doesn’t look the type to want to hire a corporate accountant. “What?” is all I manage after a painfully awkward silence.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Come with me, and you’ll understand,” she says, as cryptic as ever.
Every rational part of me screams to ignore her, go downstairs, make my pathetic sandwich, and pass out. That’s the smart move. What kind of idiot follows a stranger who speaks in riddles? A fool. Or someone desperate enough for any escape, even if it’s a terrible idea. Someone too lonely and bored with his life to care.
She hops on the hover bike. And somehow, I find myself hopping on behind her, grabbing onto her like my life depends on it, as the bike lifts off the rooftop.
The bike then dives down, slicing through the air, and I feel the gust whip against my face as we drop toward the street. She lands next to a sidewalk, hops off with practiced ease, and I follow, stumbling slightly as I try to keep up. We walk in silence—well, I follow her, no clue where we’re going. We end up at what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Of course, we do. Classic mysterious stranger stuff.
We walk along a rusted catwalk, straight to an elevator that takes us underground. When the doors open, the space is pitch black. Then, suddenly, blinding lights snap on, and I squint, reflexively closing my eyes. When I manage to open them again, I’m staring at a massive warehouse, full of metallic crates, stacked high like some kind of industrial maze. And then there’s him—this guy in his fifties, tall, jacked, clearly impressive in every way I’m not. His hands are robotic, he probably lost them somewhere along the line, and his left eye is mechanical too, glowing faintly. Great, because he wasn’t intimidating enough.
“You sure it’s him?” he asks, openly unimpressed, not bothering to hide the disdain dripping from his voice. “He looks...” Yeah, I know. I should be offended, but when someone says the truth, what’s there to argue?
“It’s him—Ian McArthur,” the woman replies, as if my name should mean something.
“The chosen one,” the guy mutters, like he’s insulted to even say the words. There’s that disdain again, only now I can’t get past the part where he called me the “chosen one.” It sounds straight out of some cheap action flick. Chosen one? Me? I’m a corporate accountant who can barely pay his bills, lives in a shoebox apartment, hasn’t had a girlfriend in forever, and looks like the human embodiment of mediocrity. There's no way I’m anyone’s chosen one.
“You’re the one who will overthrow this corporate oligarchy,” the guy says, more to convince himself probably than to convince me. “You’ll lead the revolution to create a socially just utopia.”
Yeah, okay. This guy’s clearly lost it. What he’s saying isn’t just delusional—it’s dangerous. Talking like that about the United Corporate Systems is a one-way ticket to a visit from security forces. Best case, you’re sentenced to hard labor. Worst case? Well, let’s just say I’d rather not think about it. He’s got to be some unhinged socialist. Sure, I don’t love our corporate overlords either, but I’m not dumb enough to think we can take them down. They’ve got an entire army behind them. And me? I’m an accountant. I can’t even shoot—I just know how to help people dodge taxes.
“I’m Jenna,” the woman says, cutting through my panic. “And this is Alek.”
I finally snap out of it, regaining some control over my brain. “Look,” I say, trying to sound firm, though it’s hard to stop myself from following this woman around like a lovesick puppy. “I’m not leading any revolt. I don’t know who the hell you people are, but I’m not getting involved in terrorism or anything that’ll have security kicking down my door. I’ve got an okay life.”
That last part’s a joke. My life’s garbage—boring, depressing, but at least it’s safe garbage. As much as I wish things were different, I’m way too much of a coward to dive into some insane rebellion. Sure, I was stupid enough to follow a hot stranger to an abandoned warehouse, but that’s normal crazy. This revolution stuff? That’s a whole new level of insane.
“I just want to go home,” I continue. “I’ve got work tomorrow. I need dinner. And sleep.”
"You’re sure it’s him?" Alek asks Jenna again, his skepticism practically oozing out. "The Oracle said Ian McArthur is supposed to have powers beyond human imagination. This guy? He’s a loser and a coward. He’d rather stay a corporate slave than actually do something meaningful. Maybe it’s a different Ian McArthur. It’s not exactly a rare name."
"It’s him," Jenna insists, like she's tired of explaining the obvious. "The Oracle said we’d find him in Syndrax, and here he is. You know how she is—always cryptic. Maybe there’s more to her prophecy than we understand, but one thing’s clear: he’s the one."
They’re talking about me like I’m not standing right here. I’d be pissed off, but, honestly, I’m used to being ignored. That’s my life. Plus, I can’t even argue with Alek calling me a loser and a coward. He’s right on both counts. But, hey, at least I’m a living loser. If being a hero means joining some loony rebellion, then no thanks. I like breathing, even if it’s in this dull existence.
And what’s with all this talk of Oracles and prophecies? Sounds like they’ve mixed some weird occult crap with their socialist nonsense. But I’m not curious enough to stick around and find out more. I just want to go home. I've had enough of this madness. All I want right now is to make a sandwich and pass out in my crappy bed.
“I’m going,” I finally manage to say, hoping they don’t try to stop me—or worse, kidnap me. Not exactly built for a fight.
"You've been gifted with superhuman powers," Jenna says. "The Oracle told us. We can help you unlock your potential. I looked into your life before we met—you have no social life, live in a tiny, crappy apartment, and work a boring job that barely covers your bills. Is that what you want? You could be something more. You could lead the fight against this corrupt corporate system, break the chains of oppression."
I can’t help but laugh. A short, bitter chuckle escapes before I can stop it. Me? Lead a revolt? Against an empire that controls over fifty solar systems? And superhuman powers? That’s rich. "Sorry, but I want nothing to do with a bunch of lunatics," I say, turning toward the elevator.
To my surprise, neither Jenna nor Alek make a move to stop me. No force, no last-ditch effort to convince me otherwise. I guess even they can see the absurdity of this.
The elevator dings as it drops me back to ground level. Once outside, I fumble with my holopad and call a hover taxi. The ride back is mercifully quiet. When I finally get to my building, I head straight for my apartment, feeling more drained than ever. The door clicks shut behind me, and I let out a long breath, relieved that whatever the hell that was, it’s over.
I’m starving, like I haven’t eaten in days. After the insanity I’ve just been through, I figure I deserve something better than my usual sad excuse for dinner. I slice up some bread, chop a few cloves of garlic, and pile the garlic onto the bread before layering it with cheese. It’s the closest thing to gourmet I’m going to get. I pop it in the oven and wait. The timer goes off, and voilà—garlic bread. The best thing I’ve done all day.
I sit on the couch, flipping through HoloNet channels as holographic figures flicker in and out around me. The bread is crispy, cheesy perfection. I settle on some guy wailing on a saxophone, the music filling the room while I chew and try not to think about what a colossal idiot I am for following a stranger—hot or not—into a warehouse. I could’ve been mugged. Or worse. Who does that? Apparently, someone with a life so dull and empty that even the slightest hint of excitement makes me jump.
But yeah, lesson learned: next time, stick to sandwiches. Keep the crazy far away. I’ll let rationality run the show from now on.
Suddenly, the door explodes inward. It’s not subtle—wood splinters everywhere, and before I even realize what’s happening, a squad of guys in full-body armor bursts into my apartment, laser rifles raised. My plate of garlic bread crashes to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. I’m up on my feet, hands already in the air before they can even yell, "Freeze!" and "You’re under arrest!"
I know better than to argue with security forces.
I guess my life just got a lot more complicated…