I marched through pavement after pavement, southwest from the apartment. People on this day walked less, but danced more in front of their standing smartphones; some younglings even huddled together on the alleys, smoking and even quavering with their thrilling music and instruments. Murals daubed on the walls brought bursts of colour in the otherwise sombre borough. One painted a scruffy lad covering his anguished face, another a triad of wicked dark knights pointing their swords against a band of clochards, then a portrait of unkempt, golden-haired stud staring deep into the abyss, and lastly the Almighty Sun scorching a horde of fiends below.

Around the buildings, there were myriad shops, mostly selling thrilling tools and instruments. Every shopkeeper passing across persuaded me to visit, yet I refused, for they were of no importance to me. Goodness sake, had they had manners to never bother wayfarers with their averting eyes?

Thank the heavens! My feet reached past them, never again heading back to their galling placard. Streets returned to their usual bustle, driving cars and passing wayfarers. Soon, after a couple of walks, a building, in a class by itself, reached my gazes. FSO—the label fastened above the doorways. Looking at the map inside my smartphone, the yellow lines were already cut into a thin dot, now blue and red dots finally kissing each other.

“Here it is,” I said.

And so, I crossed the street and walked into the FSO building. Inside was the clean vast hall, no bustling throngs, but a few dozens of strangers sitting on the bench. They were waiting for their turn amidst the queue. Single chime bade the latter after the former left fulfilled in the counter. However, looking closer, their faces did not match to the likeness of our white kin, perhaps travellers from some affable lands.

Suddenly, a thrum quivered from my pocket—my smartphone, indeed. Picking it up, the screen revealed the name of the caller: Tyler. Familiar, I had heard of it before.

Wait, Tyler Beortcild-Stockton, I wondered. Could it be him?

Thus, I flicked it open and patted it on my ears, hearing whatever he might say.

“Hello,” I greeted.

“Hello there,” Tyler’s voice replied, sounding calm and cold. “Are you perhaps… my long-lost gran?”

“Gran? Hey, watch your word, son! I am not an old woman yet that you thought of me.”

“Right,” he heaved a sigh. “Apologies for that… and also my lack of formality, for I’ve to inform you straightforwardly.”

“Go on, then. Truly not bothersome to hear.”

“So I’ll be sending you a file into your account on Envoy soon. You may check on that later. For now, I believe you’ve just arrived now, right?”

“Yes. And people here look… rather strange?”

“What kind of strange thing are you talking about?”

“They are not like one of our kind here. Well, except the ones behind the desk.”

“Oh, relax. That’s just some immigrants wishing to live in this country. They only came there to register their names and other details into the government’s database, then prove themselves to be an official citizen of UAF.”

“Database? What do you mean?”

“Just think of it as a collection of records.”

“Right, and what shall I do with a file you mean?”

“Just send it to the counter, and it’ll take a few seconds for you to become an official citizen.”

“Right, so how—”

“What’s up?” he interrupted, ignoring my question. “Right, I’m coming now.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, gran—Janie. I’ve got some urgent business to do.”

“Hey, wait up,” I cried, then the phone rang out, now devoid of his voice. “Lovely! Calling me a gran twice now? Why such a hurry, too?”

Amidst my ire, some people near me locked their narrow eyes on me, a shame that brought me worse.

Gidden bless you, Emilia… or Janie, I thought. For a troublemaker, I am.

Lost, I had no choice but to keep moving forward. As I crossed a curious grey line painted on the floor, my phone buzzed once. I pulled it out to find a screen displaying the initials "FSO" prominently at the top, followed by a large number twenty-one centred below. Could this be my round number?

“How convenient,” I muttered.

So I settled into a chair near the third row, pulling out my smartphone to explore however it worked. As I swiped and tapped, a hushed conversation between two olive-skinned men drifted into my ears. Their eyes flickered towards me, sending a prickle of unease down my spine.

“Hey blud, have you seen that one from Space?” the former asked.

“What do you mean… that one?” replied the latter.

“Behind you,” the former rasped, guiding the latter's gaze. The man obediently turned, his eyes sweeping past me for a ghostly threat before flicking back to the empty space behind me. Truly a performance, indeed. Such a charade strewed by a sly grin that never quite reached his eyes. Clever, I had to give them that. Then the former continued. “Yes, the one ‘behind the door’. Real chick, innit?”

“Yeah, the one from a certain viral post.”

“Indeed, she must’ve enjoyed a drip of… mayonnaise really, really well,” the former chuckled.

“A taste that pulls a serpent out of its residence inside her pit.”

A burst of laughter erupted, their heads thrown back in wild bliss. Their noise drew curious glances from others, but upon seeing me, their gazes lingered only a braid before fulfilled nods. My presence alone seemed to answer some unspoken question. Twice, the Gidden gifted me a newfound renown.

Great, now this is not going to be a good day with… aliens around.

Fury bubbled up within me, a rising tide threatening to boil over. My veins throbbed, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my breath. I clamped my jaw shut, forcing me to calm. Arms crossed, I wrung my eyes shut, aiming to shut out the world—to see and hear no evil that might fan the flames of my rage. My hand twitched, yearning for the familiar weight of a casting blade. But a memory surfaced, a spectre of my earlier outburst against the knights back outside the Overseer tower, and it doused the embers of my anger.

Meanwhile, their laughter dwindled, replaced by relieved sighs, pats on the back, and a stillness that settled over their swaying forms, one lingering detail betrayed their utter bliss. Agape smirks, frozen on their faces, spoke otherwise—their inevitable bliss, indeed.

“Not gonna lie though, it’ll be a waste to hit on her,” the latter said. “Obvious to tell that she already has a man.”

The former cast a glimpse on my glaring look without moving an inch of his head, then mumbled, “Enough, no more elaborations.”

Then the latter whispered, no longer reaching my ears. Their smiles remained sly against me. Then a chime called, driving these two bastards away from my sight.

Thank Gidden! Forbearing my rough urge was quite worthwhile. Without that memory, a chamber behind bars would, once again, greet my world to a dreary hell. Once a fool, I was, but twice, I no longer am. Still, even from afar, their malicious whispers pierced through the air, their glances still lingering on me. No matter, it was no threat, but a foul jest.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Determined to learn more, I picked up my phone and resumed exploring. Remembering Tyler’s words, my fingers went deep into Envoy—a messaging app. Sure enough, a new letter awaited from Tyler Beortcild-Stockton. Tapping it open, I saw a bold name of the file: "Janie's Birth Certificate." Below it, a succinct message: Here’s a file. Give it to the ones behind the counter, and they’ll do the rest of the work.

“Right,” I muttered, clicking on the file which brought forth a writ onto my screen.

It read:

Last Name: Stockton Middle Name: Beortcild First Name: Janie

Date of Birth: 04/19/2213

Type of Birth: Single

Type of Child: Adopted

Weight at Birth: Unknown

Name of the Mother: Unknown

Name of the Father: Tyler Beortcild-Stockton

Nationality: Silish

DNA Match Percentage: 85%

“Weight and the mother’s name are only unknown… and I am adopted, too. How odd.”

Another chime pierced the air, drawing my heed. This time, the number twenty-one flashed on the screen above a specific desk. My turn, it seemed. I approached the desk and found a middle-aged woman seated behind it. Her greeting, however, lacked warmth—seemed cold and wooden.

“Your birth certificate, please?” begged the desk woman.

“Right,” so I handed my smartphone to her desk whilst showing the writ before her.

Then her eyes squinted, doubts began to whet her curious mind.

“Umm… the file, please?”

“What?” I checked the screen, finding no change at all. “ No, the file is right there.”

“No, you must send the file to me… through my desktop, so that I can verify the authenticity of it.”

“Huh? The file is already on the top of the desk.”

“Ma’am,” she paused, then shook her head and heaved a sigh—her calm mien remained. “Through the desktop. You know, computer? Check the numbers on the glass at your left side and send me whichever app you’re using.”

“Numbers,” my eyes followed her advice. And indeed, there were numbers given to look at, each of which was in a different brand and colour. One of them was Envoy, befitting for my adroit choice. So I clicked on the Envoy app and penned a letter to it. Starting with the numbers, as per given, above the body of the letter, then writing the letter dear to…

“Pardon me, Ma’am, but I beg to ask for your name first.”

“Miss June,” she said. “But word of advice, there’s no need to compose a letter. Just attach the file into it and send it to me directly.”

“Right, attach…,” I sought, my eyes wandering around. Look for the paper clip symbol, Ayako’s voice reminded me, Should my memory serve, it was the first icon on the bar below the body. Its token resembled a tiny metal serpent, frozen in its writhing form, holding tight the secrets writ upon parchment. Once my finger clicked, it revealed another board sliding from below, consisting of a list of files. But only the “Janie’s Birth Certificate.pdf” gave its appearance, the very first file that had been loaded into my smartphone. I gave it another click, then the board slid back down, revealing a new bar occupying the bottom part of the letter body. Finally, a tap on the shaft would grant her the file.

“I have sent it,” I said.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Envoy.”

“Right,” she returned her eyes back to the screen in front of her. After a couple of clicking and typing, she etched a faint smile across her lips and nodded. “Document’s been confirmed successfully. You may take a picture of your face in front of the camera.”

“Camera? Where?”

“At your right side,” she gestured her open hand towards my right side. Then I shifted my focus onto the screen, mirroring my face. “Align your face at the centre, please.”

Centre, I followed her direction. Tilting my head, I drew my fingers along my jawline, feeling the slight roughness. Even without my maidens' touch, a few blemishes marked my skin. Stunning, I seemed. Her Lady never ceased to tender my grace.

Soon after, a red frame tamped around my face. As my head moved, so did the frame. Standing upright and facing the tiny lens above, the frame turned green, hinting at a perfect fit. Then an arch message, “SAY CHEESE!”, slid up from the deep bottom.

“Cheese!” I cried, my lips etched a faint grin by instinct. And in the blink of an eye, the screen flashed. Then light faded into thin air, revealing the portrait of my mirrored face. Thus, there it was, a picture she begged for it.

“Does that look good for you?” asked the desk woman.

Before choosing, I studied every inch and angle of the so-called ‘picture’ on the screen, my sight narrowed and my focus pointed.

“This is alright,” I said. “You may proceed.”

“As you say so,” the desk woman resumed typing. Then a neat machine, shaped like a smooth lidless crate, yielded a glossy card out from the outstretched frame. She slid it near before me and nodded. “Here you go. Congrats on becoming a newfound citizen of the UAF. Hope you enjoy your life here.”

“Thank you,” I bowed, then exited the building, already engrossed in the card. All the necessary details were present, save for my parents' names. Beside the writings, a mirrored image of mine greeted me. Tilting it, a UAF seal, its colours vibrant yet translucent, shimmered with life, perhaps catching the overhead light. Though born a proud Silish of yore, this card, a tangible token of my citizenship, now held undeniable weight.

Stepping beyond the doorway, a scene of sudden drama unfolded. Three black-clad officers, their faces grim, dragged an unkempt pauper away, his cries for help echoing through the air. Onlookers, seemingly more enthralled in capturing the event than intervening, held up their smartphones, their faces lit by the screens. A handful, mostly young, attempted to push against the row of knights shielding the scene, their resistance futile.

Perhaps the man had committed a sin, and durance awaited him as his punishment. Yet, as I drew closer, his desperate pleas reached my ears clearer, sowing a seed of doubt in my mind about the fairness of his fate.

“Get off me! I’m no bloody burglar nor murderer! Fuck…,” cried the struggling pauper.

“Let him go,” cried one of the few others. “What good does he deserve to be incarcerated?!

“Yeah! What’s inside your bloody mind?”

“He clearly does nothing wrong, but is begging for his own life at stake.”

“This is bloody class war!”

Then the eyes of onlooking masses narrowed their glare at them, chagrined over their earful of rollicking.

“Shut your damn mouth,” cried one of the many. “People like them keep littering around the street. What good is your bollocking nonsense bringing solutions anyway?”

“Oh, talk about a capitalist slave,” rebuked one of the few. “Being blinded by your own bloody privilege!”

“Says the one who hasn’t tried his cleaning duty yet… even your household chore.”

Then one of the few charged, yet blocked by the mediating knights, pushing him away.

“You fucking cunt!”

“Looks like I said the truth,” laughed one of the many, shrugging.

Hearing their parrying words daunted me, so much so it sowed quite a conflict among the divided crowd. Should I bridge the gap and quell the rising tension, a rampant smirch of blood would be no more. Yet, alas, my scant grasp on today’s world—the world of my time’s future—forbade my will to seek the middle ground. How bewildering, they sounded. Their so-called ‘capitalist slave’ and ‘class war’ remained as clear as mud.

Yet, in the end, it was all nothing, but boorish words. Chaos rose between them, then a few hotheads on either side. Knights began to form another row acting like a spindly wall between them. Their wild clamour echoed across the street, slowly becoming a pain into my ears.

Seeing no point in surging the wild affair, I withdrew myself from the crowd, unwilling to add fire to fire.

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