I stepped through the portal and the air changed from a decaying bog to a sterile room with a metallic taste. I steadied myself and looked around. No matter how many times I crossed, I always felt sick. My stomach twisted into a knot as I felt my body vibrate slightly and then cease to exist for an instant before reforming.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and tried to stop my hands from shaking. Instantaneous teleportation between worlds was gut-wrenching. The risk always filled me with dread, but the payday from this Essence haul meant another month of survival.

Another group of hunters stood at the Wasp World Portal. Teams were best against swarming creatures. I had tried going alone one time. It was a waste of the 100 credit entry fee.

I stepped out of the portal room and into a narrow, brightly lit hallway. The walls were oppressive as I made my way to the security bridge. I took the small silver storage box out of my pocket and placed it on the scanner. I stepped through the large metal detector arch, the hum of its mechanism enveloping me.

The machine read my chip and compared my core size to the measurement in the database before I entered. No change except my depleted free essence.

With no issues, they brought me to weigh out, and they placed the bead on the scale in front of me. 27 grams exactly. Close enough. The 0.3 grams were a loss of a few hundred credits, but Hexagram was hardly someone I could argue with.

Skimming off a couple hundred credits from the tens of thousands that come through each day wasn’t a bad enterprise. Can’t say I blame the officials. Unless you’re at the top, you’re eating shit like the rest of us.

Nineteen hours left until my clock ran out. Figures that the hoverbike battery drained earlier than it was supposed to. Just one more thing to fix before I die.

“Ella Parker?” A gruff voice from an overweight man with a three-day beard called me over. With so many mods available, I didn’t believe he was happy with the overworked employee look.

I cleared my throat and staggered over. The pain in my side was bearable to walk.

“You went to site 3102D, right?” He asked.

I simply nodded. Speaking took a little too much out of me.

“Good. This bead’s denser than most. Good pickup. Management wants a report. They’ll pay you for it.”

It was what I expected. If they could promote the portal and skim some unlucky fools like me, they’d make a killing.

“I’ll send the report after payout.” He didn’t bother looking up. “You doing an extract?”

“Yes. How is there after the processing?”

The man put the bead back in the box. “After 40 to Hexa, 20 to the overlords, and 5 to the jewelers, you’re looking at 43 days.”

Forty-three days. The trip was a pain, but the payout wasn’t bad.

“30 days and the rest sent to credits.”

The man entered the record and sent me to the bank queue. Thankfully, there weren’t too many people. By the looks of it, it wasn’t a good day.

The line for loans was never-ending. The best way to make you a slave was to wait until you were almost dead, then give a hand. Hard to say how things went for them once they fell into debt. From now on, Hexa would send those people out on scouting missions and whatever shit jobs they needed to get done.

I had almost been in that line twice myself. As a low-level hunter barely scraping by day-to-day, having thirty days ahead and some extra credits was a relief. It offered a break from the endless struggle to survive just a few days more. After spending five to heal, I’d have 25 days. The 13,000 extra credits were nice, too.

It had taken a while, but I finally had the 50,000 credits I needed to buy the core carvings I wanted. No more hunting for survival day-to-day. I dreamt of attributing my core ever since it fully developed. With a 50% chance of being crippled or dying due to poor carvings, hardly anybody got it done. Why bother if you could buy tech that was less risky and cheaper?

But I couldn’t let it go. The thought of having the same abilities as Essence Beasts drove me.

Once they called my name, I put my arm in the vise. 0.7 ml of golden Essence filled a vial, and a moment later, a needle stabbed my arm and the familiar burn traveled up my essence channels to my core.

I double-checked my interface.

Ella Parker:

22 Cycles

Lifespan:

30.9 Days

Free Essence:

0.711 mL

Core Layers:

3

Core Mass:

37.7 g

What a wonderful feeling.

The teller gave me a look of “move along,” and I didn’t need them to tell me twice. I was exhausted.

I made my way to the medical unit and settled onto a cot, then began the repair process. As free Essence flowed through my core and channels into each cell, I focused on directing it toward the diagnostic readout of my injuries. The AI could take it from there.

I had tried doing it manually once, thinking I could save a bit of Essence as long as I could pick. What a joke. I lost a day and a half of Essence and learned a valuable lesson.

The Essence poured into the splenic contusion and healed it based on the genetic model stored in my chip. My ribs slowly reformed, and the cartilage reattached. The process was fast, but hurt like a bitch. You get used to it.

Once I healed up, I didn’t have that feeling of death, and breathing didn’t sting. Twenty-five days and a fully healed body left me feeling better than I had been in a while.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

I made my report and submitted the system scans of the beast. The receptionist entered it into the system and gave me a dispersal date three days later. It wasn’t a major discovery.

Probably just a few hundred credits, but that’d cover my food and travel expenses for the month.

Before I could leave, a serious-looking woman with a panel floating in front of her called my name.

“Ella Parker? Can we have a word?”

My heart dropped as the security official called my name. A cold sweat broke out—any interaction with the authorities risked getting shaken down or worse.

She led me down a narrow corridor and ushered me into an office where a middle-aged man sat at a desk surrounded by at least a dozen panels. He looked up and gestured for me to sit.

“Ella Parker, age 22, no family listed. Is that right?”

I clenched my fist and looked for any way out, but there was no exit. No family listed. That’s the type of thing they say when they’ve chosen a scapegoat to kill off.

“Calm down,” he said. “We’re asking ‘cause we have an upcoming mission. It’s long term, and dealing with family is a hassle.”

His words didn’t ease my worries, but I maintained a straight face. “What’s the mission?”

He nodded, grabbed a panel, and pushed it my way. “We bought three new permits for portals. We need a hunter to investigate and determine if they’re worth building.”

I read through the contract. Standard legal jargon and clauses to cover their asses. Parsing through took a while, but I got the main points.

“You’re sending someone off-world for three years? Why me?”

I was weak. There were plenty of hunters with more experience and advanced cybernetics. I was just a fledgling.

“The reports,” he said after scrolling through another panel. “Out of the regulars, you’ve submitted the most detailed reports.”

It was true that I gave thorough reports, but that was fishing for credits. Hexa bought info. I was hoping for a buy.

“We had someone else,” he continued, “But they pulled out last minute. We’ve already contracted out, and they’ll be here in two days. Uppers picked you out as the best alternative.”

Someone screwed up, and the higher-ups found a different cog. The terms were generous. Too generous. Three years off-world, 1,000 days of Essence upfront, and up to 3,000 days while on the job. A payday like that had to come with risks.

“Can you give me some time to think about it?”

He shook his head and looked me in the eye for the first time. “Over 100 missions in the last year. Injured each time you came back. Earning just enough to survive a few more days. This is a good deal for someone like you.”

I winced at the mission total. I hadn’t kept count, or maybe I didn’t want to. My last year was spent drifting through life without a goal like everyone else in the lower district.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Tomorrow morning by eight. You’ll have until then. I’ll send you my contact.”

I nodded my head and thanked him before stepping back into the corridor. Off-world. Every portal was off-world, but they were different. Portals were nothing more than hunting bases where we went to collect Essence. Off-world was different.

Perhaps it was what I needed. I had to think, though.

Once outside of Hexa Group’s portal station, I carried my bag with equipment and covered my head with a hoodie. I doubted anyone would recognize me, but I didn’t feel like carrying on a conversation.

Ten minutes out, I paid the two credits and boarded the train to the lower district. Slender bodies with long ears and split irises filled the car. The fake elves looked odd against the backdrop of run-down buildings and high-rises. The mod frontier knew no bounds for the people with credits trying to stand out.

I had to admit, the elf mod fad sweeping through the car was a bit excessive. It seemed everyone was copying the trend without much originality. Though I couldn’t deny it made the train feel more fantastical, like stepping into a VR fantasy game.

Most people filling the train were physical laborers. People with cybernetic limbs to help with menial tasks that were too complicated for cheap bots. Unlike the Upper District, people couldn’t afford full drones.

The rich could lie in their pods and control their false bodies while living in the ether.

Well, I guess someone had to enjoy the Essence we collected.

It didn’t take long on the new rail—one of the few concessions The Union made for the lower rung. It was a win-win for the upper district. They’d quiet the grumbling, and we’d get to work quicker with fewer complications.

I stepped out of my station and turned on my tag viewer. The lower district had a certain dreary uniformity to it. Towering concrete buildings stretched hundreds of stories high, stacked like massive blocks by engineers. With no windows or greenery in sight, it was an oppressive landscape.

No windows and no plants made you want to neck yourself. Thank god for tags.

I couldn’t tell you who invented them, but the little microchips you could insert into a painting, sign, or wall lit up the dull area.

Once my tag viewer was on, the grungy city disappeared, hiding the decay. Holographic images of dancing girls projecting out of the tags appeared near the station. Just past it was a glowing tree with birds fluttering about.

Corporate advertisements on buildings showcased new products like skin creams, drinks, and fashion.

People on the streets who couldn’t afford or didn’t want a physical mod tagged themselves to look like fairies or anything colorful. Thanks to a new fantasy game, werewolves were popular in the last year. The streets were full of them. I hadn’t played the game, but it was all the rage.

For 25 credits a login, it was one of the more expensive time wasters.

Every step I took glowed green against the dark purple sidewalk. Floating cars on mag locks looked like they were flying 20 feet up.

Turn the tag viewer off, and you find yourself back in reality. I loved the tags. We all did.

I avoided most of the gimmicks, but I couldn’t stop myself from staring up at Ava’s new fragrance ad. They say she’s all-natural. No mods, just pure beauty.

Straight black hair, blue eyeliner, and a sea of flowers that matched. That’s how I saw Ava. I think everyone saw her that way. I wondered if the perfume matched the flowers behind her.

One year ago, I would have seen that ad and thought I was staring into a mirror.

After having my fill of projections, I turned off the tag viewer and weaved my way through the dimly lit alleyways. I wasn’t destitute, but I wasn’t living like a noble.

When I entered the lobby, the older model quasi-AI bot greeted me.

“How was your day today, Mr. Parker?”

Even if she was only a quasi-AI, Stella seemed as real and human as anyone I passed on the street. Her hair sprouted in blonde ringlets, and her face was as smooth as an advertisement. Maybe it was her programming, but she made it easy to talk to her.

“Good harvest today. How about you, Stella?”

With a huff, the bot drooped her shoulders and told me about the hassles she had faced from upper management, building gossip, and a few complaints. She even warned me of Old Lady Tai going on a warpath.

Every time I talked to Stella, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the same thing. What does it mean to be human?

I raised my hand in a wave as she disappeared around the corner, then stepped into the lift. The metal walls reflected my image. Filthier than I was before I left, but the bright eyes and shoulder-length black hair hadn’t changed.

An automated voice announced each floor we passed. With a soft ding, the lift doors slid open, and I emerged onto the 73rd floor. I dragged my way down the moldy hall, stepping on paint chips from the peeling walls. The flickering lights flashed, highlighting the less-than-flattering drawings.

The building stretched up a kilometer. One of many stacked and crammed together in the lower district skyline. Somewhere in that mess was my studio, which was just big enough for me.

As I walked through the door, the lights flickered on. “Welcome back, Ella!” Jane’s cheerful AI voice greeted me. “Did you have a good hunt?”

Had I kept her volume that loud? I may have skimped on a few things, but I hadn’t skipped out on my home’s AI.

Sometimes, it felt like I was talking to a real person.

“Not bad, Jane. A new place with some odd creatures,” I replied with a smile. “Anything interesting happen on your end?”

“Oh, not too much. I’m hooked on a new show that gives tours of off-world colonies. Such strange houses. And the people are so weird. Do you want to watch it with me?”

“Maybe later.” I hung my jacket in the decontamination closet.

Jane floated in front of me with a serious look. “There’s also been three new terrorist attacks.”

Terrorists. They called themselves freedom fighters against the oppression of The Union. That was fine, but why did their bombs always go off in the lower district? The so-called “freedom fighters” bombing the lower districts were nothing but terrorists in my eyes.

My conversation with Jane was short. She told me the latest news, and I called up a window panel on my wall.

Tiliri II, our second K-type star in the Trinary system, was hovering a few hours above the crater’s rim. The towering Union Spire in the distance was supposedly a remnant of an ancient starship, though its origin was buried under 900 years of history tweaked by Upper District propaganda. Advanced healing tech and portals contrasted the poverty of the Lower districts.

I dimmed the panel and took a shower. My suit had an auto-clean function, but nothing felt as good as a blast of steamed soap. Water restrictions would kick in soon, so I had to get as much shower time in as possible. That would be even more so if I took the job.

Wearing nothing more than a towel, I laid on my bed and rested my head on my pillow. I planned on logging in for a few hours. I had a lot to think about, but some mindless wandering through the web was exactly what I needed.