Chapter Three:
"A World Beyond"
John blinked awake to the soft chime of his neural alarm, morning sunlight filtering through the smart-glass windows that adjusted their tint automatically. The faint hum of hover-cars passing overhead painted moving shadows across his bedroom walls, their outlines softened by the city's ever-present haze.
"Good morning, John," the house AI greeted with motherly warmth. "It's 6:45 AM. Current temperature is 72 degrees with light neo-smog. Your work shift starts in exactly two hours."
He stretched, muscles protesting the early hour. The ceiling's bio-luminescent panels pulsed gently, their glow shifting from night-mode amber to morning blue. Through his window, the distant spires of Oblivion Prime pierced the clouds with sharp precision, their surfaces already reflecting the day's first light.
John dressed for another shift at the QuikStop with the ease of repetition: black nano-fiber pants, the store's required holo-shirt (cycling between green and blue today), and his worn grav-assist sneakers. The shoes' power cells needed charging again—their anti-grav feature barely lifted him a centimeter off the ground now. He made a mental note to recharge them, knowing he probably wouldn’t.
Descending the stairs, the aroma of synthetic eggs and real coffee—his mom's one luxury—greeted him. The auto-prep machine hummed softly as it completed his breakfast. He slid into the kitchen’s floating chair, the smart-surface table displaying his morning feed matrix in glowing holograms.
The main feed scrolled: "President Morrison Departs for Camp David." A headline showed the First Family boarding a hover-transport, their movements polished and photogenic. Below it, a sponsored news-reel announced, "BREAKING: Gameweaver Industries Announces Revolutionary Neural Interface Breakthrough," accompanied by pristine lab footage.
The footage unsettled John, though he couldn’t say why. It was just another piece of news in a city overwhelmed by technology, but it clung to his thoughts like static. He swallowed his synthetic eggs, distracted by the faint red glow of the garage keypad visible through the corner of his eye.
Something about it seemed different today. Important. He shook off the thought and activated his transit wear. The jacket’s nano-fibers flexed and sealed microscopic gaps as the filtration collar extended around his neck. A soft blue glow pulsed along the seams, indicating the air scrubbers were online.
The biometric scanner read his palm, and the door hissed open to reveal Oblivion Prime’s chrome-and-neon chaos. Hover-pods zipped along transit lanes, anti-grav fields distorting the air. Towering spires disappeared into the smog-layered sky, their sharp surfaces reflecting shards of refracted light.
Mrs. Nakamichi waved from her glowing garden, her cybernetic arm’s attachments sparkling in the sunlight. "Morning, John! Tell your mother the neural-splice tomatoes are almost ready. They glow when they’re perfectly ripe now!"
He waved back, already moving toward the transit stop. The street’s smart-surface projected shifting traffic lines, guiding commuters through synchronized pathways. Vendors floated past with anti-grav carts, their AI voices advertising everything from noodles to custom air filters. The smell of real food drifted through the filtration collar—a rare indulgence in the synthetic-dominated world.
The transport pod descended gracefully, its sleek exterior catching the light. John joined the small crowd boarding, his transit pass deducting credits automatically. The pod’s AI announced its route as passengers settled in. Through the neo-smog, Oblivion Prime stretched endlessly, its Lower Rift makeshift towers clutching at the city’s ancient structures with an almost desperate grip.
Holo-ads flickered across the pod’s interior, tailored to each passenger’s data feeds. A news segment caught John’s attention again: "Gameweaver Industries Stock Soars on Neural Interface Announcement." He shifted uncomfortably, the shifting reflections on the pod’s glass showing fragments of the Hexspire’s towering frame. For a moment, he thought he saw a cloaked figure in its surface—still and watching. He blinked, and it was gone.
The pod banked smoothly, neon fractals cascading across the windows as it entered the commercial district. QuikStop’s aging holo-sign came into view, flickering through its loop of ads. The familiar sight anchored John, even as a strange sense of unease lingered at the edges of his mind.
"Approaching Lower Rift Commercial District," the pod’s AI announced. John braced himself for another day at work, but the nagging feeling clung to him, persistent and heavy.
The pod eased into its stop with flawless timing, its sleek doors hissing open to release passengers into the controlled chaos of the Lower Rift Commercial District. Stepping out, John felt the city’s pulse around him—a blend of mechanical efficiency and human discord. Vendors called out from holo-stalls, offering deals on synthetic protein bars and air filter enhancements, their voices cutting through the rhythmic hum of quantum engines overhead.
QuikStop’s holosign flickered as if reluctant to start another day, its aging projectors struggling against the thickening neo-smog. The shop was a mishmash of retrofit aesthetics, its windows crowded with outdated holographic ads and neon-painted decals touting low prices. John passed through the front security field, the liquid-like barrier parting to recognize his bio-signature with a faint shimmer.
"Morning, Andrew," John called as he entered. His coworker was already behind the counter, looking harried as he wrestled with a display glitch on the registers.
"Thank God you’re here," Andrew grumbled, slapping the side of the register. "I’ve been fighting this thing since I clocked in."
"What’s the issue this time?" John asked, sliding behind the counter to take a look.
"Everything’s ringing up at 19.19 credits. Every single item."
John frowned, his eyes scanning the display. It was true. Each transaction logged the exact same price, no matter the product. He pressed a few keys, but the numbers didn’t change. As he worked, a growing tension gnawed at him.
A customer waved a glowing holo-receipt in the air. "Hey! My syn-caf does not cost nineteen credits. What’s going on?"
"We’re working on it," John assured them, though his voice lacked confidence. He glanced at Andrew, who shrugged helplessly.
As John returned his focus to the register, the numbers on the screen seemed to shift, almost imperceptibly, before snapping back to 19.19. A chill ran down his spine, the digits tugging at a memory just out of reach. He shook his head, counted out the exact change for the man and moved on to the next customer.
Time marched on in a blur of scanning barcodes, restocking shelves, and navigating the store’s augmented reality displays. John’s interactions felt automatic, each apology for the glitch merging with the next, as if the day itself moved on autopilot. Yet, a subtle edge of unease remained, hinting that all was not as it seemed.
By the time the evening rush died down, the store had settled into a steady hum of distant conversation and the beeping of registers. Andrew joined John at the counter, exhaustion creasing his brow.
“Think we’ll see that weird price glitch again?” Andrew asked, adjusting his filtration collar. “I don’t trust that it just vanished on its own.”
“Me neither,” John admitted. The numbers 19.19 still hovered at the edges of his mind, unwilling to let go. “But maybe we’ll catch a break tonight.”
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Andrew only nodded, looking unconvinced. As if on cue, the store’s security field shifted near the entrance, signaling a new arrival. Moe hustled in, carrying a stack of old-fashioned paper forms that rustled in his arms. In a city defined by digital everything, the sight of physical documents felt out of place.
“John, I’m sorry, man,” Moe called, setting the papers on the counter with a grunt. His collar still glowed faintly, a sign he’d come straight from the transit lines. “I got stuck at the distributor meeting. I meant to get here earlier to handle the cooler inventory.”
“It’s alright,” John replied automatically, sounding more patient than he felt. “You’re never on time anyway.”
Moe snorted, half amusement, half apology. “Guess you’re used to it by now.”
They dove into sorting through the paperwork. Each sheet bore official seals and scannable codes, an archaic system that baffled John every time he saw it. Why so much paper in a world built on holograms?
As they worked, John’s thoughts wandered back to the woman he’d glimpsed outside. The clarity of her gaze still lingered in his mind, and the memory of those shifting numbers at the register refused to fade. Occasional flashes of color flitted beyond the windows, making him wonder if the glitch had truly ended.
Andrew waved from the far end of the counter. “You good, John?”
“Yeah,” John lied, though his tone said otherwise. He forced his attention to the forms, but a prickle of anxiety persisted. Something about the entire day felt off, like a puzzle piece missing from a picture he couldn’t quite complete.
Finally, Moe finished signing the last sheet, slamming a stamp onto the official boxes with exaggerated relief. “Done. I’m starving. You want anything before I clock out?”
“I’m alright,” John answered, sliding the papers into a file drawer. He wasn’t hungry, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. “Thanks, though.”
Moe nodded, then gave a small wave as he stepped toward the exit. Andrew followed him to the door, leaving John alone in the quieter confines of the checkout area. The subdued hum of the store’s systems lulled him, yet the tension inside him refused to ease.
His gaze drifted again, this time toward the memory of a red keypad glowing at home. Why did it call to him so strongly? Every time he tried to focus on it, a haze blurred the edges of his thoughts. His parents had always been secretive about that garage, brushing off any questions with vague answers. Now, he felt an undeniable pull.
He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the closing routine. The clock neared 7:40 PM, and the store’s flow of customers had tapered. Overhead, the neon lights of Oblivion Prime stained the windows with shifting patterns, glimmers of a city that never truly slept.
John stepped out of QuikStop into the neon-drenched streets just before 7:45 PM, his collar’s filtration lights shifting to adapt to the thickening haze. The store’s holosign cycled through its final advertisements of the day, flickering against the heavy smog that crept through the Lower Rift. Andrew and Moe had finished their closing tasks, leaving John momentarily alone in the cooled glow of street-level lighting.
A public transport pod descended nearby, its shell reflecting the swirl of neon and haze. John boarded and watched the fare readout flicker, then settle at 19.19 credits. He exhaled sharply. Even with the day’s pricing glitch supposedly resolved, those numbers refused to vanish from his life. Passengers filed in behind him with vacant expressions, stepping into seat rows without speaking.
The pod slid into the transport lane, merging into the city’s ceaseless flow. Outside the windows, massive holo-ads stretched across the skyline, alternating product promises and repeating digits: 19.19. Each new advertisement glowed with more intensity than the last, as though demanding his attention. John tried to ignore the creeping dread in his stomach.
As they passed the towering Hexspire, he noticed odd lines of text scrolling across its surface. At first, he dismissed them as another marketing gimmick, but they coalesced into the same message repeated over and over: 19.19. For a moment, he thought he saw a faint silhouette perched against the tower’s edge—still, focused on him. When the pod banked around the structure, the figure vanished into the haze.
“Next stop, Residential Block 1919,” the pod’s AI announced in an even tone. John felt a jolt of confusion. He knew his own block’s designation, and this wasn’t it. Yet the pod continued its descent without delay. Other riders remained silent, as though nothing were out of place.
Outside the window, street signs and house numbers glowed with uncanny uniformity. He could see 1919 repeated on unit placards, mailboxes, even graffiti tags that looked freshly painted. Turning his gaze away, he caught a glimpse of the same mysterious woman from earlier standing on a skybridge platform. The smog parted around her, revealing flickers of another place—wooden structures lit by paper lanterns, drifting into sight before dissolving into the city gloom. She raised a hand as if in greeting, lips curving into a knowing smile.
The pod settled on its landing cushion, ignoring the mismatch of location data. When the doors opened, no one moved except John. The other passengers stared ahead, lost in some private reverie. With a final glance at the unreadable expressions around him, he stepped onto the platform.
A swirl of smog brushed past, carrying faint echoes of temple bells. Each toll sounded with a rhythmic, insistent count: 19… 19… 19… 19… The air itself felt charged, as though reality teetered on the edge of revealing secrets better left hidden.
The woman on the skybridge had vanished. In her place, the city around him flickered with a parade of illusions—some showing archaic rooftops and stone pathways, others shimmering with advanced designs he couldn’t recognize. John felt a knot of tension in his chest, the same pull he’d sensed all day, urging him to keep moving.
He walked along the sidewalk, each step leading him deeper into the half-familiar streets. Neon reflections slid across puddles of oily water, forming patterns that dissolved the moment he tried to grasp them. Rounding the last corner toward home, he spotted his own block’s sign blinking in and out of alignment, as if reluctant to display anything other than 19.19.
His house finally came into view. The exterior lights remained off, and something about the front door looked… wrong. Anxiety twisted in his gut. He approached slowly, every instinct screaming that the events of this bizarre day were about to culminate in something far more disturbing than a mere pricing glitch.
John climbed the steps to his porch, the lights remaining off when they should have activated at his approach. A chill worked its way up his spine as he tested the front door. It stood ajar, darkness pooling inside the hallway.
“Illuminate.” Nothing.
“Mom? Dad?” His voice sounded too loud in the silence. No response. The house AI remained silent, and the usual glow from the bio-luminescent panels was absent. Tension gripped his chest, urging him to turn away, but he forced himself to move forward.
A thin beam of light swept across the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of drawers being yanked open. John froze, heart pounding. He shifted his weight, easing his filtration collar’s brightness to a lower setting so it wouldn’t give him away. Another flashlight beam cut across the living room, revealing scattered items on the floor—a toppled chair, fragments of broken glass.
He pressed himself against the wall, memories clashing in his head. Something about the day’s numbers, the woman, the shifting visions. Now it all coalesced into a single warning: danger.
Footsteps closed in from both directions. John pivoted, realizing the hallway to the garage was his only option. It beckoned him with the faint glow of the keypad’s red light. He edged along the corridor, trying not to knock anything over. A voice rose from the kitchen:
“The code’s got to be around here somewhere. Check that datapad.”
“Just hurry,” came another voice, grim and impatient. “Grab it and get to the garage door.”
A knot of dread tightened in John’s stomach. He inched farther, the dim outline of two still forms suddenly coming into view near the closed garage door. His parents. A jolt of horror crashed through him. Even in the faint light, he saw the telltale marks of plasma burns. They had died protecting whatever lay behind that keypad.
His father’s datapad lay on the ground, screen cracked yet still displaying the cover of an ancient Stephen King book—“The Dark Tower.” John’s throat constricted. Dad had always insisted those old pages held secrets about the number 19, about worlds overlapping. The day’s repeated digits surged in John’s memory.
He knelt beside his father, grief clashing with urgency. Footsteps advanced from behind. There was no time for a final goodbye. His shaking hands moved to the keypad.
1… 9… 1… 9
The lock clicked, and the garage door slid open without a sound. Clean white surfaces came into view, gleaming under subdued interior lighting. This was no standard suburban garage. Advanced technology glinted everywhere—cables and displays that shouldn’t exist even in 2147. He slipped inside, sealing the door just as flashlight beams swept across the hallway.
Behind him stood a covered vehicle, its outline sleek and unfamiliar. The fabric shimmered, reacting to his presence by dissolving into particles of light. Beneath it rested a car that defied all conventional design—angles and contours suggesting a world far beyond anything he’d seen. A soft, pulsing glow came from the dashboard, as if it were calling to him.
A calm voice filled the space, intimate yet strangely distant. “Welcome, John. I am Realmweaver.”
Fists pounded on the door he’d just shut, each impact louder than the last. He approached the car, heart hammering, every instinct urging him to flee. With trembling fingers, he opened the driver’s side door. The console lit up, scanning him in an instant as if recognizing its rightful operator.
John slid into the seat, adrenaline racing through his veins. Outside, metal screeched under assault—his pursuers were seconds from entering. He exhaled, remembering his parents and the phantom echoes of temple bells that had haunted him all day.
The controls flared to life. A prompt appeared on the central display, 19.19 pulsing in steady rhythm. Somewhere deeper in the machine, he felt an energy stirring, like a coiled spring ready to release. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, mind torn between fear and an inexplicable sense of destiny.